Paula Goodlett

Grantville Gazette 37

Blood in Erfurt

Bjorn Hasseler

Astrid Schaubin was standing guard duty outside the University of Erfurt, out front with Neustatter. Freedom of religion is a good thing, she mused. But guaranteeing it is a little more exciting than civics class suggested it ought to be.

"More students," Neustatter identified the two young men approaching.

"An honor to meet you, Fraulein. I am Matthias von Spitzer. And this is my fellow student, Friedrich von Alvensleben."

"Miss Astrid Schaubin of Neustatter's European Security Services."

They stumbled over the name of the firm. Astrid explained. Von Spitzer and von Alvensleben followed up.

"Why is your company guarding the university?"

"We're guarding the Bibelgesellschaft," Astrid explained. "Erfurt is a little tense right now."

Von Spitzer nodded. "The townspeople were celebrating the Congress of Copenhagen's recognition that both the city and the hinterland are formally independent of the archbishop of Mainz. The city has been a Stadt since early '32, of course, but it's nice that the captain-general made it official." He laughed harshly. "But there are unanticipated consequences."

"Oh?" Astrid asked, even though she already knew what they were.

"The Catholics quickly realized that freedom of religion means no religious tests for public office. They lost no time nominating the archbishop's former bailiff for the city council. A lot of the townspeople aren't at all happy about that."

"What do you think about it?" Astrid asked.

"I think if we all get behind one experienced candidate, we could elect a good Lutheran. But the Committee of Correspondence insisted on running their own."

"Who did you find who is willing to take on that challenge?" Astrid asked. She tried to project a very concerned tone.

Von Alvensleben spoke up. "Actually, Matthias's uncle is willing to run."

"Really? That's very civic-minded of him." Astrid was sure there a large dose of self-interest there, too, but she didn't see any reason to bring it up.

"He's going to make sure that the Catholics don't take over again," von Alvensleben began.

Before he could say more, von Spitzer cut in. "There's been some pushing and shoving, of course, but nothing we can't handle. Say, this Bibelgesellschaft, you'll be backing von Alvensleben, of course?"

"None of them are from Erfurt," Astrid answered. "Neither are any of us from Neustatter's European Security Services."

"Excuse me, gentlemen," she requested several questions later. "I need to get back to work."

"Yes, she does."

Von Spitzer turned and appeared to notice Neustatter for the first time. "Who are you?"

"I'm Neustatter."

"Thank you," Astrid told Neustatter once the two students were out of earshot.

Neustatter nodded once. "What did you learn about them?"

"Niederadel. Probably in the arts curriculum. Not serious political players in Thuringia. Just here in Erfurt."

"Explain," Neustatter directed.

"If they were Hochadel, we would have recognized their names. The theology students are mostly inside with the Bibelgesellschaft. Law students probably would have asked at least one question about security consultants, and they would have asked you. And law students probably wouldn't have made so many assumptions about the uncle's chances in the election. So they were probably arts. And they didn't ask anything about Grantville or Thuringian politics. Their world revolves around their town."

Neustatter nodded again. "Remember that your conclusions are only likely, not certain, and didn't rule out medical students. But I agree with you. Anything else?"

"I think you had a good idea convincing the BGS to send Dr. Gerhard instead of Father Kircher or Brother Green."

"I've heard about those scuffles von Spitzer mentioned. They sound more serious to me than he seems to think. Having Kircher around in clerical robes would just set Lutherans off. And Green would get in an argument."

Without pointing, he said, "There's Phillip across the street. Let's check the guards, Miss Schaubin." Neustatter stretched, which Astrid knew was a signal to Phillip to stick around for a few minutes.

They left Phillip out loitering out front and generally blending in with the rest of Erfurt. He was one of Neustatter's new hires. Neustatter had assigned the other two to Ditmar and Hjalmar's teams and taken one of each of their regulars.

Karl Recker was supposed to be watching one of the building's other entrances, and that's exactly what he was doing. Karl carried a US Waffenfabrik flintlock rifle, and it was at order arms-butt on the ground, right hand grasping the barrel just below the muzzle. Recker's right arm was fully extended, holding the barrel at an angle pointed away from himself, and his left fist was on his hip. Most of the time, NESS was not into spit and polish, but Neustatter made an exception for standing static guard duty. Recker's stance was flashy but not impractical. His rifle could be at port arms diagonally in front of him in two movements and aimed with only one more. And because nobody in Erfurt had gotten around to forbidding it, he had a bayonet fixed.

"Carry on, Herr Recker," Neustatter said formally.

Neustatter and Astrid rounded the building to where Lukas Heidenfelder was supposed to be. Lukas was not guarding the back door. Astrid suspected that Neustatter wouldn't have lost it if Lukas had merely been slouched against the building with weapon in hand, but he wasn't even watching his area of responsibility. In fact, he was kissing a woman. He had one arm around her-the one holding his U.S. Waffenfabrik.

Neustatter closed in at a lope and threw a right cross into the back of Heidenfelder's neck. Lukas's head bounced off the woman's, somebody's tongue got bitten, and Lukas whirled around. Neustatter grabbed Heidenfelder's rifle with one hand and threw a couple quick jabs with the other.

The woman started screaming and flailing at Neustatter. Astrid darted past him with her left arm up to protect her head and her right hand firmly covering her holster. She shouldered the woman away.

Neustatter hauled Heidenfelder to his feet. "Lukas!" he roared. "What do you think you are doing? A passing student could have killed you with a penknife!"

Heidenfelder babbled.

Astrid glared at the woman. "Who are you?"

"Trudi Groenewold. You are in so much trouble when my pimp . . ."

Neustatter's laughter cut her off. Still holding Lukas up with one hand, he fished a card out of a shirt pocket with the other. "A pimp who hasn't been run out of town by the Committees? Really? Do you seriously expect me to believe that? Here, give him my card. Since we're telling lies, his second can use it to contact me."

"So he's not . . ." The woman closed her mouth, clambered to her feet, and ran off.

"Look, I know you and Lukas have been seeing each other. Just stay away when he's on duty." Neustatter turned to Astrid. "Miss Schaubin," he directed in a perfectly calm voice, "make sure no one got past Heidenfelder. Then take the front and send Phillip back here."

"Yes, sir."

Astrid checked the inside of the building. The Bibelgesellschaft meeting was still going strong, and she could hear them discussing Jewish scholars. Apparently they'd moved on to the Old Testament. She kept going. She encountered three students, two of whom tried to chat her up. She stepped outside, spotted Phillip, and jerked a thumb over her shoulder. He sauntered across the street and around the building.

Neustatter came around the other side of the building about fifteen minutes later.

"All clear, Miss Schaubin?"

"All clear, Neustatter," she answered.

"Lukas is at the same door as Karl."

Astrid nodded. In a guard position that was both flashy and uncomfortable, she suspected.

"I considered firing him. He considered quitting. He still may. He considered fighting me. That won't happen."

Astrid sucked in her breath. "Neustatter, Lukas is angry much of the time. He might decide not to fight fair."

"Of course he wouldn't fight fair. First of all, I train all of you not to. Second, Lukas knows he wouldn't win a fair fight with me. What he's trying to decide right now is whether he can sneak up on me."

Astrid didn't think so, but she felt she had to caution her boss. "Neustatter, he does have a rifle. What if he just decides to take a shot at you?"

Neustatter grunted. "I've had to discipline Heidenfelder before. In Wallenstein's army, a lot of men did things. The men from our village knew there were certain things they couldn't do. Heidenfelder tested the limits a couple times."

"What happened?"

"I disciplined him. The captain disciplined me. I blew the captain's brains out at Alte Veste."

"Herr Neustatter, you scare people."

"Fraulein Schaubin, that way there are fewer I have to shoot."

****

Astrid spent the next hour or so fairly angry with Lukas Heidenfelder for complicating the assignment. Neustatter had circled the building a couple times, leaving her alone out front. Being the sole guard out front took some getting used to. Neustatter was back soon enough, though.

He had just returned from his second circuit when they both heard raised voices down the street.

"Stand ready," Neustatter directed. "Our men are all in place, and the BGS meeting is still going."

Whatever was going on down there seemed to have a crowd forming. After a few minutes, the crowd started moving their way.

"Miss Schaubin, send Phillip, Karl, and Lukas out here. Then you take position right outside the room where the BGS meeting is. You'll have to watch your back."

Astrid ran for Karl and Lukas's door. After she'd sent all three of the others to Neustatter out front, she took position outside the lecture hall.

Not ten minutes later, the front door was wrenched open. Astrid could hear a ruckus outside. One man strode in, questioned a student near the door, and made straight for the lecture hall.

Astrid drew her pistol but kept it pointed down. "Who goes there?"

"Town watch. We're here to question the heretics."

"Why?"

"For murder!"

Astrid swiftly considered and rejected several options. Neustatter wouldn't want her to shoot the town watch. Besides, he was carrying only a cudgel and a short sword. Instead she stepped back.

"Sir, if you are referring to the Bibelgesellschaft, they're inside. They've been inside all day. I'm sure Dr. Gerhard and the Erfurt professors will confirm that, and I'll stay right here."

The watchman looked her over. "Fraulein, you and your pistol may stay between the heretics and me, but I can't have you armed and behind me."

"That's reasonable," Astrid agreed and preceded him into the lecture hall.

"Doctors, please?" the watchman requested. "I'm Watchman Meinhard, investigating a murder."

The professors, the Bibelgesellschaft, and the Erfurt theology students all poured out of the room. She fell in beside Katharina Meisnerin and Barbara Kellarmannin.

"What is happening?" Katharina asked.

"I don't know," Astrid answered. She was concerned that the watchman had gotten past Neustatter. But once they stepped outside she almost laughed in relief.

The watchman had left his partner outside, uncomfortably parked between the mob on one hand and Neustatter, Karl Recker, and Lukas Heidenfelder on the other. As the theology faculty, students, and BGS crowded through the door, one of the good citizens of Erfurt took the opportunity to swing his quarterstaff at Neustatter's head. Neustatter ducked the staff and delivered a side kick to the man's midsection. As he doubled up, Neustatter quickly relieved him of the quarterstaff. A second Erfurter jumped in. Neustatter faked a swing at his head and used the other end of the quarterstaff to sweep his legs and dump him unceremoniously in the street.

Neustatter spun the quarterstaff with practiced ease as Karl and Lukas's rifle butts came up. The good citizens of Erfurt backed off.

"What is going on here?" Watchman Meinhard demanded.

A dozen people started talking at once.

"Silence!"

That must be his dean voice, Astrid surmised. It certainly worked.

"Watchman Meinhard?" the theology dean invited in a normal tone.

"These citizens found blood a couple alleys from here. They believe someone has been murdered by the heretics."

"When did this murder take place?"

"Within a few hours," a deep voice called from the crowd. "I walked through there this morning, and there wasn't any blood there then."

"The Bibelgesellschaft has been inside since eight o'clock this morning," Neustatter stated. "We've been watching the doors."

"Clearly you and your men were in on it!"

"Nonsense," Neustatter stated. "Who was killed, anyway?"

"You know! You did it!"

Neustatter planted one end of the quarterstaff in the dirt and spoke very slowly. "No, I don't know who was killed. If I did, I wouldn't have asked. And I haven't hurt anyone except these two fools in the dirt who decided it would be a good idea to attack a security consultant without being sure of the facts. Perhaps the town watch could identify the body before we move on to such minor considerations as motive."

"There's no body," a voice called out.

"Yeah, the heretics took it!" a nasal tone added.

"So, ah, what makes you think there's actually been a murder?" Neustatter asked as condescendingly as possible.

"There's blood all over the alley!" Several other people shouted contributions, too, but that was the gist of it.

Neustatter looked at the town watchmen. "Have you seen the alley?"

"Ah . . . just a glance. But we left Jost there."

"Yes, take the heretics back to the scene of the crime." That nasal voice from the crowd was getting really annoying.

"The heretics have been inside the classroom with us all day," one of the Erfurt professors said. Astrid thought about it and finally dredged up a name-Niclas Zapf. Nicolaus Zapfius when he was writing.

"Yes, they have," another professor agreed.

"And who are you?" the watchman asked.

"I'm Dr. Johann Gerhard, dean of the theology faculty at the University of Jena. And who, good sir, are you?"

"Uh, Watchman Heinkel."

The crowd quieted down quite nicely, Astrid observed.

"It probably would be a good idea to view the scene," Meinhard stated loudly enough for everyone to hear him. "Let's go."

"One moment, please," Neustatter requested. He reached out a hand to one of the men he dropped. "Are you willing to let the watchmen sort this out?"

"As long as they make the right decision." He accepted a hand up.

The other man didn't. "I want your name!"

"Edgar Neustatter. Neustatter's European Security Services. You're with the Committees, aren't you?" When the man didn't answer, Neustatter sighed loudly. "A quarterstaff is your weapon of choice. You jumped in ahead of the watch. Tell Dieter Strauss hello from me."

"You know Strauss?"

"Of course I know the head of the Erfurt Committee of Correspondence, What kind of a security consultant would I be if I didn't know the important people in cities I operate in? If I give you your quarterstaff back, do you think you could refrain from taking a swing at me?"

"He'd better," Meinhard warned.

The Committeeman nodded sullenly.

****

The townspeople and a good chunk of the university congregated at the mouth of the alley. "Jost, we brought everybody," Meinhard told the watchman who had remained there.

"That is a lot of blood," Dr. Zapfius acknowledged.

Astrid couldn't see any of it. She, Karl, and Lukas were sticking to Katharina and Barbara who were in the center of the group of BGS students staying on the edge of the crowd. Phillip was mingled into the crowd.

"It was that one!" a woman shrilled.

Astrid snapped around to see a woman pointing at Neustatter.

"I saw him! He was sneaking off!"

"When was this?" Neustatter shouted over the hubbub.

"Yesterday."

The watchman who had stayed at the scene-Jost-poked at Neustatter with his cudgel "Where were you going?"

"Martial arts lesson," Neustatter replied with a grin. "Do that again. I'll demonstrate. It'll be fun."

Watchman Meinhard stepped in. "Knock it off, Jost. I'm not sure what a martial arts is-" He repeated the English term. "-but I saw him take Huber's staff away from him and trip up Goren with it."

"Why haven't you arrested him?" Jost demanded.

"Because it was self-defense on Neustatter's part and stupidity in the first degree on Huber's part," Meinhard answered. Huber glared at him.

Neustatter laughed. "You got that one from Dan Frost, didn't you?"

"I did. You know Herr Frost?"

"He helped me set up my security company."

"I see. And these martial arts lessons?"

"Fighting styles from Japan and China that a few up-timers know. Sometimes it's nice to have a surprise."

"So I see. Which up-timer teaches the lessons?"

"Gena Kroll."

Seeing Meinhard's blank look, Neustatter added, "Gordon Kroll's daughter. Dennis Stull's secretary. They all work for military procurement."

"Oh, right. I've met Herr Kroll. His daughter . . . isn't she more or less betrothed to Sergeant Hudson?"

Neustatter was grinning again. "Yes."

"He and his friend Sergeant Allen don't like Germans. They call us Krauts when they've been drinking."

"Gena is dating one of the no-Kraut men?" Katharina asked.

Meinhard looked her way. "Why does that surprise you? And who are you?"

"Katharina Meisnerin of the Bibelgesellschaft. Most of us know Gena from Grantville High School. She defended us Anabaptists once."

Meinhard frowned. "Her betrothed may not let her do that anymore."

Neustatter laughed again. "It's clear you don't know Gena very well. Besides, you are underestimating Eric Hudson."

Meinhard blinked. "I never said his first name."

"No, you didn't. But I know him. It's true that he says he dislikes us Germans. But he tends to forget that once he knows you. He likes movies-the up-time moving pictures."

Meinhard frowned. "Sergeant Hudson was transferred to Halle. He's courting Miss Krollin and watching movies in Grantville . . ."

"And drinking at the 250 Club," Neustatter added. "He's very efficient. There's a reason the Army put him in charge of train schedules."

Meinhard said, "We'll need to verify all this, of course."

"Of course."

"Under close questioning," the nasal voice added.

"That's not going to happen," Neustatter answered. He didn't bother to turn around.

"This is Erfurt," another voice spat. "Not Grantville."

"They will be tried by our laws!" someone else in the crowd shouted.

"Thuringian law is the same in Erfurt and Grantville," Watchman Meinhard stated.

"They shot someone and carried him off!" came a shout from crowd. "They're working for the Catholics! They must be punished!" There was a general chorus of agreement from the rest of the crowd.

Neustatter shucked off his coat and let it drop to the ground. His holster was very visible as he turned around.

A few of the more perceptive citizens of Erfurt-and everyone who'd ever see one of the Western movies in Grantville-started moving away, thinking about such things as lines of fire.

"Calm down, all of you!" Meinhard ordered.

"We can take them!" one Erfurter insisted.

Karl and Lukas exchanged incredulous looks.

"Do something!" Astrid heard Katharina hiss at Georg.

"What do you want me to do?" Georg asked.

"I don't know! Think of something!" Katharina was becoming frantic.

Georg started easing his way through the crowd toward the alley.

Astrid decided that Katharina and Barbara would be safe enough for the moment. They were flanked by fellow students Horst Felke and Johannes Musaeus as well as having Karl and Lukas close by.

"Karl," Astrid said, "watch the others. I'll cover Georg." She slipped through the crowd after him.

Meanwhile, Meinhard was telling his partner, "Heinkel, go to the base and ask if Sergeant Eric Hudson and Fraulein Gena Krollin would please accompany you back here. Be polite. Bring Herr Kroll and Herr Stull if they wish. The whole rest of the city is here-they may as well be."

****

Georg got to the front and stood there looking into the alley. The crowd was becoming increasingly aggravated. He knelt down. Astrid sighed. That would make him even harder to protect.

Suddenly Georg straightened and carefully walked a little ways down the alley. "Whatever happened, no one was shot," he proclaimed.

Everyone in earshot turned to look at him.

"What?" Astrid demanded. "Of course someone was shot. There's blood everywhere."

"Not shot," Georg insisted. "Stabbed or cut. Perhaps bludgeoned. But not shot."

"Why do you say that?"

"The blood, it's not right," Georg said.

"Neustatter!" Astrid called. "There's something you'll want to know." She waved Georg forward. "Explain."

"Whoever bled here, he or she was not shot," Georg said.

"Speak up!" someone hollered.

Neustatter motioned to the watchmen. "Gentlemen, we won't all fit. Perhaps the two professors and then you could pick out a couple dependable men?"

Meinhard nodded. He pointed at two men. "Rudolf Schwartz. Klaus Huber. You witness for the crowd. And for the Committees." Huber was the man with the quarterstaff.

Eight men crowding into an alley trying to avoid stepping in bloodstains was awkward at best. Once they were all at least close enough to hear, Neustatter said, "Say that again, Georg."

"This is not blood from shot," Georg said again. "This is blood from a blade." He pointed at a streak of blood on the wall, three or four yards from the end of the alley. "This is artery spray. It's about one American foot from the ground. Not head or chest level. And then whoever it was collapsed right there." He pointed at a section of wall where the pattern sloped down to the ground, ending in a pool of semi-dried blood. It was irregularly shaped, about three American feet by a foot and a half.

"Right," Meinhard said. "Then he picked up the body and left these footprints here." He pointed at a couple impressions that ended in a confused tangle with a smaller patch of blood at the edge of the alley where it met the street.

"What is the point of this?" Jost asked.

"Figuring out what happened," Meinhard told him. "Someone stepped in blood and walked to the edge of the street. There's no blood out in the street but there is this spot. As if someone who was bleeding stopped and stood here."

"It would have happened while they were loading the body," Jost said.

Georg pointed at it. "That's dripping. Uh, gravitational spatter, they call it. See how the drops here by the street are all round? And that-" He indicated a spray pattern. "is not gravitational. It's from a new wound." He squatted down to look closely. "There is also white stuff on the ground. I smell something, too." He sniffed the ground. "I think it's horseradish."

Jost opened his mouth to argue and then reconsidered. But Huber said it for him. "So the heretics stabbed him again and then put the body in a wagon."

"That's not what happened," Georg said. "Look at these blood drops."

Watchman Meinhard frowned. "There are two blood trails. We're standing in one of them! Everyone step back against the wall." He pointed at the ground and traced the trail as everyone got out of the way. "One going into the alley and one coming back out?"

"Both blood trails are going in," Georg corrected.

"You couldn't possibly know that unless you saw it happen," Huber stated.

"It's very clear," Georg countered. "The footprints come out to the street. But both blood trails are going back in."

Meinhard took a close look. "Yes."

"You can't tell that . . ." Jost began.

"Yes you can. Blood drops from a moving person aren't round. They're pointed, and they point in the direction of movement."

"I don't believe that," Huber said.

"Please, feel free to cut your finger and walk around," Georg challenged.

"Why, you . . ."

"That's enough, Herr Huber," Meinhard said without lifting his gaze from the ground. "Why do you know all this, Georg?"

"My sister Katharina keeps staying after school for Bibelgesellschaft work. I was bored waiting, so I took the forensics class."

"Forensics?" Meinhard stumbled over the word.

"Crime scene investigation."

"Ah. Herr Frost has told us a little about this. He said he will say more about it on his next circuit. I remember that he said the up-timers have a chemical that shows blood."

"Yes," Georg agreed. "Luminol. It's usually used to see where someone cleaned up blood. No need for it here." Then a thought struck him, and he laughed. "But it wouldn't work here anyway, Watchman Meinhard. You can smell the horseradish, right?"

"Ja."

"Horseradish causes luminol to show a false positive," Georg said. "If we had any to spray around, I think this whole end of the alley would turn blue."

"Have you used this luminol before?"

"No. I've just seen pictures of it in a book. If there is any left at all, it is not enough to let students use it."

Meinhard was quiet for a few moments. "Could someone have put the horseradish there on purpose so that luminol couldn't be used?"

Georg thought about that. "I believe Herr Frost would say that forensic countermeasures suggest careful planning. Given the amount of blood everywhere, I don't think this was carefully planned. Certainly no one tried to clean up the scene. I think the horseradish is just an accident."

"Good point," Meinhard agreed. He turned his attention back to the scene. "Steps in the blood, tracks it to the street, spills blood there, two people come back this way," he mused. "Steps over here around the blood pool."

"I didn't see that one," Georg admitted.

"It's just blood drops. There aren't any footprints."

Georg cocked his head to one side. "Why not? If there are footprints going out there should be footprints coming back."

"This is hard ground," Meinhard pointed out. "We're not leaving footprints either."

Georg thought about that for a minute. Then he stamped on the ground. "Look – I can leave a footprint if I stomp. But why would anyone stomp after stepping in blood? I'd scuff my shoes to scrape it off."

"He didn't scuff," Meinhard observed. He pointed at a misshapen footprint. "Georg, he slipped!"

Georg understood at once. "He slipped in the blood and stumbled to the edge of the alley. Wait-then he stood around bleeding? Why was he bleeding?"

"He stabs the other guy . . ." Meinhard began. "No, the other guy stabs him. No, that's not right, because they walk off together."

"Do we know they left together?" Georg asked.

"There are the two blood trails," the watchman pointed out. "They never cross." He began again. "The first man walks through the alley and stabs someone. He slips in the blood. The victim injures him at the edge of the street. But the second man arrives. They kill the victim, and they load the body on a wagon, then walk back down the alley."

"Why wouldn't they just ride away on the wagon?" Georg asked. "Especially since the first man was wounded?"

"So there's a third man driving the wagon . . ." Meinhard shook his head. "No, that is far too complicated." He looked at Jost. "Do you have a theory?"

"Not anymore," Jost answered. "But yours has the big blood stain made before the one next to the street. But the one next to the street is dried, and the big one is still sticky. Doesn't that make the one by the street older?"

Astrid watched Georg and Meinhard exchange looks of consternation. Then they both practically dove at the blood stain by the street.

"Where did we go wrong?" Meinhard asked.

"I don't know," Georg muttered.

They kept staring at the blood stain. At length, Georg observed, "It's not just dried. It's clotted."

"Well, yes," Meinhard agreed. "Blood clots."

"The larger bloodstain isn't clotted like this." Georg sounded excited. "It's not older. This one is two different blood types!"

"What?"

"The first man and the second man were both wounded at the edge of the street. This is blood from both of them. It clotted because they're different blood types," Georg pointed. "See the arterial spray there? It's not clotted because it's from only one of them."

"Two men were injured here?"

"Since they were both hurt and left walking side by side, I don't think they could have carried a body," Georg said slowly. "One of them is bleeding badly. He's needs help, and soon."

Meinhard slapped his forehead. "That's why they went back into the alley. The clinic is this way."

Dr. Zapf spoke up. "The university medical faculty is the other way."

Meinhard shook his head. "We've been seeing more and more sick and injured people being taken to the clinic. It's just a couple of nurses. They're not really doctors. But a lot of people don't care.

"Jost, we're going to follow the blood trail. Go back and tell everyone else that if they come, they have to stay back and they have to use a different alley. Georg, let's go find these two men."

They followed the blood drops to the other end of the alley and out onto the next street.

"It's getting hard to see," Georg noted.

Meinhard grunted. "Less blood, too."

Halfway down the block they lost the trail.

"I don't see any more blood," Georg said.

"Me, either." Meinhard turned around. "Form a line."

He put Schwarz, Huber, Neustatter, Johann Gerhard, Niclas Zapf, and Jost in a line across the street, and they started slowly moving forward.

"Blood!" Dr. Gerhard called.

Several yards farther along Schwarz found another drop. After another twenty yards, they heard a hubbub as the crowd caught up to them.

Meinhard made a decision. "Jost, let's just check the clinic. If they're not there, we can come back with lanterns and look for the blood trail."

They were almost to the base when they met Watchman Heinkel coming the other way with three up-timers in tow, two men and a woman. The younger man was wearing USE feldgrau. That probably made him Eric Hudson, although Astrid didn't recognize any of them.

Katharina did, though. "Guten abend, Gena," she called.

"Kat Meisnerin? Georg? Horst? What are you all doing here?"

"The Bibelgesellschaft came to Erfurt to meet with the university theology faculty. But people think that Herr Neustatter and his security service have killed someone."

Gena gave an unladylike snort. "That's ridiculous."

"Gena. Sergeant Hudson. Herr Kroll," Neustatter greeted them.

"What's this about, officer?" Gordon Kroll asked.

Meinhard gave him the short version.

"Wait, wait, wait," Sergeant Hudson drawled. "You think Neustatter and one of his men would attack someone in an alley? And then hide the body? Seriously?" He laughed.

"Why is this funny?" Watchman Jost asked.

Eric Hudson jerked a thumb at Neustatter. "The idea of John Wayne here using a partner to ambush a guy."

"But . . . why is it funny?" the watchman pressed.

"C'mon. Neustatter goes to the movies to watch John Wayne, Harrison Ford, and Arnold Schwarzenagger. He wouldn't knife someone in an alley. He prefers a straight-up fight to all that sneaking around."

Neustatter grinned.

"Plus, since you came and got us," Hudson continued, "you already know that Gena's been teaching him martial arts. Now if you had someone who'd been blown away on Main Street or had a broken neck, Neustatter'd be a suspect. But a stabbing? Uh-uh."

"That's . . . an interesting insight," Meinhard acknowledged. He glanced at Georg.

Georg shrugged. "Don't look at me. That's not forensics. I think they call that profiling."

"Let's go check the clinic before it gets completely dark," Meinhard directed.

****

Lorrie Gorrell was finishing up with a couple sick kids while Maurine Kroll tried to keep the day's paperwork somewhat current. Someone banged on the door of the clinic. Maurine pushed back from the shelf pegged to the wall that served as a desk. Being on paperwork made her the receptionist, too. She opened the door to find her husband, daughter, and, well, probably not half of Erfurt standing there, but it seemed like it.

A quick glance didn't reveal anyone obviously in need of medical care. "What's going on, Gordon?" she asked. "Can I help you?"

"We hope so," said a man wearing the armband of the city watch. "There is a lot of blood in an alley near the university. We believe there were two men injured, and the blood trail led in this general direction. One of them would have been bleeding badly."

"Lorrie!"

The door to the examination room opened. Lorrie Gorrell ushered a woman and her two boys out. She was carrying the younger, who looked about six. The older was probably nine or ten.

"Keep giving them purified water and an aspirin morning, noon, and night," she directed, then asked, "What's going on, Maurine?"

"They're looking for a couple injured men, one bleeding heavily," Maureen told her. "They must mean Griesser and Unsinn."

Lorrie nodded. "Hans Griesser and Gerhard Unsinn came in this afternoon. Griesser had a deep laceration to his right arm, and Unsinn had a broken nose. I stitched up Griesser and did what I could for Unsinn's nose."

"Did they say what happened?" Meinhard asked.

To his surprise, Watchman Jost laughed softly. "I can guess. I know Unsinn, by reputation at least. He is a klutz."

"Yes," Lorrie confirmed. "Hurrying to bring a knife to his master."

Meinhard nodded. "I can see it. Not quite running, but moving fast. He slipped in the blood and stumbled forward just as . . . Griesser, you say? . . . came around the corner." He paused. "Where are they now?"

"They both lost a lot of blood," Lorrie said. "This isn't Leahy or Magdeburg Memorial. We don't give transfusions unless it's really life or death. I can't even give Sergeant Nagel's kids as much aspirin as I'd like to. I stitched them up and sent them to a tavern. At least they'll get some fluids back in their systems that way."

Maurine took a deep breath. "And I gave them some marijuana for the pain."

Gordon Kroll blinked a couple times. "You prescribed beer and pot?" he asked his wife.

"Yes. I told them to come back tomorrow. If they need it, we'll give them a pint of O negative and some chloram."

Kroll winced. "Let me talk to Dennis Stull and some others. We've got to see about getting you more medical supplies, especially if you're becoming the walk-in clinic for the city."

"Thanks, honey."

Meinhard cleared his throat. "Any idea which tavern they went to?"

"Probably The End of the Woad. It's closest."

"Thank you."

Maurine exchanged glances with Lorrie.

"Go with them," Lorrie said. "I'll close up here."

****

Outside, Meinhard gave a quick summary that caused most of the remaining onlookers to disperse. Potential murder had been interesting; a clumsy journeyman was not. That left just three watchmen, Georg, the two professors, Neustatter, Astrid, Schwartz, Huber, Gordon and Maurine Kroll, Gena, and Eric Hudson. They filed into The End of the Woad and filled the place up.

"May I help you?" the waitress asked.

"City watch," Meinhard said. "Looking for Hans Griesser and Gerhard Unsinn."

"Right over there."

Griesser's arm was bandaged, as was Unsinn's nose.. Both their shirts were bloodstained but they had cleaned themselves up.

Eric Hudson sniffed. "Must be our guys. That is definitely a doobie." Gena smacked him.

"Herr Griesser? Herr Unsinn?" Meinhard asked.

"Ja."

"I'm Watchman Meinhard. Some citizens found a lot of blood in an alley, and they were afraid someone had been murdered."

"Ha! Not quite murdered, although Unsinn here stabbed me when he fell."

"Sorry," Unsinn muttered.

Griesser laughed. "He fell face-first into my tray of horseradish, too. Busted his nose and spilled the horseradish everywhere. Sorry, Unsinn, but I've had enough beer and das weed that it's funny now."

Unsinn had clearly had enough, too. He giggled. "I slipped in the blood."

Meinhard nodded. "We know. But where did the blood come from?"

The waitress came over with a platter of fowl and a pungent sauce.

"Some fool butchered some chickens in the alley. I saw some feathers."

Meinhard and Georg just looked at each other. Georg shook his head.

Neustatter clapped him on the shoulder. "This was good work, Georg. You could have a future in investigation." He turned. "And Huber? You wouldn't be on the CoC sanitation committee would you?"

"Ja. I've got work to do. Fraulein Krollin, I'd like to speak with you about quarterstaff lessons."

She nodded.

"Neustatter, I'll give you a decent fight next time." The Committeeman left.

"That explains everything," Meinhard said.

"Chicken with horseradish sauce?" Eric Hudson asked.

"Well, except that."

"That's easy," the waitress said over her shoulder as she passed by with a tray full of food. "The cook is determined to master the up-time turkey and dressing by the next kirmess. But he's not there yet."

****

Dr. Phil for President

Kerryn Offord

January 1634, Grantville

Phillip "Lips" Kastenmayer stood despondently in front of the window, gazing at the unobtainable fashions on display. The mannequin that most drew his attention was dressed in T-shirt, leather jacket, blue jeans, and black leather boots-just like the hero in the movie he'd just seen. There was no price displayed, but then there wouldn't be, because those clothes were authentic up-time fashions, and if you had to ask, you couldn't afford them.

He stepped back so he could see his reflection in the window. Anything less like what was on display was hard to imagine. He was dressed in the uniform Mama believed suitable for the student son of a Lutheran pastor. It was drab, uninspiring, but long-lasting. So long-lasting that he expected to still be wearing them when he graduated from university.

He thrust his thumbs through his belt-how much he'd love to be able to thrust them into the pockets of his own pair of jeans or leather jacket-but that was just a dream. Papa could barely afford to send him and his brothers to university, let alone splash out on expensive up-time fashions. With a final sad glance at the fashions in the window, he set off on the five mile walk home.

May, 1635, the rectory, St. Martin's in the Field, South of Rudolstadt

Lips was happy that his sister was getting married, but he wasn't happy that he had to dress up just because she was getting married.

"Stand still," Salome Piscatora, his mama, demanded as she tried to straighten his collar.

Lips did as he was told while Mama dusted down his freshly starched collar-he could already feel it starting to itch. Then he felt her pulling a brush through his hair. Eventually he was tidy enough, and she sent him off to stand in a corner with his younger brother.

"What's the guy Dina's marrying like?" He asked Ernst, who'd at least met the man Dina was marrying.

Ernst shrugged. "He's old, and he's got the weirdest taste in clothes, but Dina seems happy."

That didn't sound good. Lips knew the man had agreed to board him and his brothers while they attended university in Jena, but it did sort of sound like Dina was selling herself to support the family.

"Here he comes now."

Lips followed Ernst's gaze, and just about died of shock. He'd been given the impression that Dina's betrothed was an employee at HDG Laboratories. "What did you say he did in Jena?"

"Papa said he's in charge of training and supervising the laborants." Ernst grinned. "Papa's hoping Dina might encourage Phillip to seek promotion from his wealthy relative."

"Yeah, right," Lips muttered as he watched the man approach.

"Phillip, this is my son Phillip, although we usually call him Lips," Ludwig Kastenmayer said.

Lips hastily put out his hand to shake the one being offered. "A pleasure to meet you, Phillip."

****

"Joseph, have you met Dina's betrothed?" Lips asked when he ran his older brother to ground, in the library, reading some boring law text.

"He seems a good enough man. No interest in the law, of course."

"But don't you know who he is?"

"Papa told you who he is, or weren't you listening, as usual?"

"You don't understand. Dina is marrying Dr. Gribbleflotz."

"Oh, does Phillip have a doctorate? Do you know where from?"

Lips stared at his brother. How could he not understand? "Joseph, Dina's betrothed is the Dr. Gribbleflotz. He doesn't just work at HDG Laboratories. He is HDG Laboratories." The stunned look on his brother's face told Lips that he'd finally made his point.

"The Dr. Gribbleflotz is marrying our Dina?" Joseph managed to splutter.

"Not only is she marrying Dr. Gribbleflotz, but nobody in the family seems to know who he is."

"Uncle Arnold vouches for him," Joseph said.

"Well, that's someone who knows who Dina's marrying."

"Why would someone as rich as Dr. Gribbleflotz want to marry Dina?"

That question stumped Lips. It wasn't that Dina was ugly, or stupid, or even too old. It was the fact that everyone knew money married money. It certainly didn't marry the dowerless daughter of a poor pastor. "You don't suppose he fell in love with Dina?"

"Dina's very . . ." Joseph screwed up his nose and shrugged.

Lips felt exactly the same. Dina was a great sister, but what did she have to attract the attention of a wealthy man like Dr. Gribbleflotz?

Lips remained doubtful about his sister's marrying Dr. Gribbleflotz right up to the minute, soon after the exchange of vows, when she launched herself into her husband's arms. There was a sparkle in her eyes he hadn't seen for years, and she was glowing. Her new husband looked just as happy.

October, Jena

"Lips, you have to save me," Dina implored.

Lips shot out of his chair and rushed over to his sister. "What's the matter?"

"Someone's given Phillip books on bringing up babies."

Lips whistled. That could be serious. "Has he said anything?"

"Not yet, but you know what Phillip's like, and I don't want him making a project out of my babies."

"Babies?" Lips knew Dina was pregnant, but that seemed to suggest more than one.

Dina smiled and ran a hand over her belly. "Yes, Dr. Shipley says I'm carrying twins. She let me listen to their heartbeats."

Lips ignored the dreamy look on his sister's face and concentrated on dealing with her problem. "What is it you want me to do?"

"I need you to approach Phillip and pretend an interest in alchemy. Maybe teaching you what he knows will stop him concentrating on me and the babies." She slumped. "Why did he have to pick now to decide that there was something wrong with the pyramid power thing?"

Lips hugged his sister. He'd always been interested in the new science, and now, instead of sneaking into the laboratories and seminars, he could do it openly, firm in the knowledge that Dina would support him if Mama and Papa asked questions.

November, Jena

Lips stared at the poster of a young woman wearing nothing but strategically placed whipped cream, and wondered, how did they do it? It was definitely a photograph. He'd seen several, including photographs from Dina and Phillip's wedding, so he knew what cameras could do. Except that the poster was in color, and realistic color at that. He went in search of the gatekeeper to up-time knowledge.

He found him in his office, with Frau Mittelhausen, Frau Beier, and Dina. "Oh, I'm sorry," Lips said as he hastily backed out of the room.

"What is it, Lips," Dina asked.

"I just wanted to ask Phillip something, but it can wait."

"We aren't doing anything important, just reviewing the new advertising campaign for Sal Vin Betula."

Lips struggled to stop the grin that statement elicited from turning into a smirk. It had been Phillip's Sal Vin Betula, better known in the market as Dr. Gribbleflotz' Little Blue Pills of Happiness, that had got him into selling revitalizing fluid. Some up-timer had mistaken his blue aspirin pills for some up-time sex drug. "Maybe you should try something like Paxton's poster."

"What poster would that be?" Phillip asked.

"Are you talking about the poster of the female wearing nothing but revitalizing cream?" Frau Mittelhausen asked.

"That's the one," Lips said. "Phillip, do you know how they did it?"

"Did what?"

"You haven't seen the poster?"

Phillip shook his head.

"Well, it’s a color poster, but it's not block color like most posters are. The color is so realistic; it's like a photograph out of an up-time book."

"That certainly bears looking at. Where is this poster?"

"In the front window of Vorkeuffer's," Lips said, naming a local store that had been nothing much more than a common grocery store four years ago, and was now the largest general store in Jena, all on the back of selling the products of HDG Laboratories.

Phillip pushed back his chair. "If you will all excuse me, I must have a look at this poster Lips is so excited about."

"I'm coming too," Dina insisted, as she too pushed back her chair.

December 1635, Prague, capital of Bohemia

"I was invited in to record the king's aura yesterday," Zacharias Held told his colleague. Well, more bragged, really, but serving the king was surely something to brag about.

Johann Dent whistled. "How did you manage that?"

"Talent, Johann, pure talent."

Johann snorted. "More likely you found out who to pay. So, is the king as ill as we hear?"

Zacharias nodded. "I think he's in a very bad way, but that dragon guarding him refused to let me take a Kirlian image of his head. How does she expect me to know how to rebalance his aura if I can't see it properly?"

"So you only got a hand?"

"And just the left one at that."

"You can't tell much from the weaker hand. Didn't you explain?"

"In front of the king? With his dragon glaring at me? Of course I didn't." Zacharias pulled out a Kirlian photograph and passed it over to Johann. "Have a look at that. I think he definitely needs an aluminum bracelet to balance the aura, but it also needs a red gemstone in a number three cut."

"Oh, dear. You do have a problem."

Zacharias ignored the smug smile on Johann's face. He was merely jealous that he hadn't been invited to examine the king. However, Johann did have a point. Both of them knew, from Aural Balance 101, that you didn't mix aluminum metal with gems containing aluminum.

"You can't use glass for the king."

"No," Zacharias agreed. One didn't use glass for the king, not even if you were adding gold to it to make a lovely ruby red.

"And rubies are just aluminum oxide, after all. Spinels and tourmaline are out, too. But what about a carbuncle?"

"No. All red garnets have aluminum in the B location, all the ones with something else are green or black."

"Then I guess you need see if Roth's can suggest anything," Johann said.

HDG Laboratories, Jena

Lips helped his brother-in-law set up his latest creation-a three-color camera-obscura. Not that Phillip was laying claim to the idea for the machine. That had been someone at Schmucker and Schwentzel, in Rudolstadt. After seeing the poster for Paxton's Revitalizing Cream, Phillip had been as interested as Lips in learning how it was done. And Lips had learned just how powerful his brother-in-law was, although to be fair, Phillip didn't seem to be aware of his power.

No sooner had Phillip asked Paxton's how the poster had been produced, than he'd been directed to Schmucker and Schwentzel. The fact that Paxton's Revitalizing Cream was riding on the coattails of Phillip's revitalizing fluid probably had something to do with the friendly response to his inquiries.

The printers hadn't been as obeisant when Phillip and Lips turned up to ask questions, but they'd been more than willing to describe their technique-maybe the fact the film and photographic chemicals they were using all came from one of the HDG facilities had something to do with it. Not that Lips was feeling cynical.

The visit had seen the commissioning of a smaller version of Schmucker and Schwentzel's camera. The camera for Phillip had been treated as a rush job, and been delivered just yesterday. Lips, again not feeling particularly cynical, wondered how much Phillip was going to be charged, because none of the people they dealt with that day had mentioned anything as common as price. He made a mental note to ask Frau Mittelhausen how much everything had cost.

"It would be so much easier if we had color film," Lips said. Certainly Phillip's black and white camera was nowhere near as finicky to set up.

"It would, but there have been difficulties replicating the Autochrome process."

The Autochrome process used starch grains dyed in red, green and blue, randomly distributed over a photosensitive emulsion. Or at least that's what the instructions in the eleventh edition of the Encyclopedia Britannica said. "Do you know what is wrong?"

"It is obvious that there is some step, some additional chemical or process missing from the published directions, so we will do what we always do."

"And that is?" Lips asked.

"Revert to basic principles. Take what we know, and try adding things to the known until we discover the unknown."

That didn't fit with the basic principles of chemistry he'd picked up in the few up-time science classes he'd managed to sneak into back in Grantville. Those had suggested a much more theoretical approach. "Does that work?"

"It is how I discovered how to make the Amazing Essence of Fire Tablets the up-time chemists claimed couldn't be made." Phillip pulled the camera's blackout cloth over his head.

Yes, well, Lips knew all about those fire tablets. If you knew what you were doing, and Hans Saltzman, Phillip's trusted personal laborant of nearly five years, certainly did know, you could turn those fire tablets into high explosive. It had been interesting watching Hans make up some of the explosive and then detonate it on a farm outside Jena's walls. For such a small amount of explosive, it had made a very big hole. But it was the first time he'd heard that the up-timers hadn't believed it was possible to make the precursor. Maybe there was something to Phillip's approach to research that was better than the up-timer science.

Phillip reappeared from under the blackout cloth and closed the shutter before opening the slides on the film cassettes. "Everything is ready. If you would like to set the experiment in motion."

Lips took the hint and turned off the lights before initiating the flame test. Moments later the spectral lines were visible on the detector. Phillip opened the shutter, and Lips ensured the flame had a steady supply of prepared loops for the twenty-second exposure.

****

Lips sat beside Phillip as he studied the color image projected onto the screen. The use of colored filters meant that the sets of black and white photographs taken by the three-color camera could be projected onto a screen to form a single color image. On the screen in front of him was a nearly perfect record of the spectral lines produced in the flame test.

"Well, that seems to have worked," Phillip said.

"You sound surprised?"

"Of course I'm surprised. Nothing ever works the first time."

"But Schmucker and Schwentzel's camera worked, so why shouldn't yours?"

Phillip looked up and shook his head. "The voice of someone who has not yet run into the great Murphy." He looked Lips directly in the eyes. "If anything can go wrong, it will. Remember that, Lips. Remember that."

January 1636, Prague

There was a hubbub of conversation in the meeting room of the Prague chapter of the Society of Aural Investigators, the professional body responsible for maintaining the standards of the profession. Zacharias carried his steaming mug of Tincture of Cacao-the beverage the society had virtually made its own-to the table where Johann was sitting. "Sorry I'm late, but some fool forgot to refill the Wetmore's reservoir, and it ran out of water in the middle of a calculation. I had to refill the reservoir and bleed the whole thing before I could do anything."

"Another reading for the king?" Johann asked.

"Yes." Zacharias was proud of himself. He hadn't come across as overly smug. As Aural Investigator to the king, he was someone-and the increase in business from people who wanted the king's aural investigator to read their aura didn't hurt.

"Did you manage to find yourself a red gemstone for the bracelet?"

"Yes, Roth's had the perfect red gemstone-a Mexican opal. I had them cut and set it in the bracelet."

"Did it work?"

"It was the calculations based on the bracelet that kept me so long." He took out a notebook, opened it to the right page, and passed it to Johann. "Have a look. The king should be highly impressed when I tell him how much closer to the ideal state his aura is."

Johann skimmed over the numbers before handing the notebook back. "Of course, it would be a lot better if you could record the aura in color."

"Of course it would be easier, but nobody is doing color . . ." Zacharias stopped because Johann was shaking his head. "Someone is?"

"If you'd been here earlier you would have heard Zankel reading from the latest issue of the Proceedings of the HDG Laboratories. It has a centerfold of color photographs from one of the doctor's experiments."

"What?" Zacharias was horrified that he'd missed such news. He stood and searched the tables for a copy of the Proceedings. Sighting one, he hastened over and secured a copy. He knew he had the right issue as soon as he opened it. There was a centerfold in high-quality white paper with color images of spectral lines from flame tests. He hastened back to Johann and sat down. "Does he say how he does it?"

"Would you?" Johann asked.

"No." Of course he wouldn't give away information like that. It'd be worth a fortune. He hastily skimmed through the articles in the journal, looking for anything that might cast light on the question of how it was done, and more importantly, how long it would be before the technique was available for everyday use.

"You can stop hunting. Everyone has already looked, and there is nothing about the method in that issue."

Zacharias quickly checked the publication date-January, 1636. The Proceedings were published three times a year, so that meant the next issue wouldn't be out until May. "A letter to the doctor asking about the technique's application to Kirlian imaging is definitely indicated."

"Already decided while you were playing with the aqualator," Johann said. "Martin Zankel has been told to write a letter on behalf of the chapter."

"We won't be the only chapter writing, you know," Zacharias pointed out.

"Of course not. But if we don't send a letter the doctor won't know we're interested in knowing the answer. I expect he'll put together a form letter and send it out to anybody who inquires."

February, Jena

Lips was happily sitting in the sun reading one of Phillip's up-time science textbooks when his light was suddenly cut off. He looked up to see the looming shapes of Fraus Beier and Mittelhausen, and Hans Saltzman blocking out the sun.

"See, he is perfect for the job," Hans said.

"Just because he reads the doctor's books doesn't mean he understands them," Frau Beier said.

Lips used a bookmark to mark where he was and shut the book. "What job?"

"The doctor is distracted by Frau Kastenmayerin's pregnancy, and is not giving his correspondence the attention it needs," Frau Beier said.

"You want me to go through Phillip's mail?"

"Only the letters that raise scientific concerns," Frau Mittelhausen said. "I will continue to manage the business correspondence."

"But why me? Why not Hans? He knows much more about the new science than I do."

"Because someone has to run the laboratories while the doctor is distracted, and besides, your Latin is much better than mine."

"What is it I'm supposed to do?"

"It is a very difficult task. Frau Beier or I would have sent Frau Hardesty a polite letter when she mistook the Sal Vin Betula for an up-time treatment for impotentia coeundi. The doctor saw an opportunity. You must take the doctor's place looking for opportunities."

"But how am I supposed to do that? How does Phillip decide whether or not something is an opportunity or not?" Lips got three matching shrugs in reply.

"Now you see why I don't want the job," Hans said

****

Lips had thought the letters asking about color Kirlian photography lacked any possible opportunity for the company, but he had passed them onto Phillip anyway. There had been a feeling, coming mostly from Dina, that anything that could distract Phillip had to be tried.

Phillip's reaction hadn't been what Lips had expected. Instead of intensifying the efforts to succeed with Autochrome, Phillip had decided to try to photograph Kirlian images with his special camera.

Lips had provided the hand for the image, and it was still stinging as he sat down in the projection room to see what the Kirlian image looked like.

It was a major disappointment. The screen was almost black. The only light showing on the screen was from scratches on the negatives. Phillip walked up to the image for a closer look. "Nothing! If we believed this image, we would be forced to conclude that your hand completely lacks an aura."

"Perhaps the camera was too far away to detect the discharges?"

Phillip studied the projected image for a few moments before shaking his head. "No, it seems my brilliant idea of using the three-color camera to record a Kirlian image has failed. We need to try something different."

Lips moved to the windows and pulled open the heavy drapes. "What about replacing the paper with the film?" he said over his shoulder.

"Well, the paper we left in the usual place to produce a Kirlian image for comparison purposes certainly recorded an image. But the film is just black and white, and we are trying to produce a color image."

"What if we used filters?"

"We have three filters, unless you are hoping to combine plates from three separate Kirlian images . . ."

Lips realized Phillip was thinking of registering problems. Unless the photos exactly overlapped, the image just wouldn't work, and layering the filters would just stop light getting through to the lower plates.

"No, Lips, what we need is plates sensitive to one or other of the primary colors."

"Isn't that what we're trying to do with the Autochrome?"

"Not quite. With the Autochrome, we are trying to make a single plate sensitive to each of the primary colors, whereas what I'm thinking is we sensitize three plates, each to a different color."

****

They tried it with glass negatives first, because that's what they had for the camera. But that hadn't worked. The glass was acting as an insulator, and only the top plate registered anything. That had meant an urgent order had to be sent out for some cellulose acetate sheet-film. Fortunately, there had been a photographer in Jena who had some.

Phillip held the last of the three still dripping negatives up to the red safety-light, and smiled. "We have an image on all three sheets. Now all we have to do is sensitize each sheet of film to a different color."

"How are you planning on doing that?" Lips asked.

"We send an order to Michael for some sheet cellulose acetate that we can apply our own, custom, emulsions onto. And we experiment until we have three dyed plates that give us a color image.

March, Jena

Lips arrived home from lectures to a surprise. The up-timer chemical engineer Phillip had been waiting for had finally arrived.

"Lips, this is Lori Drahuta, she'll be staying in the apartment while she decides whether or not she wants to work at HDG Laboratories," Hans said.

Lips looked enviously at the young woman. She was wearing fancy leather boots, blue jeans, a t-shirt with a fancy design on it, and a denim jacket. "Nice t-shirt."

Lori looked down at the image of St. George defeating a wild dog on her t-shirt. "It's my own design."

"How do you get the image onto the material? Did you paint it?"

"You can, but this is silk-screen. I produced a number of them as a fundraiser for the rabies awareness program."

That word sent a shiver through Lips. Rabies was a disease to be feared, even if the up-timers did have a treatment for it. "Is it the same as wood-block printing?"

"No. If you're interested, I can show you how it's done."

"Yes, please." Lips was definitely interested. He had visions of printing a t-shirt with the image of his hero. If he couldn't afford the jeans and jacket, he could at least afford a printed t-shirt.

****

Lips had expected to dine alone, again. His brother was visiting friends, while Phillip was in Grantville with Dina, who'd given birth to a boy and a girl in the early hours of the twenty-ninth of February, and they were spending a few days in Grantville. Instead, he found the new girl sitting at the table. There was a moment of shock, then he remembered his duties as host. "Good evening, Frau Drahuta."

"Please, make it Lori. And what do I call you?"

My name is Phillip, but family call me Lips, Lori."

"And I'm family?"

"We certainly hope you will join the family here at HDG Laboratories."

"Well, I hope I can fit in, although I was expecting to see Dr. Phil. Whoops!' Lori clapped her hands over her mouth. "Sorry, that just slipped out."

"I haven't heard that name for Phillip before, where did you hear it?"

"Ted and Tracy Kubiak. Apparently Ted started it. But it's not a sign of disrespect, honest. It's just the American tendency to give people nicknames, and well, back up-time there was some guy on TV who went by the moniker of Dr. Phil."

"Dr Phil." Lips tried it on his tongue. It came naturally. Almost more naturally than Phillip, and certainly much easier than Dr. Gribbleflotz, which, with his experience of up-timers, they would have found a bit of a tongue twister. "Why haven't I heard it before?"

"I think it's just a pet name for Dr. Gribbleflotz within a tight group in the Kubiak family."

"Well, I think Phillip would be happy for you to call him Dr. Phil."

"I think I'll stick to Dr. Gribbleflotz until I get to know him better.

Late March, Jena

Phillip, Dina, and the babies, Jon and Salome, had arrived back in Jena to a hideous surprise. Phillip's mother, recently widowed-again-had turned up. And she wasn't a very nice person. Lips had tried to send a message before Phillip left Grantville, but he'd just missed him. What should have been a joyous homecoming had been ruined by Maria Elisabeth Bombast von Neuburg.

Lips heard the heavy footsteps of Phillip's mother ringing through the apartment and tried to find somewhere to hide. Maria Elisabeth was an equal opportunity critic, and everybody was a legitimate target. Except for Lori Drahuta, who was an up-timer, and thus almost a noble.

Maria Elisabeth burst into the room in all her painted glory. Dressed in age inappropriate colors and styles, and with enough white-lead on her face to sink one of the new ironclads, she was a sight to terrify even the bravest. Lips backed further into the corner he'd found when Phillip's mother burst in. She looked angry, again.

"I don't know how I'm going to hold up my head," she said as she waved a letter under Phillip's nose. "Margaretha's Friedrich, such a hard working and successful boy, is now the personal alchemist to Ulrich of Ostfriesland." She glared at Phillip. "Why can't you have a noble patron?" she demanded. "Every great man needs a great patron, but not you, Theophrastus, you don't even have a patron. You are self-employed."

"I might be self-employed, but I am still a successful alchemist. And I am much more successful than Friedrich Weiser."

Lips nodded. That was telling her. The Great Stoner was probably the only alchemist in the world anywhere near as successful as Phillip.

"Friedrich Weiser is a graduate of Tubingen. He not only has a Baccalaureus Artium, but he also has his Magister Artium. What do you have? Nothing, that's what you have!"

"I have a doctorate," Phillip spat out.

Maria Elisabeth was not impressed. "A doctorate from some university in the United Provinces nobody has heard of does not compare with degrees from Tubingen. Why, Tubingen has Johannes Kepler and Wilhelm Schickard amongst their alumni. Who does your university have?

Lips knew the answer to that one. Nobody. The institution awarding Phillip's degree hadn't existed until 1632.

"Kepler believed in astrology."

There was outrage in Phillip's voice. His great grandfather, Paracelsus, hadn't believed in astrology, so neither did Phillip. Lips had heard him on the topic many times, which made one wonder how he felt about the use his Kirlian imagers were being put to.

"He was imperial mathematician to Emperor Rudolph II, and if he was still living, would have the king of Bohemia as his patron." Suddenly Maria slapped Phillip. It was no love tap; Phillip was knocked off balance. "You are a grave disappointment, Theophrastus. What would Grandfather think?"

Lips winced, not so much at the slap, but at the last bit of spleen Phillip's mother had vented before she stalked out. That had been a low blow. Paracelsus was Phillip's hero, to be a disappointment to Paracelsus . . . Lips hurried out to get Dina. Phillip needed serious comforting.

****

"Something has to be done about that . . ." Words failed Lips.

"Witch, bitch, cow," Lori suggested.

Lips smiled. You could always trust Lori to lighten the mood. "Take your pick, but something has to be done. She's making Phillip miserable."

"And she is upsetting Frau Kastenmayerin," Frau Mittelhausen said.

Lips hadn't noticed any conflict between Dina and Phillip's mother, but he wasn't surprised. The daughter of a poor pastor wasn't something she could boast about to her friends back in Neuburg.

"What about poison? I'm sure there are plenty of possibilities," Lori suggested.

"It's something to dream about, but it probably wouldn't work. I mean, Lead oxide is supposed to be toxic, but you've seen how much she puts on."

"That's lead oxide? I thought it was zinc oxide. Maybe she hasn't been using it for long," Lori suggested.

"Phillip says she was painting her face with white lead even before he left for the school of mines in Fugger," Lips said.

"Painting? She's putting the stuff on with a trowel by the looks of it. But you're right. If she hasn't gone down with lead poisoning after all this time, what chance is there for success with anything else?"

****

Christoph Seidel stood outside the HDG Laboratories facility at Jena and wondered just how he was supposed to persuade Dr. Gribbleflotz, the owner of the facility before him, to move to Prague to serve as King Venceslas V Adalbertus of Bohemia's personal aural investigator. Normally, such a question wouldn't arise, as the social cachet of being treated by someone so close to the king would have the rich and powerful beating a way to his door, but Dr. Gribbleflotz wasn't normal. Money alone was not going to entice him to make the move; he had more than enough of it already.

To make a poor case even worse, neither the Catholic courtiers nor the Calvinist courtiers were likely to show much enthusiasm for the king's introducing a close personal adviser of the Lutheran persuasion into the court. Again, normally that would be a minor problem, just as long as the doctor wasn't overly enthusiastic in his religion. However, Dr. Gribbleflotz had married a Lutheran pastor's daughter, and was therefore undoubtedly personally deeply religious.

****

"Run that past me again," Phillip asked his visitor. "You are asking me to move to Prague to act as the King of Bohemia's aural investigator? Why me? Surely there are plenty of aural investigators already in Prague?"

Lips was busy holding on to his chair to stop himself jumping up and down. Here was the perfect opportunity for Phillip to finally silence his harping mother. He couldn't believe the polite boredom in Phillip's expression. He should be dancing on the table and swinging from the rafters, but no, he was just sitting there listening with polite disinterest.

"But none of them are able to do color." Christoph raised a hand and snapped his fingers. One of the servants who'd accompanied him stepped forward and opened a large leather bag before stepping back. Christoph started to stack bundles of USE paper money on the table. "One month's stipend in advance." Then he started on another pile. "And enough to cover your removal expenses."

Lips had virtually no experience of handling money, and certainly no experience with the quantities the man had just placed on Phillip's desk. However, he had learned how to estimate the mass of objects based on their size and composition. Each pile looked like half a kilogram of paper, and if the rest of the bills in the piles were the same denomination as those on the top, then each bundle represented fifty thousand dollars. He licked his suddenly dry lips. Even a small part of one of those piles would be enough to buy the clothes of his dreams.

"I must consult my wife," Phillip said.

Lips wasn't the only shocked face in the room when Phillip walked out. There was a hundred thousand dollars on that desk and Phillip had completely ignored it. Well, Lips knew his job as host in Phillip's absence. "Would you like some refreshments while we await Dr. Gribbleflotz' return?"

****

"I don't understand," Lori protested. "I thought Dr. Phil didn't believe in Kirlian Image Interpretation."

Lips glanced over at Hans, who'd been sticking to the up-timer like glue. He'd jerked back, making protection from evil hand-signs. Lips settled for gently shaking his head and looking very disappointed, very much like one of his teachers when he'd failed to grasp a concept.

"Well, that's what he told me," Lori said, gesturing to Hans. "And now you're saying he's planning to drop everything he's got going here in Jena and high-tail it to Prague to be the personal aural investigator to some king. How can he do that if he doesn't believe in it?"

"HDG Laboratories will continue to operate. Hans will still be here, and my brother Martin will take over Frau Mittelhausen's job of running the commercial side of the business."

"Still," Lori said, "why would he want to give all this up to move to Prague?"

"Frau Bombast," Hans said.

Lips nodded. "That's right, Phillip's mother. It's especially attractive because the king who is employing Phillip used to employ Johannes Kepler. And more importantly, when he employed Kepler he was only a general, but now, of course, he is a king."

"What's so important about working for a king?" Lori asked.

"Herr Weiser's patron is merely a Graf," Hans said.

"Oh, one-upmanship and social climbing, I wouldn't have thought Dr. Phil was overly interested in doing that?"

"But his mother is. All will be forgiven if her son has a king for a patron, and more importantly, Frau Bombast will return home a happy woman," Lips said.

"It seems a bit extreme just to get rid of one woman," Lori said.

"Frau Bombast is no ordinary woman. Almost anything is to be considered when the reward is getting rid of that female," Hans said.

"How long do you think it'll take before she finds out?" Lori asked.

"Not very long," Hans said. "Someone, who shall remain nameless, but is in this room, escorted Herr Seidel's party to the inn where Frau Bombast is residing."

Lips modestly burnished his nails. That had been a brainwave. No doubt the men would talk about their purpose in Jena. "The story should be all around the city by morning."

"Well, if it is, you'd better be ready to reassure all the people who depend on Dr. Phil," Lori said. "They'll probably worry that the business will shut down if he isn't here."

That was something Lips hadn't thought of. He rose from the table. "I'd better have a few words with Frau Mittelhausen. She'll probably send a few of the girls shopping."

"How does sending some of the girls shopping reassure anybody?" Lori demanded.

"Women gossip," Lips said, before hastily leaving the room.

Next day

Lips made sure he had a prime spot when Frau Bombast, as expected, stormed in on the family without knocking. Fortunately, her heavy-footed stride gave them some warning.

"What is this I hear?" Maria Elisabeth Bombast demanded in her most strident voice.

Phillip appeared calm as he finished chewing the food in his mouth, took a sip of herbal tea, and finally smiled at his mama as he lowered his cup. "What is it you've heard, Mama Dearest?"

"I wish you wouldn't call me that, Theophrastus. You know I don't like it."

"Of course, Mama Dearest. Now, what is it that brings you visiting at such an early hour?"

But Maria Elisabeth had been distracted. She pointed an accusing finger at Dina. "Why is she suckling that child? The wife of a king's advisor should have a wet nurse."

"I haven't signed the contract yet."

Maria Elisabeth turned, aghast. "Not signed it yet? You can't be thinking of refusing to enter a king's service? You wouldn't do that to your poor mama. How will I be able to hold up my head when I return home?"

Success, she was going home. "I'm sure Phillip has every intention of signing, Frau Bombast. However, it is only sensible to have a lawyer check the contract first," Lips said.

A few days later

Lips stared at the money being counted out in front of him. "What is that for?" he asked.

"It is your pay for handling Dr. Gribbleflotz' correspondence," Frau Mittelhausen said.

He licked his lips and carefully counted the USE bank bills to reassure himself just how much there was there. In his mind's eye he could see a shop in Grantville, with blue jeans, t-shirt, and a leather jacket.

"Don't spend it all at once, Lips. That has to last you until next month," Frau Mittelhausen warned.

That did surprise Lips. He hadn't expected to get paid for doing Phillip's correspondence, and now that Phillip was no longer distracted by Dina's pregnancy, surely he wouldn't continue to do it. "I won't."

"But I bet he knows what he wants to spend some of it on," Lori said.

A smile twitched at Lips' lips. "I want some blue jeans, and a leather jacket, and . . ." memory failed him. He couldn't remember everything his screen hero had worn in that movie.

"If you want to buy jeans, I might be able to help."

"I don't want girl's jeans," Lips protested.

"Don't worry. I wasn't going to offer you any of mine, but there's bound to be someone in my family about your size who could use the money. Do you have any particular style in mind?"

Lips hadn't realized jeans came in different styles. He shrugged.

"Well, you must have an idea. Where did you see the ones you like?"

"It was in a movie," Lips admitted.

Lori shook her head. "It's like pulling teeth. What movie?"

"Rebel without a Cause."

"Ahhhh! You see yourself as James Dean." Lori nodded. "You'll need a haircut. I don't suppose anybody is making hair cream, are they?"

"Hair cream?"

April, Prague

Phillip burst into the kitchen still in dishabille, brandishing a collar. "I can't wear this. I'm supposed to be meeting the king."

"What is wrong with the collar, Doctor?" Frau Mittelhausen asked.

"The starch is showing." Phillip showed where white particles of starch showed up against the brilliant lime-green fabric. "I can't wear that to see the king. Why hasn't the laundry been using dyed starch?"

"Let me see what I can do." Frau Mittelhausen grabbed the collar and disappeared.

Lips studied Phillip. His brother-in-law was resplendent in a doublet and knee breeches, with silk stockings and short boots. That was basically the standard garb for meeting important people, however, Phillip had gone to town in his choice of colors. The doublet was an interesting shade of red, with an under-shirt in lime green visible through the slashed sleeves. The stockings were a pale pink, and the boots, well, there was no single dominant color. Lori Drahuta would have broken down laughing at the sight, but Lips was already aware that the colors, if not Phillip's combinations, were starting to be seen around Prague.

Frau Mittelhausen arrived back with the repaired collar and fitted it around Phillip's neck. Seconds later they were left in peace.

"What is dyed starch?" Frau Mittelhausen asked.

"It's from the Autochrome experiments. Phillip has been trying to rediscover how the up-timers made color photographs using dyed starch particles scattered randomly over a photographic plate." Suddenly Lips' thought process kicked him. "Frau Mittelhausen, is white starch on collars much of a problem?"

"Only on colored collars. Oh!"

Lips nodded. Frau Mittelhausen had reached the same conclusion he had. White starch on white collars wouldn't be a problem, but with people copying Phillip and buying colored collars, surely they too were having problems with the white starch ruining the desired effect. He rose from his chair. "If you need me, I'll be in the laboratory doing some research."

"I'll get you some old collars to experiment with."

May, Prague

Lips sat watching Phillip pacing around his laboratory in the Mihulka Tower. He'd been acting strangely since he returned from his latest meeting with the king.

"What's bothering you, Phillip?" he asked.

"Dr Stone agrees that the king's color is blue," Phillip muttered.

"But that's impossible, isn't it?"

"I thought so. I thought that Kurt Beta's Kirlian image interpretation ideas were impossible, but if Dr. Stone says the king's aura is blue, just like the color Kirlian image suggests, then that means Kirlian image interpretation is a valid science." He paused to correct himself. "More correctly, it is a poor cousin to the real science of Chakras."

"What are Chakras?"

Phillip sent Lips a wry grin. "I'm not overly sure myself. It seems to be some technique that only Dr. Stone and his assistant, Guptah Rai Singh, are familiar with."

"Are you going to ask him to speak about the Chakras at one of your seminars?"

"In the fullness of time, when I have had a chance to learn more about them. But meanwhile, I have a problem. If aural investigating is valid science, then I may have given up on invigorating the Quinta Essentia of the Human Humors too soon."

"I wonder what Dr. Stone knows about pyramid power?" Lips asked.

"I can't ask the Great Stoner about pyramid power. No, I'll just have to recommence my research based on the new information."

Lips left Phillip to his ruminating and retired to the library, where he dug out the latest copy of the Grantville Genealogy Club's Who's Who of Grantville Up-timers,and spent a fruitless couple of hours looking for someone named Guptah Rai Singh.

A few days later

Lips was in the laboratory furthering his experiments with dyed starch and starched collars when Phillip walked in.

"What's that you've got there?"

"Dyed starch for collars, Phillip. Nobody in Prague has been doing any research on dyed starch, so I thought I'd try it."

"And does it work?"

"Oh, yes." Lips held up a dyed collar. "This is just experimenting in different shades. Thomas has a production line going, and we're already selling it in the Dr. Gribbleflotz Emporium of Natural Wonders."

"I don't think the store was a good idea," Phillip muttered.

"But why not? It's doing amazing business."

"Because the king saw one of Paxton's posters."

"I hope he wasn't offended?"

"No, much worse," Phillip said. "The king would like me to develop color photography."

"Ouch, did you tell him about the problems we are having with Autochrome?"

"One does not tell one's patron more than he needs to know. Besides, a patron is never interested in problems; a patron is only ever interested in results."

Lips brushed Phillip's patronizing hand from the top of his head. "So we get back to work on Autochrome?"

"No, we have left Hans working hard on that problem back in Jena. If he, with the resources at his command, hasn't discovered the solution yet, then the two of us working together won't succeed. No, we need to think outside the box."

"What is it the king wants?"

"The king wants to be able to take a photograph of his son and hang it across from his bed."

"What about doing what Schmucker and Schwentzel do and just make printing plates?"

Phillip reached out a patronizing hand again, but Lips managed to avoid it. "Okay, what did I say wrong this time?" he asked.

"One pleases one's patron not by replicating what has already been done, but by creating new and different things that he can show off. The printing process Schmucker and Schwentzel use is well known, and so not sufficiently impressive. What we need is something completely different."

"But there are only so many ways to lay colors onto a surface to produce a color image."

"The king doesn't know that. We only have to have something sufficiently different from everything else that it has the appearance of being unique."

Lips chewed over what Phillip was saying. He fingered the T-shirt he was wearing, and suddenly had an idea. "Phillip, are you familiar with staining slides so that cells are more visible under a microscope?"

"I've read about it, but never done it."

"Well I have, in some classes in Grantville I sneaked into. You use dyes to stain the cells and various parts hold more or less dye so that you can see everything a lot better. Could I try something?"

"Of course."

Lips made up some gelatin and poured a little into several watch-glasses. Then he added a different dye to each watch glass. Finally, he painted a design on several blank glass photographic plates, using one color per plate. When they dried he stacked them and held them up against the light.

"Very nice, now how do you paint a photographic image onto the plates?" Phillip asked.

"We don't. We photo-transfer the images. Lori showed me how to do it when she taught me how to silk-screen print. What images do we have in three-color?"

"Just the spectral lines, but I'm sure Dina would be happy to have a photograph of her and the twins."

A few days later

Lips shivered as he paced around the room. Phillip had been gone for hours. Surely it didn't take this long to show the king the new Gribblechrome, as they'd decided to call their new process. He pulled his leather jacket closer round his body.

"You wouldn't be so cold if you changed into something more suitable."

He glared at his sister. Yes, his blue jeans, t-shirt, and leather jacket weren't really warm enough in this room-why they couldn't have central heating like they had in Jena he didn't know-but what price comfort when he could look like James Dean? He ran a hand through his closely cropped locks. "Phillip should have been back ages ago."

"He's dealing with a king, Lips. Kings work to their own schedule. He might not even have seen Phillip yet."

"Frau Kastenmayerin," Frau Mittelhausen called as she burst into the room, "the Doctor, they've just carried him home on a stretcher."

Dina erupted from her chair and ran off. Lips followed.

****

"Can you tell me what has happened?" Lips asked the man who'd accompanied the royal guardsmen who'd brought Phillip home.

"I'm not really sure myself, Herr Kastenmayer. You have to understand, I wasn't there when it happened. However, it seems Dr. Gribbleflotz has been putting his health at considerable risk caring for the king. Dr. Stone's assistant saved Dr. Gribbleflotz by performing emergency surgery to remove a Mishawaka."

Lips wanted to ask what a Mishawaka was, but there were more important questions to ask. "Is the doctor going to be all right?"

"Oh, yes, Dr. Stone was most definite. The emergency surgery has removed the problem, although Dr. Gribbleflotz should be allowed to rest for several days."

"How long will it be before the anesthesia wears off, do you know?" Lips asked, wondering what sort of pain Philip was likely to be suffering.

"There was no anesthesia. Actually, although there was a lot of blood, there appears to be no wound. A most amazing piece of surgery."

Lips barely noticed when Christoph Seidel left. He was deep in thought, and his thoughts weren't pretty. Something was wrong here. He needed the opinion of an up-timer he knew and trusted. That meant writing Lori a letter.

****

A week later and Lips had a reply, and it reinforced his disquiet over what had happened in the king's chamber. Phillip hadn't been able to tell him much. He'd just shown the king the Gribblechrome of Dina and the babies when Dr. Stone and his assistant-the assistant who wasn't listed in the list of up-timers-had burst in saying something about his chakras fluctuating so dangerously the effect could be felt in the antechambers. Then there had been the surgery. Phillip had been adamant that Guptah Rai Singh had pulled something out of his body, even though there was no wound, or even a magically quickly healed scar.

Lori had called it "psychic surgery," and Lips had been left in no doubt she didn't approve. Corrupt fakery was amongst the more polite terms she had used to describe it. Which raised the question of why would Dr. Stone fake not only an illness-if fake surgery could cure a problem, surely the problem had to be fake-but also a cure?

Frau Mittelhausen appeared at the door to the office Lips was occupying. "A gentleman to see you."

Lips shot to his feet. He wasn't used to greeting anyone Frau Mittelhausen would class as a gentleman. The man who was guided in was a shock. Lips instantly recognized him as the king's private secretary-although he'd heard that Heinrich Niemann was the king's secretary the same as Frau Mittelhausen had been Phillip's housekeeper. The title didn't adequately describe just how much responsibility either of them had.

"Herr Niemann, how can I be of assistance?"

"I wish to convey the king's regrets for Dr. Gribbleflotz' illness and discuss a reward suitable for the risks Dr. Gribbleflotz has taken in caring for the king's health. I do hope the good doctor is recovering?"

"Yes, Dr. Gribbleflotz is almost fully recovered. Please, have a seat. Can I get anything for you? Tea, coffee?"

"Could I have a Tincture of Cacao?"

Behind Heinrich, Lips saw Frau Mittelhausen nod. "Yes, that will be possible. Could I have one too, please, Frau Mittelhausen?" Lips returned to his chair behind the desk. "Did the king like the Gribblechrome?"

"Yes, he was most impressed. And to get a result so quickly after making the request! Most impressive."

Lips clamped down on his tongue before he could say the first thing that entered his head. This was the client he was dealing with, not Phillip, or even one of the people who attended his seminars. Instead he smiled and shrugged. "Sometimes everything just comes together like that."

"The king wishes to know how long it will be before Dr. Gribbleflotz will be able to create a Gribblechrome of his wife and son?"

"If we don't ask too much of the doctor, I'm sure we could start the process any time His Majesty is ready. It will then take but three days to produce a finished Gribblechrome."

"Then there is just the matter of a suitable reward for Dr. Gribbleflotz. Before he took ill the doctor was talking about his Society for Improving Natural Knowledge by Experimentation, and how they swapped ideas about the new sciences."

Lips nodded. He knew all about Phillip's group of natural philosophers. They spent half their time arguing over the most insignificant detail in the methodology of experiments they demonstrated.

"His Majesty believes that it would be beneficial to have a group of scientists keeping abreast of the latest developments in science and technology, and has decided that he will become patron of Dr. Gribbleflotz' society, awarding it a royal charter. Funds and facilities will be provided to the society to conduct scientific experiments on anything the members wish, as long as the members are always available to advise the king on scientific matters. Do you feel Dr. Gribbleflotz would be interested in being the society's president?"

"I believe Dr. Gribbleflotz would be most happy with such an offer."

"Good, very good. And, of course, as Dr. Gribbleflotz would be the premier scientist in Bohemia, it would be fitting if he were awarded doctorates by the universities of Bohemia."

"Prague, and the new university funded by Herr Roth?"

Heinrich smiled. "Actually, I was thinking of Prague and Olmutz, but I'm sure Herr Roth would feel offended if his new university wasn't invited to similarly honor Dr. Gribbleflotz."

After an hour of discussion, Lips escorted Herr Niemann back to his portion of the palace. He stopped at a window and stared out on the street. Revenge was going to be sweet, even if Phillip never knew he was getting revenge. He wondered how Dr. Stone would react to receiving an invitation to present a seminar on the chakras to the Royal Academy of Science in Prague, signed by the academy's president for life, Dr. Phillip Theophrastus Gribbleflotz.

****

Dreams Can Come True . . .

Terry Howard

Grantville, Thanksgiving, 1634

Estil Congden flicked an imaginary piece of lint off the sleeve of his white dinner jacket and looked around the room. Business was good tonight. The place was full, but still spacious. The customers were well-dressed and the women's jewelry glittered in the soft lighting. Ah. There. One of the wait staff's shoes weren't polished. Estil headed toward him . . .

There was a loud clack of balls and a shout of, "Ou eee, Dog, you just hit hard and hope, don't you? Talk about getting lucky. Shee-it."

"Estil, get your head out of the clouds and get me a beer."

Oh, hell, Estil thought. Back to the real world.

Month after month, year after year, Estil's mind listened to the murmur of the background conversation and the soft clatter of carefully controlled billiard balls.

The fantasy, though, was a private matter. Estil never talked about it. His sincere belief was that if you talked about something you wanted to do, someone would either make fun of you, make fun of the fantasy, treat you like dirt to drag you down, or otherwise screw with your life.

They always did. Mom had. Dad, such as he was, had. And that damned Odetta, well, she'd run off to Magdeburg. But it didn't matter. He'd never told her anything, anyway.

When someone asked about his aspirations in life, and insisted on getting an answer, Estil would say, "My goal in life is to be shot by the jealous husband of a young wife when I'm sixty five." And that was all the answer he would ever give. Because he knew if he ever so much as shared his dream with anyone, it would be lost as a dream. It would become an ambition or-worse-a goal.

A customer leaned up against the bar, "Estil, shot of whiskey, make it a double, and this time make sure the glass is clean."

Estil grabbed a shot glass from under the bar and made a production of holding it up to the light then polishing it with the bar rag.

"Shit, Estil, just give me the damned whiskey."

Estil knew that if he ever talked about the dream, he'd be laughed at. If he talked about it, it would become an unobtainable heartbreak instead of a refuge from reality. Estil had enough unrewarded genius, enough unrequited loves, enough unfulfilled great expectations to last two lifetimes, if not three. Estil's poetry, outside of the one poem picked up in a contest collection when he was a sophomore, could not find a market. His chosen profession, poet, was closed. The love of his life went off to college and married someone else. He never did win the lottery.

"Estil, 'you know who' wants a brandy," the waitress said, setting her tray on the bar. One man in the whole clan of Club 250 regulars drank brandy. Ken kept some cheap stuff in stock for that one customer and the rare occasion someone else might ask for it.

Estil dreamed of brandy. Not the cheap stuff. The real thing. An aged, mellow, deep-amber liquid, in a real snifter. Not, alas, brandy as a pair of jugs, half exposed to the world by a push-up bra, in a Daisy Mae tied up over a sprayed on pair of hot pants.

"Estil," Ken said, "quit your daydreaming and help clear the tables."

Estil knew it never would-never could-happen in Grantville, back then or now, even if there was still a lottery. You could build it but they would not come. New York no longer existed. Estil's dream of being the owner and occasional, casual bartender of an up-scale classy cocktail lounge was safe. He had never once shared it with anyone. The closest he came was the time he got caught reading his second hand copy of a bartender's bible. It told how to make any drink ever conceived of, from a simple classic fifty/fifty Martini to a Rusty Nail or a Hairy Navel. He read every page and remembered every step of every drink, especially those which had ingredients he had never even heard of, much less seen.

****

Someone once saw him reading it and asked, "What in the world are you reading that thing for?"

He answered, "I'm a bartender. I should know these things."

"Est, all you need to know; is whether the beer is cold and whether the shot glass is clean."

"And if someone asks for a Manhattan?"

"It ain't goin' to happen."

"Yeah, well maybe I'll go to New York and open a place of my own."

"When hell freezes over, Est."

****

In the real world Estil got promoted from bus boy, to waiter, to bartender, and-eventually-to bum. Now, magically, another brave new world was here. It was three hundred years older and three hundred years uglier. Estil wanted nothing to do with it.

When Odetta dumped him he was demoted from bum back to bartender. The number of patrons in Club 250 was shrinking. Some were in the army, others were working out of town. So his hours were getting cut. As things got worse, Estil had more time to dream.

****

On the day after Thanksgiving, in the year of Our Lord 1634, Lyndon Johnson showed up at the bar in Club 250.

"Estil, how would you like a short term job?"

"Doin' what?"

"There's been a request from Magdeburg. Someone with more money than sense saw one too many movies while staying at the Higgins Hotel when they were in town. They want to throw an American party and need a cocktail expert."

"I can't do something like that."

"Sure you can. You do a good job organizing wedding receptions. I know you do; I was the best man at two of them. If you can do that, you can run a cocktail party. And, I happen to know you enjoy doing it. You still have that copy of the Bartender's Bible, don't you? Well, make sure you pack it. Look at it this way, you get an all expense-paid trip to Magdeburg, a basic stipend and tips while the government loans out your services."

"I don't want to go out of town. Besides, I'd have to miss work."

"Hey, It's just Magdeburg. That's just a train ride away. And Ken said it would be all right with him if you missed a few days, as slow as things are.

"And," Lyndon repeated the important point, "it really will pay well."

Estil hesitated, "I'd rather not."

"Estil, think about it. It's a good paying gig, doing something I know you enjoy doing. Besides, Ken says you're free so you've got the time off work. Why not do it?"

"Are you sure Ken said it was okay?"

"Yes."

"I really don't want to leave town." Estil hesitated again.

"Hey, it's just to Magdeburg and just for a little bit. One party. How long could that take? And it pays well."

Estil hesitated a third time. "Well, I could use the money."

Lyndon jumped on it. "Good! Then it's settled. I'll pick you up in the morning at eight to get you to the train station on time."

****

The ever-louder, early-morning rapping on the door of the cramped little ancient camper he rented from Ken was followed by a long, slow train ride to Magdeburg to report to Herr von Something-or-other.

By and by, Estil read the words Community Relations on the door. Inside he was greeted with one word by the mandatory "up-and-coming bright young man" behind the desk. "Yes?" The tone unmistakably said, "Why are you bothering me? You are in the wrong place. Go away."

"Shit," Estil said under his breath. He really did not want to deal with a bright young man, especially one with attitude. "My name is Estil Congden. I'm looking for-"

The bright young man's demeanor changed like an avalanche. He was out of his seat, with a handshake ready on his right side, and a suitcase grab ready on his left. "Mr. Congden, do please come in. My name is Victor Hermann. Here, let me take that. Would you like to sit down? Can I get you a cup of coffee? Or would you prefer a nip of brandy to ward off the cold? Forgive me for not recognizing you. You are not quite-" He glanced at Estil's threadbare jeans and worn field jacket. "-what I was expecting."

"Yeah, you were expecting a tuxedo. It's in the suitcase." Before Estil dropped out of high school rather than repeat his senior year due to the suspension arising from the senior prank, the tuxedo was already purchased. His mother had asked him what he would like as a graduation present. He announced he wanted to go to the prom in a tuxedo he owned. He figured he would need one to attend publishing banquets and award ceremonies someday, so he might as well own one. He wore it to work the bar at weddings over the years. He was a bit vain about it still fitting. "It doesn't travel well, so it gets carried instead of worn."

"Oh, certainly, of course," Victor agreed.

The bright young man wanted something. Estil saw no reason to be diplomatic about it, and it certainly seemed that this particular kid was pretty good with English and hillbillies, so he said, "Okay, kid. What do you want?"

"Well, Count von Leiningen-Westerburg has requested an expert on the twentieth-century custom of a cocktail party. His new wife wants to hold one and it seems the count is willing to give her anything she wants."

"That is all very interesting, but it ain't what I meant. Cut the bullshit. What do you want? Not your boss, not some damn uppity muck. What do you want?"

"Well-" Victor could not quite get it out. "That is I was hoping. . . . Oh, never mind. Please have a seat."

Estil stood there with his arms folded over his chest. His body language clearly saying, "We are not going to get anything else done until this is taken care of."

In the end, the young bureaucrat spat it out. "Sir, I was hoping . . ." After one last false start, Victor finally said, "Ah . . . do you think you might be able to get me an invitation to the party?"

Estil's face cracked. Having leverage was not something he was used to. The smile in his voice echoed the smile on his face. "Kid, if I've got the power to hand out invitations, then you're in."

****

Victor's boss, Herr von Whatever, was less impressed. "Victor, take Herr Congdon down to the tailors. They are expecting him."

After Victor translated, Estil asked, "A tailor? What for?"

"Some new clothes, of course."

"I don't need new clothes."

Herr von Something-or-other looked Estil down and up then sneered. "Yes, you do," Victor translated.

"I can't pay for a dammed tailor."

"It's covered. His Majesty's government's expert on up-time culture must look the part to be taken seriously. I do not wish to deal with the embarrassment. So you will be provided with a new wardrobe. You can pick your old one up on your way home."

****

Estil was picked up by a coach and six, trimmed in genuine gold leaf, the buttons on the coats of the coachman and footmen and the metal work on the harness were made of silver. The taste, bouquet and texture of the brandy waiting in the carriage said Napoleon, which it could not be for obvious reasons. It had been aged well past five years. A distilled wine must be aged two years to be brandy, and three years to be special and over five to be very special old pale. V.S.O.P. was not something Estil bought with his pocket change, other than in his dreams.

****

Estil's first glance identified Countess von Leiningen-Westerburg as a trophy wife. It seemed a crying shame for such a beautiful young girl to be married to such a dried-up old man. There was the better part of a half century separating their ages. The count did not have time to stay past the briefest of introductions. Estil was left alone with the countess and several servants.

"Mr. Congden, so good of you to come."

Estil could see her taking his measure, even with his surprise at her English skills. I'm a bit older than she pictured, but I look younger than I am. I'm dressed the part to a tee. I'm tall, slim, (at this he smiled) dark-haired, and handsome.

"Watch it boy," his id told his ego, "you're getting plenty cocky. Your mother always said, 'pride goeth before a fall.'"

"Oh shut up," his ego replied.

"You have been told what we wish?" The young countess, Maria, asked.

"An up-time cocktail party."

"This is the first party we are giving since our wedding, which was on the estate. It is very important to me personally. Everything must go well! It is to be a New Years Eve costume party. The theme is a cocktail party in the year 2000, so the guests should come in Grantville formal dress. There will be a dinner and dancing in the ballroom. You will need to talk to the kitchen staff about the details, but the menu has been researched and is in place. We have hired musicians who are ready and able to play up-time dance music. You will instruct the wine steward and his staff in the art of making cocktails. You will look over our preparations, tell us what to change and then make everything run smoothly. The seamstress is hard at work on the sewing machine making new period clothes for the servants."

"Yes, I see," Estil said, then looked over as one of the servants stepped closer.

"Mister Congden, this is Heinrich, our chief steward. He will give you a tour of the facilities and run over the preparations we have already made. Then this evening . . ."

She was almost shy, as if she was doing something a bit naughty. She continued, "Since the count is away, why don't you join me for dinner and we can discuss where we are with the preparations and what we need to do next."

****

When Estil and Heinrich were out of sight, Marie turned to her personal maid and confidant. "What do you think?" she asked.

"I think you had better watch yourself around that one. I saw the way he was looking at you. At least he looks enough like the count to be his brother and he also looks nearly young enough to be his son."

"Anna, you know what this party means to me." This was effectively Marie's coming-out party. She was the younger daughter of someone just barely noble enough to be tolerated. If this went badly, when the count died she might as well find a comfortable convent, unless she managed to give the old man the one thing he wanted: a son.

"Yes, I do," Anna said. "And I know that man has enough brass to be a bell. He looks much like the count. He's a charming devil, certainly. You mark my words, be careful around that one."

****

Heinrich looked at Estil with a face carefully schooled to show nothing at all. Estil's first thought was, Don't play poker with this guy. He'll take the shirt right off your back.

"Shall we start with the kitchen?" Heinrich asked.

"No. I ain't going nowhere's near the kitchen except to scrounge something to eat. The kitchen and the rest of the house and servants is your job and I am going to leave it to you. If you've got any questions, I'll answer them if I can. But mostly I am going to say 'I don't know, ask the expert,' and then I'm going to send them to you."

Heinrich huffed.

Bingo, Estil thought. He ain't at all happy about being upstaged.

"Sir," Heinrich said, "She has made it quite clear. You are in charge."

"I'm in charge?"

"Yes."

"Fine. I just delegated the kitchen and the staff to you."

"Humnf!"

"Look, Heinrich. You know the house and the staff. I don't. My German is just barely passable. If I try to run this shindig, it will fail miserably. So I am delegating what I cannot do to someone who can. When this party is over, I'm gone. When it is all said and done, what do you think I am going to tell the countess?" Heinrich lost his poker face. Estil could see the wheels turning. "Don't bother guessing. I am going to tell her I relied on her staff, mostly on you. I will take my fee and run. You will get the glory." Estil paused. "Or the blame. So, can we get over the pissing contest and work together instead of against each other?" Estil stuck out his hand.

Heinrich smiled and shook hands.

"Now, if that is settled, how can I help?" Estil asked.

****

At dinner, with three servers in earshot, Estil said, "You have an excellent staff. They have everything in hand. But there are some things we need to discuss. The instructions they have been given just do not fit the party you are trying to have."

"How so?" Maria asked.

"Let's start with the menu and the service. You've told them you want chili in paper bowls followed by hamburgers wrapped in paper and french fries in paper bags. I had a sample at lunch and the cook has it down pat." This was less than completely true. The fries were soggy, and it was clear they had never seen a hamburger. It needed help. The bun was toasted on both sides not just grilled on the face. The meat was overdone, as well. "This is the wrong menu for a formal dinner."

"But this is an authentic up-time menu," she objected. "And we've already purchased the place service."

"Come summer, have a barbeque picnic and use them then. Have your guests come in casual dress. Hamburgers and fries are finger foods. You don't use silverware. You pick it up with your hands, like fried chicken. For a formal dinner you want silverware. I suggest you start with french onion soup. Come as close as you can to a green salad, it will probably be coleslaw unless you can find some good lettuce. Have your potatoes baked or mashed, depending upon the meat. Beef Wellington is a good choice, or beef stroganoff. If you have the beef Wellington, you can have a linguini pasta dish with it."

"But," the young countess replied, "what you have named is French and English and Russian or Italian. This is supposed to be an American party."

"Madam, let me tell you a secret. There is no such thing as American cuisine. Culturally, Americans are great thieves. It comes with the language. It all came from somewhere else."

"But, then, it is just another party!"

"Being dressed up in unusual clothes is going to be odd enough. Let them have comfortable food. If you want an American desert, have ice cream sundaes. You still have time to rent a couple of ice cream makers from Grantville. We can get into something really strange after dinner with the cocktails and the mixed drinks. The same thing goes with the dancing. Well over half of the music needs to be things people are used to. You can have a few exotic dances, but don't expect people to enjoy strange new dances they don't know. They will just stand around and watch while a few young people make fools of themselves. You can play a waltz, but if people don't know how to dance it, they won't do it. We have time to teach three or four young couples how to waltz. Settle for that this time, and have the rest of the dancing be familiar. The waltz will catch on. Actually, it is catching on elsewhere already, so you will be remembered as the first to introduce it locally. It might even get you in the history books."

"The waltz is an American dance?"

"As much as any dance is. It came from Vienna in the seventeen hundreds and swept the world. Trust me, you can't go wrong with a waltz. Get me half-a-dozen young couples and I will put your name in the middle of a dance fad that will be around long after you're gone. With any luck and a good publicity campaign, this can go down in history as the party that introduced the waltz to the world."

****

"Square dancing?" a dumbfounded Estil asked the chief musician. "Where in the hell did you ever find out about square dancing?"

"Well I went to the library in Grantville and-"

Estil cut him off. "It don't matter. I can't teach it, and, no, I can't call it. Besides, no one wants to learn square dancing anyway. Go and buy some waltz music. It might take several days, but we've got time."

Estil started teaching the waltz to three couples, which grew to six, including the count and countess, and then ten couples by the time New Year's rolled around. Along the way, Estil spent a fair amount of time with the count in the billiards room.

"You see, sir," Estil said, as he screwed together the two halves of his pool cue. It was in his suitcase. Everything he owned was in the suitcase. A good pool cue, like his own tux, was something Estil insisted on having. "About a hundred years from now people will stop using clubs completely. This is a cue stick."

The count interrupted. "You mean like using the queue of the mace when the ball is too close to the bank?"

"Queue?" Estil asked.

"Ah, at last! An American who is willing to admit he does not know everything. I was beginning to think such did not exist. Queue is French for tail. It is what we call the small end of the mace."

"Oh, that makes sense. You see, I can get a lot more control out of a cue stick than you can out of a mace."

"Young man, I am quite good at billiards. Would you care to place a wager on a game? I should, in fairness, tell you I have only lost one game in the last year."

"How much do you want to lose?" Estil asked.

"How much can you afford?" came the reply.

"Everything you were planning on paying me!"

"Agreed."

"Set them up."

Lady Luck smiled on Estil as she had never smiled on him before.

"So, whose idea was it to hold a cocktail party?"

"Marie's," the count told Estil, "She saw a cocktail party in a movie at the Higgins Hotel on our honeymoon. I took my first and my second wife on a trip to Rome. I offered to take Marie to Rome, too. She said she'd rather see Grantville. To tell you the truth, at my age I didn't want to make the journey to Rome, anyway. Grantville was new and exciting for both of us."

Estil's first turn was the longest run in his life. Near the end of the game he was looking at a nearly impossible shot. He called it and asked, "Double or nothing?"

The count nodded.

Estil made the shot and made it look easy.

"Heinrich!" The count bellowed. "Somebody, find the chief steward immediately."

When the man arrived, out of breath, the count was screwing Estil's stick back together. "Of course, it only needs to be in two pieces for traveling," Estil was saying.

"Ah, Heinrich, take Herr Congden to the wood turner first thing tomorrow and have a dozen queue sticks made up."

The clacking of billiard balls lingered into the darkest hours of the night before the count was ready to call an end to the lesson. At dawn, after only three hours of sleep, Heinrich was shaking Estil awake.

"Leave me alone."

"But, Herr Congden, the count said we were to go to the wood turner first thing this morning."

"Fine, come back while it is still morning at, say, eleven thirty."

"Eleven thirty would not be the first thing in the morning. The count will want to see the new sticks after he breakfasts."

In the coach on the way back to the town house after taking the first turned and waxed stick to a harness shop to be tipped, with arrangements for eleven more to follow, Estil told Heinrich, "I will never, ever bet against the count on a game of pool again. After one night, he is as good as I am and I've been shooting pool for years. With some practice he will be the next national champion."

In the early afternoon, right after breakfast, the count was back in the billiards room getting a feel for his new cue stick. "Ah, Herr Congden, how much shall we wager today?"

"One dollar per game is my limit."

"But last night you were willing to risk it all?"

"Last night I had never seen you shoot pool. I asked you how much you were willing to lose. Well, I am willing to lose one dollar. So one dollar is all I am going to bet, because just as sure as the felt is flat, I am going to lose."

"You are not being fair. I deserve a chance to win it back."

"Sir, when I put my winnings in my suitcase, everything I have in the world will be in that one bag. Is it fair you were born rich and I wasn't? You are a count, I am a bartender."

"Yes, I often forget you American's are peasants. You just don't act like peasants are supposed to. Well, what are you going to do with the money you won?"

"I don't even know how much it is. I was never told what the gig paid. There is only one thing I've wanted for years now, and I doubt I won enough to cover it."

"Oh? And what is that?" the count asked in a friendly way as he leaned over the table to take a shot.

This is when Estil made his first big mistake. "A pool hall of my own, with a cocktail bar." Estil said starting with what he knew the count was interested in. "Now, stop and chalk the tip. You slipped on the last stroke. Then, when you shoot the next shot, cue it low so you get back spin. You want to come back out to set up the shot after that."

The old man had a soft touch and excellent control.

"Good. Now, what's your next shot after this one?"

"I want to come back down the table," the count said, pointing at the far end of the table.

"That will work," Estil said.

"Your own pool hall? You will need an estate house to have a pool hall."

"Naw. You would need someplace in a big town, say, Magdeburg. You would want at least three tables. Six would be better."

"Three?" But you can only play on one at a time."

"Oh, the tables are for the customers."

"You would put billiards in a common inn?"

"Of course not! It would be a most uncommon inn. First it would be members only, or by invitation. And the membership would be limited to gentlemen. You would have a wine cellar the envy of all Europe and a superlative kitchen. You would want a half-dozen permanent chess tables for long running games and extra boards for short play. It would be a quiet place where gentlemen could gather and socialize without planning or hosting an event. There would be half-a-dozen rooms available for those nights a man stayed late and didn't want to make the trip home, or planned overnight stays for men who do not keep a residence in Magdeburg and are in town alone without any family in tow for a night or two."

"These rooms for overnight guests, would you be staffing them?"

"Yes, but if you mean would we be providing female companionship, then the answer is no. I don't care to run a whorehouse. If a gentleman has need of such, then he can go elsewhere. The club would be a place of civilized companionship between gentlemen. There are times the ladies are just a distraction-not that I don't fully appreciate being distracted, mind you-but everything in its place, after all. The Lord created Eve to be a distraction and look where that got us. No, the staff would all be male."

The count chuckled. "Well said, young man." With the rising prominence of the lower house of the legislature, and with Gustav pandering to the masses, the idea of a club for cultured gentlemen-limited to such by the very stiff fees it would take to keep such an establishment running-appealed to the count.

****

The party was a smashing success. The waltz was watched closely and invitations like "why don't you plan on coming a few days early to my next party so you can teach a few of us," were widely offered to Estil and to the young dancers, who were suddenly very popular people. Several more people asked Estil where their staff could reach him in the future.

The night of the party, when the count was not trying to sample every new drink on the menu or waltzing with his young wife, he could be found in the billiard room demonstrating the use of a pool cue. Anytime he was in the billiard room, he was talking about a capital city gentleman's club. Estil was asked repeated question about what the club would entail. Everyone who asked a question assumed Estil would oversee its founding and running. One person did ask outright if he was willing to do so.

Estil smiled and said, "Sure, why not." He had, after all, hit the lottery in a big way.

Along about dawn, when the last of the guests were on their way home or put to bed and the old count was out for the count, a teenaged girl slipped into Estil's bedroom and bed. Estil had been concentrating on his dream all night long. He found himself quite ready for a distraction.

This was Estil's second big mistake.

****

On the third of January 1635, Estil stepped out of a gold-trimmed coach in front of the building used by the State Department in Magdeburg. He stopped in the office with the words Community Relations painted on the door to pick up the wardrobe he had been forced to leave there.

"Estil, thank you for the invitation to the party. My wife was very impressed. Do you think you could teach us to waltz?"

"Victor, I could, I guess, but when and where? I'm heading back to Grantville now that the party is over."

"Oh? Why? You'll just have to turn around and come back."

"What are you talking about?"

"We've got you scheduled to consult for a party on January twenty-third and they want you there as soon as you can make it. Then there's two more in late February. They're only a week apart, but they're both here in town so you can manage both. We have four requests in March and you'll only be able to do one of them so we haven't decided yet-"

"You what? You scheduled me? How dare you?"

"We were going to wait until you got here. But someone from Grantville stopped by to ask how things went. This was just after the first request arrived. He told us to go ahead and schedule you. He said to tell you Ken, whoever he is, figured out he doesn't need bar help, so you need a job."

"You can just take a flying leap at the moon. I don't care if I need a job or not. I'm going home."

"I was told to tell you that Ken has rented out your trailer while you were gone."

"Damn! That ain't fair. Now I'm going to have to find another place to stay."

"Oh, we've got you booked into a boarding house the navy is using. I was told to tell you that if you objected, to get used to it."

Estil put his suitcase down, closed his eyes and pushed his eyebrows together so hard Victor was sure it had to hurt. "So I was hoping you could get the wife and me into the waltz classes you will be teaching here in town in February."

Estil let his breath out slowly and so loudly it was practically a groan. "Yes, Victor. If I can get you into a dance class, then I will."

"That would be great. My wife will be so happy." The bright young man was practically beaming.

"So, where do I go next? When do I leave? Is there time to get my clothes laundered?"

"Someone has opened up a Grantville dry cleaning shop here in town, so getting your clothes cleaned and pressed is a snap." Victor was on top of all of the latest buzz words. "They've made arrangements with a livery stable to have a coach ready for you. So, when is now-or at least as soon as we can get your clothes back from the dry cleaners. It's expensive, but don't worry. The office will pick up the tab. Let me get a page in here and get your clothes off to the dry cleaners and then I'll take you to lunch."

****

Before leaving town Estil stopped at the Abrabanel Bank office. He didn't like carrying a bag of gold around. The pay had been generous even before he bet it all and then went double or nothing.

****

In February, Count and Countess von Leiningen-Westerburg were still residing in their newly-finished Magdeburg residence in order to attend both of the waltz parties. She had been distant and he had been cold to Estil at the first party. Estil shrugged it off almost without noticing. He really was quite busy before, during and after the party.

But it was not possible to shrug off the six armed men who interrupted one of the several waltz classes Estil was conducting in the week between the two parties.

"Estil Congden, you will come with us."

"I'd rather not," Estil said.

Two of the six grabbed Estil and preceded to frog march him toward the door.

"What is the meaning of this?" Victor demanded.

"It is a private matter," the head of the party said very curtly. "It is none of your concern."

"Mister Congden's services are contracted through our office at the State Department. So it clearly is my concern! He does not wish to accompany you. I demand you release him immediately."

Without a word, one of the men, who did not have Estil in hand and was not holding a door open or being addressed by a young bureaucrat who was showing more spunk than good sense, expertly clipped the bright young man on the back of the head, dropping him onto the floor. He would wake up with a headache to shame any self respecting hangover.

Estil was hustled out of the ballroom, out of the house, without his overcoat, and into a coach while Victor's wife got blood all over her dress and filled the ballroom with loud tears.

It wasn't long before the horse stopped in a coach yard. The armed men pulled a reluctant Estil out of the coach to usher him into a kitchen, through the butler's pantry, a dining room and finally into a sitting room where a decrepit old man waited in a massive chair before a roaring fire.

Estil had to look twice to recognize Count von Leiningen-Westerburg. The man looked as if he had aged twenty years in the last two months.

"Leave us," the count said.

"But, sir, is it safe?"

The old man snorted a laugh. "What is he going to do? Kill me? Get out!"

When they were alone the old man stared at the younger man for what seemed like an eternity. "When you were a guest in my house, did you sleep alone?"

"Well . . . that is . . ."

The old man slammed his palm down on the arm of the chair with what seemed like a thunderclap and roared with a voice which made the plaster thankful it was new. "Don't lie to me, young man! I happen to know for a fact, after the second night under my roof, you did not sleep alone. Some nights you would start with one and finish with another."

"Sir, they came willingly."

"That is not the point!"

"And the point is?" Estil asked.

The count almost seemed to crumble. "My wife is expecting."

"Congrat . . . and you think it's . . . but she would never . . . if you were home she slept with you and when you weren't home, a maid slept in your bed with her."

"Except for the night of the party," the count said in a quiet voice. "I danced like a man half my age and drank like a man half that. I fell asleep and slept the sleep of the damned. My wife was there when I went to bed and when I woke up. I have no idea where she was in between. You had guests in the night. Did you sleep with my wife?"

"Have you asked her?"

"No. I have not and I will not. She would say she did not, whether she did or not. Did!" Slam. "You!" Slam. "Sleep!" Slam. "With my wife?"

Estil grew very calm. He was quite sure the count would detect any lie, no matter how slight, so he knew he had to absolutely believe what he said next. His father once told him, "Son, whether it is right or whether it is wrong does not matter as long as you believed what you are saying is true. It does not have to be true; you just have to believe it is. Just remember, the human capacity to believe the unbelievable is almost bottomless."

It was time to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, as it needed to be under the current circumstances. Estil made hard eye contact with the count and solemnly said, "I did n-"

Estil stopped in mid-word. He found himself looking down the bore of a new, expensive, beautifully crafted, petite, break action, single shot pistol which could chamber either a .45 or a .410 shell.

Estil found himself thinking, Can't I get anything right? He's the jealous husband of a young wife but I'm the one who's supposed to be sixty-five.

As he watched, the count slowly began to squeeze the trigger.

"It can't be mine. I can't have kids. It's true. When I was a child I got sick and my balls swelled up to the size of your fist. I'm infertile," Estil shouted.

The count hesitated.

"It's true. It can't be mine. It's possible I slept with your wife. I don't know that I did. But I don't know that I didn't, either. Whether I did or I didn't doesn't matter. The child is not mine!"

The old man eased off of the trigger. He looked at Estil with a penetrating glare that could teach ice a thing or two about being cold. "I want to believe you. If it is not yours, then it is mine, as unlikely as that seems. I must have managed while I was drunk and I do not clearly remember. I thought it was a dream.

"I want to believe you." The gun wavered. "I think I do. But I will always have my doubts. Let us say I do believe you. Still, I never want to lay eyes on you again. I will attend no party you are advising. And, while the gentleman's club is still a good idea, you will have nothing to do with it!

"Attend me," the count called out.

The door opened and the men who had been waiting outside came into the room.

"Throw this vagabond into the street!"

As they grabbed Estil, the old man said, "I don't care what did or didn't happen. If I ever lay eyes on you again, you're a dead man."

****

Before the police were finished asking questions at the dance class, Estil was back for his overcoat.

"No it wasn't a kidnapping. It was just a misunderstanding."

Victor would be several days recovering his wits. When he was finally clearheaded, Estil was long gone. When he knew who was suspected of the kidnapping and assault, he did not press charges. Doing so would not have been a good career move.

A year later . . .

Cesare Bartoli, dressed to the nines in a well-made, high-quality set of clothes cut out of the finest cloth, in the new style called lefferto, plopped himself into a bar stool and asked his bartender and co-owner, "How's business?"

The Cafe Americain was one of the newest taverns in Venice. First, the name sounded exotic and second, they served a variety of strange and unusual drinks such as the upper class were beginning to drink these days, not that any upper class clients ever came into the bar.

"Not bad," Estil replied, flicking an imaginary speck of lint off the sleeve of his white dinner jacket. It was a good thing that Cesare spoke German, since Estil was still having trouble learning Italian.

"Not bad?" Cesare snorted. "The man says, 'not bad.' I've seen this month's receipts. Estil, we're past the opening rush and through the slump. My man,we are over the top. I've got to admit I had my doubts about the idea of opening a high-end bar. And, if you hadn't come up with half the money, I never would have gone for the idea. It was just too strange.

"To tell you the truth, I didn't believe you when you said you were responsible for the crazy drinks the muckity-mucks are drinking up in Germany. I still don't know if I believe you. But you can make them as far as anyone can tell. And people are coming in to drink them.

"Smile, my man, we are going to survive."

"Surviving is good."

"Estil, I swear, you won't get excited about anything. It's as if you're afraid the moment you get excited about something, it will dry up and blow away."

"You never know," Estil said, putting his arm around the obviously pregnant blonde beside him. He looked into her eyes. "Of all the gin joints in all the world . . ."

She grinned up at him. "I had to walk into yours . . ."

****

Buddy

David W. Dove

A home near Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania

Spring 1987

Louis Garrison set the cardboard box he carried down just inside the front door. "I'm home!"

From around the corner, his two kids came running: Christy, ten, and Mike, six. He gathered them up in a hug.

It only took Christy a second to notice the box. "What's that, Dad?"

"I brought home a surprise."

"What is it, Dad?" asked Mike.

"I can't tell you until your mom gets here."

His wife, Tina, came around the corner just then, drying her hands on a towel. "I'm here, Hon," she said sweetly.

Louis stepped over to gather her up in a hug. "Hello, love of my life," he said and then kissed her.

"The box, Dad?" Christy reminded them impatiently.

"You'd better tell them before they explode," Tina told him, with a knowing wink.

"Okay, okay," he said and leaned down to lift the top off the box.

A young, golden-haired Labrador retriever lifted its head out of the box.

"A puppy!" the kids cried out in unison.

Louis reached down and picked up the dog. "Your mom and I decided that you were old enough to have a dog now, but you have to help us take care of him."

"We will!"

He laughed and put the puppy on the floor. "His name is Buddy."

Late summer 1999

Louis looked up from his book and noticed Buddy watching out the window. For years the dog had waited by the window to watch for the school bus. He smiled and shook his head. "He's not coming home tonight, Buddy." Mike had just left for college at Penn State that morning.

Buddy looked over upon hearing his name and whined.

Louis patted his leg. "He's gone to college, Buddy, just like Christy did." His oldest had started college four years before.

Buddy trotted over and sat next to him.

Louis reached down and rubbed the dog's head. "There's nothing we can do about it, old fellow; kids grow up. It's just us and the wife now."

Buddy looked toward the window and whined again.

"I miss them too, Buddy."

Sunny Sunday Morning, spring 2000

Louis Garrison leaned over to give his wife a final kiss after she climbed into the driver's seat of her car. "Have fun shopping with your mother."

"Are you sure you don't want to come with us?" she teased.

He rolled his eyes back. "Wouldn't that be an adventure, with me sitting on a bench somewhere while I wait for you two ladies to come out of a store with your latest acquisitions? No, thanks. While you two are out trying to throw away all our money, I'm going to drive down to the franchise in Grantville and check out the store. I understand the owner is having a difficult time and I thought I'd have lunch there and observe his operations. Maybe I can help him. I'm going to take Buddy with me; you know how much he likes to ride along."

"The two boys out on an adventure, huh? Are you sure he's up to it?"

"He's an old dog and doesn't get around that well anymore, but he always enjoyed the car rides. I don't think he has that many rides left; it's the least I can do for him."

She nodded sadly. "Are you going to be gone all day?"

"No, it's a short drive down there and back. I'll be back in plenty of time for dinner."

"Well, you boys have fun."

"We will. You too." He closed the door to her car and watched her back out of the driveway. As she started down the street, she waved, so he waved back.

He walked back inside the house and called out. "Come on, Buddy; let's take a trip."

Mere seconds later, Buddy walked into the room, carrying his leash in his mouth.

Louis took the leash and snapped it to the dog's collar. "Ready to go, aren't you? Well, then, let's go to West Virginia."

That afternoon in Grantville, West Virginia

Louis leaned over with the plastic bag over his hand to pick up the dog droppings. "My God, Buddy, what have you been eating?"

The dog's face was completely innocent as he waved his tail happily.

Both Louis and Buddy jumped at the sudden flash of light and loud thunderclap.

"What in the hell was that?" Louis wondered aloud.

Three days later

Louis sat in shocked silence as he thought about what they had said at the town meeting. Four centuries? They had traveled back almost four hundred years to Germany? How could this have happened? How could a town suddenly find itself four centuries in the past with no way to return?

He pulled out his wallet and fished out the picture of the one person who meant more to him than anything else. His wife's sparkling blue eyes seemed to be looking straight at him. Her perfect smile was as dazzling as ever. The one lock of her blonde hair that always managed to escape curled along her left cheek.

"Four hundred years!" he choked out as the tears ran down his cheeks. Everything he knew was gone, his entire life.

He felt the cold nose nudge his hand and looked down to see Buddy resting his head on his leg.

Louis smiled and scratched the dog's ear. "Yeah, you're still here aren't you Buddy? I guess it's just the two us now."

Summer 1631

Louis sat down on the hillside and waited for Buddy. The dog was having trouble making it up the hill, but soon joined him.

He scratched Buddy behind the ear as he looked out over the landscape. Just down the slope was the smooth wall of dirt where the West Virginia hills didn't quite line up with the German countryside.

Reaching into the bag he carried, he pulled out the small strip of spiced jerky. He tore off a piece and gave it to Buddy, then took a bite for himself. The spices in the jerky weren't really good for Buddy, but the dog liked it.

Louis laughed to himself. The spices didn't always agree with his system either.

They had just come from the vet and the news wasn't good, but then it wasn't anything he hadn't heard before. Buddy was old and his joints were getting stiff, probably arthritis or something similar. And there wasn't really anything that could be done; even back home all they could do was give the dog drugs to lessen the pain. Here, they were just waiting for it to get too bad for the dog to endure. After that, well, he didn't want to think about that yet.

Spring 1632

Louis shivered as the wind cut through him. He reached up to flip his collar higher on his neck and then shoved his gloved hands back into his pockets. He knew that the world was in the middle of the Little Ice Age, but damn it, it wasn't supposed to be this cold at the end of April.

He and Buddy were on their evening walk through the streets of Grantville. Buddy seemed to have a definite destination in mind as he pulled strongly on the leash.

Louis laughed. "Easy there, boy. I'm not getting any younger and neither are you."

Buddy pulled him along and then suddenly stopped as they rounded a corner.

Louis looked up at the black and white building in front of him. This was the restaurant he had come to visit that fateful day when the Ring of Fire had ripped them away from their home.

Because the store's owner, Nino Sanabria, Jr., had been out of town doing business that day, he had been left up-time, separated from his family just like Louis. The store had been closed shortly after the Ring of Fire. With no owner to run it and no supplies due to the rationing of the previous winter, no one had bothered to open it again. All the former employees had gone on to either the military or other jobs, with the exception of one poor woman who now lived at the Manning Assisted Living Center because her medicine no longer existed.

With Nino gone, ownership of the shop had reverted to his wife, Michelle, and because the financing was with an out of town bank, she now owned the store free and clear. But Michelle knew very little about running a restaurant and had sold or used the supplies within.

Louis stood staring at the building for several long minutes and an idea began to grow in his mind. In the last year, Grantville had grown by leaps and bounds as both refugees and the curious poured into the area. More people meant a need for more services, especially when many of those people were travelers and other temporary residents. And those people would need a place to eat, a place like the empty building standing in front of him.

He looked down to where Buddy stood beside him and the dog looked at him with questioning eyes. "What do you think, Buddy? Should we see if we can make this place work?"

Buddy wagged his tail and barked happily.

Summer, 1632

Andreas Muller took a few moments to calm down and build up his nerve. He was getting desperate and there were few options left. The last thing he wanted was to go back to being a soldier. Unfortunately, many people were reluctant to hire a soldier. They had too many bad memories of what soldiers had done, if not to them, then to family or friends.

Now he stood before the building of the business he was about to enter. Like so many of the up-timer buildings, this one had a lot of glass, letting anyone see what was inside. He could see the gleaming counters and tables inside. He didn't hold out much hope, but he had heard that the owner needed help.

Andreas took another deep breath and pulled open the clear glass door. He heard the small bell tied to the inside handle tinkle as the door closed. His eyes took in the gleaming black and white tiles on the walls and floor and the shiny metal of the counters and table legs. The tables were not filled with people, but then it was the middle of the afternoon, not really mealtime. Several people were seated at the tables and two young women were moving among them, taking orders and serving food.

Near the door, a golden-haired dog was resting on a mat. The dog raised its head and looked at Andreas.

Andreas gently reached down and patted the dog's head. The dog accepted the attention and laid his head back down.

A tall man sitting at the counter was motioning to get his attention, so Andreas walked over to him. As Andreas took a seat on the stool next to him, the big man extended his hand in greeting. "Hi, my name's Louis. I haven't seen you in here before, have I?"

The man's accent was definitely that of an American. It was hard to tell his age, since all Americans seemed to be younger in appearance, but Andreas guessed he was probably in his forties. Andreas took the man's hand. "Hello, Louis. My name is Andreas Muller. No, I have not been here before. I was told that the owner has need of help."

The man's face widened in a broad smile. "Well, welcome to the Amideutsch Lunch Counter. I think you'll like it here; I'm in here all the time. The manager will probably introduce himself shortly. Are you new in town?"

"Yes. I am looking for work."

Louis nodded in understanding. "I wish you luck with that. What did you do before you came to Grantville? Are you one of the refugees?"

Andreas paused as he considered his answer to the question. Would telling the truth keep him from getting the job? But would telling a lie not be bad as well? He exhaled deeply. "I was a mercenary, but I am tired of fighting."

He could see Louis considering what he had said. But then the big man nodded. "Well, this seems to be a great place to work. You should try some of the food."

Andreas was hesitant in his reply. "I do not have much money."

Louis laughed a bit and patted him on the shoulder. "Don't you worry about that, Andreas; this one is on me."

Louis motioned to the elderly woman working behind the counter. When she approached, he spoke to her. "Magda, please bring my new friend here a cheeseburger and one for me too."

"Thank you, Louis," Andreas said as the woman left to fill the order.

Louis waved his hand dismissively. "Don't mention it. If you don't mind my asking, why are you interested in working here?"

Andreas took a moment to collect his thoughts. "As I said, I am tired of being a soldier. But before I was a soldier, I worked in a tavern. When the wars started and people were struggling to survive, they did not have the time or money to spend in a tavern. My wife had died of disease and my children had grown and married, so I took work as a soldier. But I do not like being a soldier, so I need to find other work. I was told this place needed help."

Louis nodded. "Yes, it could use an extra hand or two. With the way people keep coming to Grantville, I think it's going to be pretty busy."

Andreas looked around. "This is not like any tavern I have ever been in."

"That's because it's not a tavern," Louis answered. "This place is sort of like what we called a diner up-time, but of course the menu will have to be changed to foods that can be found in the area."

Andreas thought about what Louis was telling him. "I must admit, Louis, I have eaten some of your American foods, but I do not know how to make them. I may not be of any use to the owner."

Louis again waved his hand to dismiss Andreas's doubts. "You don't need to worry. You won't be expected to know that, at least not at first. It sounds like you know something about running a restaurant. That's what's important."

Magda brought two plates and sat one down in front of each man.

"Magda," Louis said, "This is Andreas Muller. He's considering a job here. Andreas, this is Magdalena Bacherin. She does most of the cooking for the place."

Magda gave Andreas a cold, appraising look and nodded in greeting. "Herr Muller."

"Frau Bacherin," Andreas responded.

As Magda walked away, Louis chuckled. "Don't mind her. She seems cold at first, but she's really a nice person." He gestured to the plate. "There you go, Andreas, one cheeseburger. Dig in."

Andreas picked up the sandwich and took a bite. As he chewed it, he had to admit that it had a lot of flavor, but he still didn't understand the obsession Americans had with hamburgers. He looked around nervously. "Louis, I enjoy talking with you, but when is the owner coming back? If I cannot get this job, I must look elsewhere."

Louis chuckled. "You're right, Andreas, and let me apologize. I haven't been completely open with you." The big man stood and extended his hand again. "Andreas Muller, my name is Louis Garrison and I'm the manager here. You've got the job."

"Thank you, Louis, uh, Herr Garrison."

"Please, it's been Louis up to now; let's keep it that way. I think you're going to do well here, Andreas. You passed the most important test as soon as you came in the door."

Andreas was confused. "What test, Louis?"

The big man pointed to the dog by the door. "Buddy seems to like you."

The dog heard his name and looked toward the two men, his tail wagging happily.

Fall 1632

Veronika Heyder put the last touches on her sketch as Buddy lay on his sleeping mat in the store. The dog made an excellent model, he barely moved.

"Veronika!" Magda called out, "You have a customer."

Veronika finished the last bit of shading and then put down the sketch pad. She walked over to the table where the man had been seated. "What will you have, Mein Herr?"

The man leered at her. "Bring me some beer and something to eat, girl."

Just the man's gaze made Veronika feel dirty, but she had a job to do. "We have several items to eat, Mein Herr. If you would look at the menu, you can see our selection."

"Don't talk back to me, girl. Just bring me some food!"

"Yes, Mein Herr," she answered and quickly walked away from the table. She could almost feel the man's eyes on her.

"A basic sandwich and a beer," she said to Magda when she reached the counter.

Magda began to assemble the sandwich. "Do you need any help with that one?"

"No, I think I can handle him. I just want to give him his food and get him out of here."

Magda placed the finished sandwich on a wooden tray and then quickly poured a beer. She placed it on the tray next to the sandwich. "Be careful."

Veronika picked up the tray and carried it back to the table. "Here you are, Mein Herr. Can I get you anything else?"

She let out a short scream as the man grabbed her, pulling her onto his lap.

****

Louis heard Buddy's barking and immediately rushed to the front of the store. In the dining area he quickly spotted the problem. Buddy was barking furiously at a dirty-looking man he had backed up against a wall. Magda and Veronika were behind the dog with angry looks on their faces.

"What's the problem here?" he asked.

The man quickly answered, "That dog is mad; he attacked me!"

Veronika countered angrily, "He touched me, Herr Garrison!"

"She asked me if I wanted anything else," the man protested.

"I didn't mean that!" Veronika spat at him.

"I'll handle this," Louis said calmly. "Magda, take Ronnie back to the office." He waited until the two ladies had left and turned back to the man. "You scum, who do you think you are? I don't know how you're used to doing things, but that's not the way we do things around here. Now get out of my shop."

Buddy growled to back up Louis's statement.

The man looked at Louis, then the dog, and apparently decided not to argue. He quickly gathered his things and walked to the door.

As the man opened the door and stepped out, Louis released the breath he had been holding. "And don't come back. You're not welcome here."

****

Magda left Veronika in the office and went out to the dining area. She saw Louis starting to clean off the table where the man had been seated.

"Herr Garrison, I will take care of that," she said to him.

"Are you sure Magda? It's no problem."

"Yes, you have more important things to do." She waved him away from the table.

She quickly gathered up the untouched food and put it back on the tray. Just as she started for the kitchen, she changed her mind.

She walked over to where Buddy had returned to his mat and knelt down by the dog. Buddy raised his head in response. She could tell that the confrontation had taken a lot out of him.

"I know we do not want you to beg for food from the customers, but you have earned this one," she said and placed the uneaten sandwich down in front of the dog.

As Buddy began to eat the unexpected treat, Magda gently patted his head. "You are a good dog."

Spring 1633

Louis was startled when Johannes came bursting into the store, breathless from running.

The teenager panted heavily as he spoke. "Herr Garrison, come quick! Something is wrong with Buddy."

"What is it, Johannes?"

"I was walking Buddy at the park and he lay down by a tree. He won't get up, Herr Garrison!"

Louis flashed a worried look at Andreas.

"Go!" his partner ordered.

Louis grabbed Johannes by the shoulder. "Show me!"

The boy nodded and the two of them ran from the store to the park as quickly as they could.

"Over there!" Johannes panted.

Louis looked where the boy pointed and saw Buddy lying by the tree. He quickly rushed over and knelt by the dog. "Buddy, what is it?"

The dog carefully raised its head with a painful expression, but didn't get up.

"Oh God, Buddy!" He carefully scooped up the dog and began to run. The veterinarian was several blocks away, but Louis carried Buddy at a full run the entire distance.

****

Louis gently stroked Buddy as the dog lay silently on the examination table. The veterinarian had just told him that nothing more could be done for Buddy and that it was only a matter of time before the dog died. Buddy was in a lot of pain and it wouldn't get any better.

Louis knew that it was time for Buddy to go. "We've been through a lot together, haven't we, Buddy? You helped me raise my kids and get them off to college, took trips with me.

He chuckled sadly. "Who would have thought that the two of us would take the most amazing trip of all together, a trip through time?

"We had to start a new life together, a new home, a new job; and you were right there with me every step of the way. I don't know what I would have done if you hadn't been here.

"But it's time for you to go, isn't it, old friend?"

He looked up at the veterinarian and nodded that he was ready.

The vet brought the syringe over to the table and gently injected its contents into Buddy. As the injection took affect, Buddy's breathing slowed and finally stopped. The dog's eyes closed, never to open again.

"Goodbye, Buddy," Louis choked out quietly.

****

Andreas walked into the veterinarian's office and found Johannes sitting there.

"Herr Garrison is in there," Johannes quickly told him, pointing to the door.

"Thank you, Johannes. Have you been here all this time?"

"Yes, Herr Muller. I did not want to leave them."

"Go home, Johannes, you have studying to do."

"But Buddy and Herr Garrison!" Johannes protested.

"I will look after Herr Garrison. Stop by the restaurant on your way home; Magda has some sandwiches prepared for you."

"Yes, Herr Muller," the boy said and hurried out the door.

Andreas walked through the door that Johannes had shown him. Inside he found Louis tightly clenching Buddy on the table, his face buried in the dog's side. He hated to interrupt. "Louis?"

Louis looked up at Andreas; his eyes were red and his cheeks were wet with tears. He looked sadly at the dog's body on the table. "I had to let him go, Andreas."

"He was old and in pain; it was a kindness to let him go."

"He was the last I had."

"The last what, Louis?"

"My last link to my old life!" Louis choked out and buried his face in his hands. "I'm completely alone now."

Andreas quickly pulled up a chair and sat beside Louis. He put his arm around his friend's shoulders. "I know you were close to him, Louis. Our animal friends can come to feel like one of the family. But you are wrong, my friend. You are not alone."

"But they're all gone now, all of them. Tina, the kids, and now Buddy. Everything I knew and loved is gone."

"And I say again, Louis, you are not alone. Buddy saw to that."

Louis looked up, confusion on his face. "What do you mean?"

"Buddy was how old, fifteen?" When Louis nodded, he continued. "That is a long life for a dog, Louis. He has had sore joints and could not walk well for the last two years. Even the veterinarian didn't know why he held on for so long, but I think I know."

"What are you talking about?"

"Buddy was looking after you. He couldn't leave until he knew you would be okay. He had to wait until you had a new family."

"But my family is all gone. Buddy was the last I had."

"Your old family is gone, Louis, and I will help you mourn them. But you have a new family now: Magda, Veronika, Johannes, all of them. And you have me, Louis. I heard one of you up-timers say that friends are family that you choose. Louis, I am your friend and your brother. Buddy's final act was to make sure you had a new family so that you weren't alone."

Louis looked up at Buddy again. For several long moments he stared at the dog before speaking again. "Will you help me bury him, Andreas?"

"It would be my honor to help you lay your friend to rest, Louis."

****

Louis looked up when he heard the knock on his office door.

Veronika stood there, looking unsure. "Herr Garrison, I am so sorry about Buddy. We all loved him; he was one of us and will be missed."

"Thank you, Veronika."

She pulled something into view. "I made this for you."

Louis took the large square object from her and looked at it. It was a framed sketch, one that Veronika had drawn of Buddy sleeping by the window. On one side a verse was written. He could feel the tears forming in his eyes. "Thank you."

"A friend from school gave me the verse when I told her about Buddy. She said it brought her comfort when she lost her pet."

Louis glanced at the words. "I'm familiar with it, Veronika. Please, thank your friend for me."

Veronika nodded and started to turn away. She quickly turned back and wrapped her arms around Louis in a hug. "I'm going to miss him."

Louis held her tight and let his tears fall. "We all are, Ronnie."

Veronika released her hug and quickly left the office. Louis could see she was wiping away tears. He looked down at the picture and read the words of the poem silently.

The Rainbow Bridge

Just this side of heaven is a place called Rainbow Bridge.

When an animal dies that has been especially close to someone here, that pet goes to Rainbow Bridge. There are meadows and hills for all of our special friends so they can run and play together. There is plenty of food, water and sunshine, and our friends are warm and comfortable.

All the animals that had been ill and old are restored to health and vigor. Those who were hurt or maimed are made whole and strong again, just as we remember them in our dreams of days and times gone by. The animals are happy and content, except for one small thing; they each miss someone very special to them, who had to be left behind.

They all run and play together, but the day comes when one suddenly stops and looks into the distance. His bright eyes are intent. His eager body quivers. Suddenly he begins to run from the group, flying over the green grass, his legs carrying him faster and faster.

You have been spotted, and when you and your special friend finally meet, you cling together in joyous reunion, never to be parted again. The happy kisses rain upon your face; your hands again caress the beloved head, and you look once more into the trusting eyes of your pet, so long gone from your life but never absent from your heart.

Then you cross Rainbow Bridge together. . . .

Author unknown . . .

Andreas watched as Louis hung the picture on the wall next to where Buddy's sleeping mat had been.

Louis stepped back and looked at the picture. "Do you think it could be true, Andreas?"

Andreas looked over the words of the poem. "I don't know, Louis. I am not a theologian, but I cannot believe that God would forever separate us from those who bring us so much happiness and love."

Louis nodded towards the window. "It looks like the storm is over."

Andreas looked outside. The thunderstorm had passed and the last of the rain was dripping down the window. The cloud front was passing to the east and the afternoon sun was coming out. In the eastern sky a bright rainbow was forming.

****

This story is dedicated to all those who have friends waiting for them by the rainbow bridge and was written in memory of the friends who wait.

****

The Society of Saint Philip of the Screwdriver

Rick Boatright

Then the LORD God said, "Behold, the man has become like one of us, knowing good and evil; and now, lest he put forth his hand and take also of the tree of life, and eat, and live for ever" -- therefore the LORD God sent him forth from the garden of Eden, to till the ground from which he was taken. He drove out the man; and at the east of the garden of Eden he placed the cherubim, and a flaming sword which turned every way, to guard the way to the tree of life.

Genesis 3:22-24

Mankind had its chance to have a life without surprises, but chose the harder path-to be like God. Now, we get to deal with the complexities of the world, and with the embodiment of that complexity, the imp that is the personification of Murphy's Law.

Murphy's imp never gives you any warning before things fall apart. You have to be ready. You have to think about failure in advance and prepare for it.

In the long run, ready never works out. No matter what you do, the imp always finds a way.

The Charter and By-Laws of the

Society of Saint Philip of the Screwdriver

Father Nicholas Smithson

Grantville, September, 1635

"Yuck. Six in the morning is too early for real life." Doris McIntire had just reached the main reference desk at the front of the SoTF State Library. She had the early shift this Wednesday, opening the library after the weekly closure for cleaning. Always a relief, Wednesday, she thought. The place got a bit rank between the thorough cleanings, but what could you do? The library was the best resource in the world.

But something was wrong. She looked over at the un-manned guard station by the door, and through the barred glass into the front hallway of the still empty high school. She did not see the guards who should come and open the doors. "Where the heck are the guards?"

Suddenly, a shape blurred past the window and the door banged open. A dirty, wild-haired man carrying a large bag burst in shouting unintelligibly. He looked from side to side, apparently seeking something. When his gaze settled on the ready reference shelves, he reared back, swinging the bag. The bag gurgled loudly.

There was no time to think, no time to call for help. Doris did the only thing she could do, the thing she had trained for month after month. She reached down to the holster under the reference desk, pulled the .38 revolver that was always there, and put three rounds in the wild man's center of mass. Then she ran around the end of the desk, grabbed the bag and flung it out through the open door down the wide hallway toward the front door of the high school. As it hit the metal doors it burst into flame.

****

"Oh, und here we go again," Maria Baumain said, grinning at Brother Bernard. "I'm making a cappuccino for a Capuchin, just like I do every morning!" She started steaming the milk, and grinned at the monk.

"Ja, und I'll have to go find you a real Capu-" Brother Bernard started to say.

God's own whistle tore into the ears of everyone in the shop. Maria screamed and dropped to the floor, clutching the side of her face. Some of the customers screamed even louder. Some reached for weapons. Some ran towards the injured girl and others ran away.

Cora was only steps away. She grabbed a bar towel to press onto Maria's cheek to stem the bleeding from the hole created by the impact from the steaming wand. Maria kept screaming at the pain from that and the burns over half her face. Then, as the whistle died down, the smell of hot metal wafted across the room. After a few moments of searching, the espresso maker's power was cut off. It made a "tinking" sound as it started to cool.

"Get me a bowl of ice water!" Cora called out. "Maria's scalded. We need to get it cooled down. Somebody call the ambulance."

"Already on the way," someone replied.

Cora got a cold compress over about half Maria's face, while still holding pressure on the cut. This wasn't going to be good.

****

Father Nicholas Smithson read the letter for the third time. It was unlikely that the content would change, but he felt that he had been waiting for a long time for this news. He looked across the table at his friend, Father Augustus Heinzerling, and smiled.

"That's it then?" Augustus asked.

"You would think, with the Pope taken out of Rome, with the influence of Lawrence, Cardinal Mazzare, with the general hue and cry going on, that for a single simple priest to be released from his vows to the Society of Jesus and to enter the secular clergy would be a simple matter," Father Nicholas said.

"Simple? Ha! Where the pope is, the inquisition is. Someone must determine if it is in the best interest of the church for the author of one of the best-selling books in Europe to be released from his personal vows of loyalty to the pope," August replied. "And as I think about it, I'm surprised the inquisition hasn't asked about How Not To Think Like a Redneck yet. Not to mention Saint Philip."

"Ignore him, Nicholas. He's just jealous," Father Christopher Schreiner said. "What does the letter say?"

Nick reached up to his breast pocket and removed the little yellow screwdriver he wore there. There was a similar one in Christopher's pocket. He twirled the screwdriver back and forth in his fingers. "Apparently my request got through during the confusion following the pope leaving Rome. It's yes. I am now officially a member of the secular clergy, reporting only to the bishop of my diocese, who is, of course, Larry. I am not sure how it got done without Father Vitelleschi's approval." Nick smiled. "But in any event, it's done."

"And so?" Augustus asked.

"And so, in the absence of white-robed Dominican inquisitors knocking at our door accusing me of Manichaeism, and with Cardinal-Protector Mazzare's permission to use Saint Philip Neri's name and image as the personification of the group, I think it's time," Nick said. "You both have read the bylaws for the Society of Saint Philip of the Screwdriver, as have Father Kircher, Cardinal Larry and John Grover."

The other two priests nodded and smiled.

"This is Grantville, not Rome. We're forming a society, not a prayer group, so it's not the Grantville Oratory." Nick paused. "I still wonder if Larry was wrong, and we would have been better off with Saint Vidicon, but never mind." Nick waved his hand pushing the thought away. "Never mind. It's too late to re-think that. It's time to move from the casual group to what we've talked about, and this release gives me the freedom to do that."

Nick took a moment to reflect. "You both know my dilemma."

"No one doubts your priestly vocation, Nicholas," Father Christopher said. "But your skills in the library do more than just bring in funds. You are contributing to the growth of a new culture."

"Then I have a duty to try to see to it that it's a human culture, not just a technological one. What use is wealth to a priest? And, despite our joking about the inquisitors, it can't be a purely Catholic culture, or a Catholic institution. Too many others are part of this community," Nick said.

"So, we get the minds together, we crush Murphy's imp, and you buy the beer. It works for me," Augustus said. "Speaking of beer, why don't we go celebrate your release? I understand there's a new lager at the Gardens." He pushed back from the table.

Nick smiled. "Of course, Augustus. And I'm sure that I'm buying."

****

Doris sat in the staff room of the State Library with her hands wrapped around a cup of some herbal tea Charlotte Kovar had handed to her. "Do we have any idea who he was?"

"No," Chelsea Perkins, the head of security for the library replied. "No note. The police will ask, but I doubt he's been around town. I suspect he came straight here."

"What do we do now?" Charlotte asked.

"I clean and re-load the revolver. You take Doris home to rest and you go with her to see to it she does," Chelsea said. "All her family is out of town. Then, I go bang some heads in the guard room. I'll have to be ready for another attack, just like always. Doris, I'll need to go to the meeting tomorrow with you."

"Do we have to?" Doris asked, looking up.

"You helped write the policy. We go to the meeting, and you get counseling, need it or not," Chelsea said. "It's necessary."

"I suppose," Doris said. "But I'm going home now, and I'm going out the back door."

****

Cora sat in the waiting area outside the ER at Leahy Center waiting to hear from the doctors. Every time someone moved, she looked up. She sat there, staring at the blood-stained towel in her hands, doing nothing.

"Aunt Cora?" Nina Kindred burst through the doors into the waiting area. "Aunt Cora? Are you okay?"

Cora looked up. "Okay?"

"Are you okay? You've got blood all over you. I'm going to go get someone."

"No, no. It's not my blood, it's Maria's."

"Oh, thank God," Nina said. "Paul told me that there had been an explosion in the coffee shop, and that you had gone to the hospital, and . . ."

"Hush." Cora put her hand over Nina's. "You're not here for the paper, are you?"

"Oh God, no. I'm sure he'll send someone around to interview you but, for goodness sake, Aunt Cora, you're family."

"That's okay then. You can wait with me? It's hard just waiting."

"Of course. However long it takes," Nina said.

"I'm glad you're here. I didn't want to be alone," Cora said. "Someone has gone for Maria's family. Her dad works for Johnson's Grocery. They'll be along soon, but someone needs to be here for Maria."

"What happened?"

"The espresso machine blew up. That's all I know for sure. One minute Maria's frothing milk, the next minute she had a piece of steel sticking out of her face and steam was blowing everywhere."

"The espresso machine?" Nina asked. "But you only bought that one about a year ago!"

"Yes. The little one I had from home finally gave up the ghost, remember? So, I had Clarence Dobb's folks make us a new bigger one."

"Clarence Dobbs? But, he's a plumber!"

"Yes. He makes stoves, hot water heaters, pumps, anything that deals with water. Who better to make me an espresso machine? He took the old one so he could copy the filter piece, and made us the new three-handle machine. I can't imagine what could have gone wrong. She was just frothing a cup of milk!" Cora looked down again at the bloody towel in her hands and the tears started again.

"Come on, Aunt Cora," Phoebe said. "Let's go get you cleaned up, get rid of that towel and your apron, and get your face fixed and your dress clean."

They headed toward the ladies room.

****

Reverend Simon Jones walked into Clarence's Heating, Plumbing and Air Conditioning. "Afternoon, Bonnie."

"Afternoon, Reverend Jones."

"Clarence around?"

"He's over at the pump plant. They're working out some kinks in a new design."

"You heard about Cora's?"

"Yes. Just a bit ago. How is Maria? "

"I don't know yet. Mary Ellen's on her way out to the hospital," Simon said. "I'll pass along what she finds out, but I have another problem. Can you call over and ask Clarence to meet me at Cora's with whomever built that infernal device, say in about an hour?"

"Sure, Reverend Jones. I'll be happy to. Let's make it about an hour and a half. Two o'clock okay?"

"Two o'clock is fine. I'll be waiting."

****

Reverend Mary Ellen Jones arrived at Leahy Medical center just as Cora and Phoebe came out to the waiting area. "How are you holding up, dear?"

"Okay," Cora replied. "I'm waiting to hear, though, how Maria's going to be."

Lise Gebauer came through the door to the ER into the waiting area. "Cora. Maria's going to be okay." She sat down across from the three women. "The wand missed the major nerve cluster in her cheek and only chipped the cheek bone. We've stitched that up. There will be a scar. It punched out a piece of tissue too small to sew back in place, and there will be a pucker on her cheek, but it won't be horrible." Lise took a deep breath. "She was very lucky. The worst of the burns are second degree. Apparently she fell away from the steam and no part of her face was in it long enough to be cooked. There are a lot of blisters. It is going to hurt, but the steam missed her eye completely. We had to cut away a bit of hair on her right side above the cheek, but she'll recover. We should be able to send her home in the morning. Is her family here yet?"

"No," Cora said. "Her dad is out on a delivery run for the grocery. Her younger sister is in school, and you know her mom got that cough last winter and didn't make it."

Lise shuddered. "Too many didn't make it through the influenza. . . . We do what we can. Do you want to see her?"

"Of course!" Cora replied. "I'll sit with her at least until her father or sister gets here."

****

Chelsea Perkins came out of the staff lounge, and checked with the guard at the front entrance. "Anything else unusual, Otto?"

"No, Frau Perkins. All is quiet. People reading books." Otto pointed to the floor where the body had lain. "The coroner has taken the body, and the janitors have finished cleaning the floor and wall. The front doors should be repainted by noon." Otto looked at Chelsea. "How did it happen?"

"Someone screwed up. Someone is not going to be happy." Chelsea walked off toward the security office.

"All right. Albrecht had the outside tour this morning." Chelsea looked at Albrecht and noticed the other guards in the room paying close attention. She knew that this was another test of her leadership. "You have your log book?"

The guard responsible for walking each circuit around the high school had to stop at a number of places where metal stamps had been placed in small boxes, and click the stamp onto a line of his log book. Before he left for the tour and upon his return, he clicked the log book into the time-clock. It wasn't as good a system as the uptime paper tape that showed when each location had been logged, but it at least proved that the route had been walked.

"I do, Frau Perkins. Here it is." Albrecht presented his log to Chelsea.

Chelsea flipped to the last page. "This says you finished at 0630, half an hour after the shooting. How could you have accompanied the door guard if you weren't done?"

"I was almost done, Frau Parker. I had reached the station outside the front door when I heard the shots. I tried the front door and it was unlocked, so I ran in and saw the intruder on the floor." Albrecht paused. "I assisted with the search and moving the body, and did not clock the round out until I was able to get away."

"The front door was unlocked? You are very sure of that?" Chelsea asked.

"Yes, Frau Parker." Albrecht said.

Chelsea looked at the assignment sheet for the morning, then looked around the room. "Where is Francis?"

"Francis is at home with the influenza, Frau Perkins," Albrecht said. "He sent word yesterday that he would not be at work."

Chelsea turned to Karl Bauer, the watch supervisor for the night before. "Karl, why is this duty sheet not updated showing Francis is to be out?"

Karl smiled. "I could find no one to take Francis' shift, Frau Perkins. I stayed over the night. I did not need to write down my name to remind me that I was working."

"I see nothing to smile about, Karl. What happened this morning?" Chelsea asked very coldly.

"Tuesday, the library closes at ten at night, and re-opens at six in the morning," Karl said.

Everyone nodded.

"The high school cleaning crew buffs the floors of the hallways during the night, and painting and other maintenance that is hard to do while people are working takes place," Karl continued.

Chelsea stared at him. "We all know that. What's the point?"

"There are only two guards overnight on Tuesday . . ." Karl started to say.

"Karl, I made up the schedule. I am the chief of security. You work for me. You don't need to explain the rules, I made them. You and Albrecht were here alone until the morning shift arrived. Now. No more excuses. What happened?" Chelsea said angrily.

"At six o'clock this morning, the morning shift had not yet arrived. Albrecht was being slow getting around the school, and had not yet returned. I was waiting in the reference area. I saw through the window a man walking down from the football field toward the school. You know how many people are upset that the library closes on Tuesday, and I thought that if the library was late opening, this man might be angry, so I went out and opened the door. He must have seen me open the door because he smiled. Then I went back to the security office to find Albrecht or someone to work the front security desk."

"So, you saw a total stranger outside, you didn't investigate him, you didn't check to see if he had a dangerous bag, you unlocked the door, and then you left the front of the library with no one guarding?"

Karl started to wave his hands and opened his mouth as though he was going to say something.

Chelsea interrupted. "Never mind. I don't care what possible excuse you have. Guards are supposed to guard, and there is nothing more important to guard than this library. Karl, you're fired. Give me your badge and belt right now."

Karl began to speak. Chelsea held up a hand, and Albrecht and two other guards closed in next to him. He shrugged, removed his badge and the leather Sam Browne belt that was the guard's uniform and handed them to Albrecht.

"You have five minutes to clean out your locker. I want you off the school grounds in no more than ten. Don't bother asking for a reference. Johann, Ester, you go with him and see him off the grounds." Chelsea stood, staring until Karl was gone from the room.

"I am so not looking forward to telling this story to the meeting tomorrow," she said to no one in particular.

****

Reverend Simon Jones was waiting at the coffee shop when Clarence Dobbs and a man Simon didn't recognize came in. The shop was open, and many people were looking at the espresso machine from a distance. Not only was Cora a member of his congregation at the Methodist church, but Simon was an accomplished mechanic and wanted to see for himself what had gone wrong.

"Simon, I don't think you've met Jonas Klein. Jonas works on our water heaters and worked on the espresso machine," Clarence said.

Simon shook Jonas' hand. "Sorry to meet you under these circumstances, Herr Klein."

"Yes, Pastor Jones. A sad day."

"Shall we take a look?"

The three men went behind the counter. The floor had been mopped, but the failure was clear. The fitting where the steaming wand screwed into the espresso machine was empty. With a heavy sigh, Jonas reached into his tool box and they began the task of disassembling the machine.

****

Cora came into the shop just as the men were finishing cleaning up.

"Well?" she asked.

"How's Maria?" Simon asked. Everyone in the shop turned toward her.

"She's going to be okay. A scar, and a long time healing from the burns, but okay," Cora replied. "Now, what happened?"

"It's complicated, Cora," Simon replied. "I think we need to go through it with the Saint Philip group. Can you come to the meeting tomorrow evening?"

"What meeting? What do you mean it's complicated? What happened?" Cora asked.

"The meeting at the parish hall at Saint Mary's. The part you want will start about seven and you need to be there. We'll go over the accident with everyone and figure it out. It's the group that Father Nick organized to do accident reviews for anyone who will participate. That way we have everyone's thoughts and everyone's ideas and everyone learns from each other's mistakes. This is complicated, Cora, and you should come. Jonas and Clarence and I will be there, and we all will talk through what happened. It was an accident, but it was an accident that could have been prevented. You should come. Please?"

"All right," Cora said. "I'll be there. Seven at the parish hall. But I still don't know what happened. What happened, Simon?"

"The boiler's pressure cut off didn't. It could have been a lot worse. This was almost the best possible outcome," Clarence said.

Cora looked from man to man. "You're not asking me to come to this meeting just so that some excuse can be cooked up, are you?"

"No, Cora. It's important. Please?" Simon said.

"Okay, okay. Seven at the parish hall. Got it. Now, let me talk to my staff and see to my business." With that, Cora turned away and went back to work.

****

Each Thursday, a diverse group would gather at St. Mary's for the meeting of the Society of Saint Philip of the Screwdriver. They came from every available faith. The group included engineers, but also included librarians, electricians, plumbers, bankers, lawyers, judges, gunsmiths, machinists, farmers, teachers, and clergy. What brought them together was an involvement with what could loosely be called "complexity."

The group was in some ways an outgrowth of John Grover's "Murphy Reports" from the VOA and the early electronics oversight group. The direct inspiration came from the joint minds of John, Father Althanius Kircher and Father Nicholas Smithson. After reading the "Wizard" novels of Christopher Stasheff, Father Kircher and Nick had been enamored of the Order of Saint Vidicon of the Cathode. While they had been forbidden by Father-now Cardinal-Larry Mazzare from organizing a group around the fictional saint, they used his symbol, a small pocket phillips screwdriver. Instead of Saint Vidicon, they instead chose as their patron a saint with a sense of humor, who himself spent many years attempting to prevent the works of Murphy's imp: Saint Philip Neri. The coincidence of the screwdriver was too good to pass up.

The group had grown casually. Its avowed purpose, to the extent it had one, was to reduce the inevitable cost that human error brought to any complex effort. If anyone asked, participants said that they weren't the Grantville Safety committee. They rejected that name and the responsibility. Still, the informal group quickly became the place to report and review accidents of all types. Industrial accidents, embezzlement, undetected frauds, losses to theft and waste, all were seen as manifestations of Murphy's imp, and all were subject to review and discussion by the group. They shared the thought that together they could reduce the butcher's bill that up-time knowledge would cost the world as the complexity of their civilization increased.

The group wasn't a confessional. Each case ended with one of two results. If they could propose a way to avoid similar incidents, someone wrote up a report and a checklist to help accomplish that. If not, they wrote a report asking for suggestions. One of the proposals in Nick's charter was that they begin distributing their reports more formally to libraries and centers of invention.

Someone had made a banner with an image of Saint Philip Neri. It was inspired by the image in the Catholic Encyclopedia but the saint was wearing half a beard, smiling broadly, holding a little yellow screwdriver, and standing with one foot crushing a green imp. Below the portrait was the legend: Holy Saint Philip, Protect us.

There were other banners. "Never attribute to evil that which can be explained by the perversity of the universe." "Even tragedy provides an opportunity for humor." "There are no silver linings without clouds." Another said "TANSTAAFL," with a line drawn through it and "Free Beer" written below. Finally, there was a banner, half filled with a field of green imps. Each imp had a red-circled X drawn over it.

John Grover and Father Nicholas looked at the group clustered around the folding tables serving as bar and sideboard.

"Are you sure you are ready to do this, Nick?" John asked.

"Yes. I've been ready for months. It's not like all of them don't already know what's coming," Nick said.

"Okay then. I'll see about herding the cats," John said. "Settle down, folks!"

Slowly the chatter lowered, the mugs and steins were refilled, and people found chairs around the room. John gestured to the chalkboard to one side which had a short list of names on it. "Anyone forget to sign up?"

A general murmur of negativity ran around the room.

"Okay. You all notice that Nick's name is at the top of that list, and he has an announcement and a proposal before we start the show and tell. Father Nick, the floor is yours."

John sat in a chair where he could see the room and Nick.

"Good evening, my friends," Nick said. "I do have an announcement. Today, with the consent of His Holiness Urban, I am released from my vows as a Jesuit and am returned to the secular clergy."

" 'Bout damned time!" Simon Koudsi shouted.

"It's remarkably quick for such a request, Simon. But I agree, and that brings us to my second point." Nick pointed at the image of Saint Philip on the wall behind him, and brought out his screwdriver. "I certainly know you're not all Catholic."

"You got that right too!" Reverend Simon Jones said.

"Am I to continue to be interrupted by Simons, or should I simply continue?" Nick said. Through the resulting laughter, he continued: "That leads directly to my proposal. I believe it's time that we move from this casual group to something with more organization, which we can export to other communities. Therefore, in keeping with our principles, I propose the formal incorporation of the European Service Committee of the Society of Saint Philip of the Screwdriver. Copies of the proposed bylaws are on the table by the door. Please pick one up tonight as you leave. We will have a special meeting to discuss the organization soon. The committee's function will be to sponsor this and other meetings, to publish information gathered, and to evangelize what we've done here. I'm happy to take questions, but you should review the proposed bylaws first, I think."

"If this Committee is to be the sponsor, does that mean that you still buy the beer Nick?" Simon Jones asked.

"Yes, Simon. I will continue to buy the beer, and the pretzels and the coffee," Nick said.

"So the Society is a Catholic order?" The Russian prince and envoy, Vladimir, asked.

"No! Although the suppression of Murphy's imp is Godly work, this group, and the committee are not specifically related to any church. We use Saint Philip as our patron because his humor and joy are important tools in the face of the tragedies that Murphy brings us, and because having a face, an identity for the group is simpler than some formless up-time corporation. The best analogy I have is that the Society is something similar to the intergroup committees of Alcoholics Anonymous or other such organizations. It's a way for the independent groups to coordinate their work on the nature and perversity of the universe and the application of humor to the banishment of Murphy's works from our works. Read the draft bylaws."

Vladimir nodded and smiled. "Good. The patriarch would have trouble with me joining a Catholic order!"

Nick looked around the room. "The work we do here is important." Most of the listeners nodded. "By bringing together our minds and our eyes, the imp can't hide. Together we can find a way to do as John says: Keep Murphy firmly in front of us where we can see him. We know he acts in the world, we know that God has a sense of humor that includes things which can, at best, be seen as perverse. Can there be any doubt that the God who arranged that the bread should fall butter side down seventy-five percent of the time has an odd sense of humor?" Nick paused. "But the fact that Murphy's imp acts in the world should not be a cause for depression. Remember Saint Philip Neri's saying: A joyful heart is more easily made perfect than a downcast one. Joy is our servant and our protection. And with that, I'll end this intrusion into the evening. Look over the bylaws, and at the next meeting we'll discuss if we are agreed about doing this."

Nick looked at the chalkboard. "I am saddened to see the State Library on the list again, but I am particularly interested in hearing the details of yesterday's incident that has caused the proprietor of City Hall Cafe and Coffee Shop to put her name first on the list." Nick gestured to Cora. "The floor is yours."

"I don't want the floor. I'm not even sure why I'm here and I didn't write my name up there. I think Simon did it," Cora said.

"Cora, we all know about the accident at the shop yesterday, and we are happy that Maria will recover, but we would appreciate it if you would share your version of what happened. Just tell the story, and we'll listen. And there may be questions. after," Nick said as he sat down.

"I still don't know why I'm here," Cora said. "I bought an espresso machine from Clarence about six months ago, and it blew up and nearly killed Maria!"

Father Nicholas stepped over to Cora on one side, and Reverend Jones on her other. Simon held her shoulder while Nick held her hand. "Cora, we're going to ask you to try to tell us what happened exactly. Just start slowly. How does the machine work?" Simon said.

"I don't know how it works inside, but outside, you put coffee in the filter and put it on the machine and sit a cup under it, then you pull down on the big lever, and espresso squirts out of the filter into the cup." Cora started to calm down.

"But that's not all, Cora," Nick said.

"No, it isn't. If someone wants steamed milk, you take the milk pitcher and put it under the steam wand and open the steam valve and steam comes out and heats up the milk, and froths it. That's all there is to it. It's really, really, simple."

"Then what happened?" Simon asked.

"Brother Bernard had ordered a cappuccino, and Maria was joking with him like she always does. She flirts with everyone, and she always said she was making a cappuccino for a Capuchin, and Brother Bernard always laughed and said that he was no Capuchin, he was the Dominican spy in Grantville. Anyway, Maria was starting to steam the milk and all of a sudden, the pipe the steam comes out of just blew out of the machine and hit Maria in the face. Then the steam hit her and burned her face."

"And then what?" Nick asked.

"Then we called the ambulance and took her to the hospital."

"Thanks, Cora. Why don't you sit down and listen now for a bit? People may have some questions, but there's no reason to stand here," Simon said. He and Nick took her to a chair, and Simon handed her a glass of water.

One of the people said, "I have a question. Cora, do you do any maintenance on the machine? How do you clean it? That sort of thing."

"I run a clean shop," Cora nearly shouted. "We clean it every night, and you have to clean out the filter between shots. Is that what you mean?"

"No. Do you do anything inside the machine? Do you clean the insides any?"

"No. I don't know anything about the insides."

"And with that;" Simon said, "I think that it's Clarence, Jonas, and my turn."

Clarence and Jonas explained how they had built the machine, how the boiler operated with an electric coil on a thermostat and a water level sensor, how the steamer took steam off the top of the boiler through the wand with a simple valve and a fixed pipe, and how a pressure relief valve was on top of the boiler to keep it from blowing up. Questions arose to clarify the difference between this and Clarence's line of hot water heaters.

Then Simon explained what they had found when they took the machine apart, how more than half the boiler had filled with scale from the evaporating water, and how a piece of scale had broken off and had jammed the thermostat so that it didn't prevent overheating, and another piece of scale had blocked the steam pipe. That the pipe had worked loose over time, and finally one last time, the pipe had blocked off completely and the wand had flown out.

The questions went back and forth for a short time, but the conclusion was clear. Clarence knew about scale buildup from hot water heaters, but hadn't thought through how much more scale would be deposited from the massive evaporation of the steam for the steam wand. He hadn't consulted with, or had Jonas consult with, the steam guys in Grantville. The steam heads were shaking their heads. When the discussion wound down, John Grover stood and looked around.

"I think we're done then," John said. "Let me summarize. The boiler needed a port to use to put vinegar or something in to clean scale on a regular basis. The wand needed to be tightened every night, and there needed to be an externally visible pressure and temperature gauge to track if problems arose. Are we agreed that we've got this?"

The room sounded with agreement.

"Then we've got enough to put this incident behind us, and to put the solution in front of us. Who wants to write the report and the new procedures?"

Jonas stood. "I built it. I will write the report. I may need help with the words."

"Help is available," John replied, then turned to Cora. "Cora, we know what happened, we know how to fix it, and we know how to prevent it from happening again. Jonas will write a complete report, and write a checklist for you for how to maintain the machine so that it is safe to use. We're convinced this was a true accident, another incident of Murphy's imp sneaking in when we weren't looking. Do you have any questions?"

"No, I don't think so. We can go back to making espresso then?" Cora asked.

"As soon as we fix the machine, and you have the checklist Jonas is going to write," Clarence said.

"Good!" Cora said.

John looked at the board. "We have only one other report tonight, and I propose we take a break first, then we'll pass the floor to Doris McIntire and Chelsea Parker from the State Library . . . again."

****

"Everyone ready?" John looked around. "Okay, then. Doris, Chelsea, you have the floor."

Neither of them stood. Chelsea looked at Doris and said; "This one's on me, I think. One of my guards, and I'm not bothering with who just now-we've already dealt with that internally-but one of the guards opened the front door of the school and the door into the library this morning at six. He was alone, which is against policy, and he had not had a check in from the guard detailed to do the outside walk-around before opening the door. As you all know from the last time, that's part of the procedure. The outside walk-around should finish, come in the employee door, check with the duty guard, and then the duty guard, with a second watcher, is supposed to open the outer doors and then the inner."

Chelsea took a deep breath. "Yesterday morning, neither of those things happened. The duty guard, who will not be guarding anything for the foreseeable future, skipped those steps, and at six o'clock, simply unlocked the inner door, went through it to the front door of the school, unlocked that, and just walked back to the ready room. He had no partner, and so no one stayed at the front desk. I offer no excuses. We had the policies in place, but they were not followed." She looked at Doris. "I can't tell any more, I wasn't there."

Doris patted Chelsea's hand. "I was there. I will never understand them, but I was there. I was coming out to the front desk. Apparently, the guard had already opened the door and there was no one at the security desk, so I didn't know the door was unlocked. I was thinking about Brother Johann's plan to try using the high school history classes to each sort a box of loose papers from the overflow storage." She took a deep breath. "I had my head down, and had just reached the front desk when I heard the school's front door bang open. Moments later, the library door burst open and that . . ." Doris hesitated. ". . . that person ran in carrying a bag. The bag was oil stained, and he was shouting. I'm still not sure what he was shouting. I'm honestly not certain of the language, but the hate seemed clear enough. It's the first time I've had to do this, the guards are supposed to check every bag and box that comes into the library, but I really didn't doubt that I was right. He sort of spun back as though he was going to fling the bag into the stacks. So, I pulled the front-desk gun and shot him."

Doris looked down, then she looked up and around the room. "The bag fell back and I grabbed it and threw it out the door toward the front doors. It burst into flames when it hit, so I knew I was right, but I will never, ever, understand why these people want to burn us out. They come from all over, you know. They seem to think that burning the library will undo us being here. You can't burn ideas. Are they stupid?"

Chelsea took over. "After the first shot, three guards and two librarians responded. The invader was down, and the high school staff responded to the fire at the front door. It was out within two minutes, from the ready hoses. We have no information on who the arsonist was. He had no documents on him at all, and Doris had put three hollow points, center of mass. After that, it was the usual clean up."

Simon Jones spoke, "Chelsea, how many does that make now?"

"Five we've had to shoot in the last four years. The security guards capture a bomb or flammables about once a month through the regular checks. The walk-around finds someone trying to break into the school or something occasionally," Chelsea said. "It's a much harder job than I expected when I took it."

Doris spoke, sounding tired. "Being a librarian in Grantville is sure different now. Who would have thought that librarian certification required monthly range time?"

The group spent a half-hour asking questions, double-checking the procedures and considering what could be done differently. Despite the trouble it caused, the conclusion the group reached was to fall back to the "missile silo paradigm" and to require two keys to open the library's front door, each passed hand-to-hand from one duty guard to the next, so that no one could ever open the library alone again. Several people noted that in both the library and the coffee shop cases, the problem could be prevented by a change in procedure. The final conclusion was that once again the checklist stands as one of the most useful tools against the imp of the perverse.

John Grover stood. "Doris, the Grantville Society of Saint Philip of the Screwdriver offers you our formal thanks. You are welcome here any time, even if you haven't shot an idiot. Cora, thank you, too. Your participation will help prevent other workers from being hurt or even killed by small boilers again. And so, for both of you, I have our thanks, and this talisman . . ." John handed each of the women a small, yellow-handled phillips screwdriver. "In the hopes that it will help you to keep Murphy's imp before you, and joy and humor in your hearts."

The room echoed with, "Amen."

A man in overalls opened a bag by his seat and removed two jars and a paint brush, then went to the last banner. Soon it sported two more imps crushed under the cross of Saint Philip's Screwdriver.

Some time later, after everyone else was gone, Nick looked around the room, knowing that the catering staff from the Gardens would soon have the tables down and the room cleared. He stared up into the eyes of the image of Saint Philip. "Of course, I buy the beer. I can't think of anything better to do with the money." He removed his rosary from his belt, and left the parish hall, heading for the church. "But I'm still a priest."

****

Equal Rights, Part Two

Jack Carroll and Edith Wild

The Thuringen Gardens

Yakov Chekhov was mopping up a spilled drink when the crowd suddenly went quiet, and heads started turning toward the television behind the bar. He began to make out the announcer's words, and then saw the pictures.

Satan's balls! That's her! If they catch one of those English pricks, they'll get the other one, and they'll both talk! Could be any minute!

He shoved the mop and bucket into the janitor's closet, slipped out through the kitchen, and around to the street.

He took a fast look around without turning his head-no police in sight, and the next tram to Schwarza was only half a block away. He jumped aboard with nothing but the clothes on his back and the cash in his pocket. At the end of the line he started walking. Once clear of the town, he got off the roads and headed for Saxony.

One thing was for certain, the next nom de guerre he picked wouldn't be anything like the last one, it wouldn't even be Russian.

July 11, the second day

At two in the morning the call came in by CB that the Garbage Guys had spotted Olivia Villareal's pickup truck in the bushes off a dirt lane near the in-town end of Murphy's Run. It was Marvin Tipton's shift to coordinate the search, and he rousted Officer Erika Fleischer out of bed to bring Pluto to the scene. Pluto couldn't catch a scent of Olivia outside the truck. He picked up something, but couldn't follow it far; he wasn't a tracker. Marvin asked a mounted volunteer to ride out to the count's stables, to see if the jaegers there had a dog that could help. Meanwhile, he phoned over to Leanna's place, to ask Carlos to come look at the truck and see if he could see anything that didn't belong.

****

Olivia woke up freezing in what could only be the middle of the night, and managed to sit up, still sore as hell. The lamp was lit. By its light she could see a bowl of bloody water beside the mat.

There was a cheap-looking velour jogging suit on the table, the garish kind of pink somebody like Velma Hardesty would go for. There wasn't any underwear with it. Then she heard someone move, and turned her head to see a young man behind her.

"Please take that look off your face, Olivia Villareal. I am not an adulterer or a rapist." He finished wiping his hands on a large napkin, and tossed it aside. "The clothes are what I could find; I regret that they are no better. Bennet ruined your own in his frenzy. This is a disgrace, and beneath my dignity that any of this should have happened."

She hurriedly pulled on the jumpsuit. It wasn't much of a fit, but it covered most of her body, and the zipper closed all the way. "Your dignity? What are you talking about? How long have I been-"

His shoulders slumped for a moment. "Since yesterday afternoon. Bennet took you when you approached Oughtred's house. He drugged you with opium. I brought you this; it is chloramphenicol."

She thought hard; nothing was clear in her mind. But then she realized what he meant. "Oh, God! There's never been anyone but Carlos."

"Faithful as Penelope. I thought as much. I give you the chloramphenicol, for your sake, for your husband's and for your children. I would apologize on behalf of Bennet, if an apology could mean anything now. He is taking it, much good may it do him."

He gestured to the napkin on the cave floor.

"The wound to your arm, which you must have suffered in being lifted up to this place, is properly dressed now. You look to be fit enough now for the descent, as soon as the lingering effects of the opium have worn off. I have brought more food and water, as well. Fare well, and God be with you. I cannot stay, unfortunately."

She tried to speak. She couldn't find the words.

He was gone. The line whipped around a little as he went up it to the clifftop, and then there was silence.

Damn. Go up after him? No, she was weak and dizzy, no idea how much blood she'd lost, and with the injured arm, in no shape for that kind of climbing. It would have to be down, like that miserable rat had said, and a rappel that far was nothing to try in the dark. Eat. Rest.

When Olivia woke again, it was already late afternoon. The cave mouth was in shadow. So much for looking for something shiny to try signaling with.

****

By the end of the day, the count's hounds had followed the unknown scent as far as they could, but lost it in the busy sidewalks downtown. The organized teams had done a thorough line search through the area around Olivia's pickup, then done it again crosswise. Nothing. The Boy Scouts were working outward up the ridges. The two perky old ladies at the map in police headquarters kept marking off backyards and sheds that had been checked by the householders, as the phone calls came in.

Juergen Neubert stood back, thinking. The truck's placement had looked to him like deliberate concealment. Suppose it had been dumped there, to delay the alarm and divert attention from the real scene? Where else should they look? Even with all the help they had, searching the whole town, let alone the surrounding territory, would take far too long for someone who might be hurt and lying out in the open. What did they have for clues, though? Well, the stranger Rothrock had appeared at Oughtred's house, almost at the far end of Murphy's Run, immediately before the destruction happened in the Villareal house. That might mean something. He'd send search parties out that way in the morning, the dogs first.

****

Olivia sized up the situation. If that crazy bastard Bennet came back and she was still here, there wasn't much chance of getting away alive. One thing was for sure, she was in no shape to put up much of a fight this time around. Got to go. No sense waiting any longer.

All right, what was there for gear? The second guy had left a harness that fit after some adjustments. By some miracle it was a full-body harness. That would make rappelling a whole lot more manageable, with the injured arm. Not much else that would be of any use. No pitons or tools. Damn. That nutcase Bennet had even chopped her shoelaces to bits. She tore a few strips of cloth off her shredded shirt and twisted them so she could lace up her sneakers. Then she ate and drank as much as she could, and filled up the wooden canteen that lay beside the table.

The next shock was seeing the line hanging down past the cave entrance-it was her best blue rope, one she never rented out. How had they gotten hold of that? She looked out carefully-it reached the ground, all right, but instead of being passed freely through a ring up above and doubled, it was just one line hung down from the top. Single line technique. Not a method she liked.

Nothing to do but hook up and start the descent, though. The harness was just a harness, the jerk hadn't left any kind of ascenders, if he even knew what they were. If she hadn't been injured and doped-up, she could have managed that much of a climb anyway.

Nothing about this was any fun. It was a long way down, and with the curvature of the cliff, she was a good way out before she was halfway to the ground.

All of a sudden the feel of the rope screamed for attention. It hadn't just been carelessly abused by ignorant beginners, it had been torn up, practically wrecked. It had been dragged through mud and not cleaned, it had been scraped over sharp rock edges . . . a terrible certainty seized her. She reached down and felt it. Right below her knee it was torn nearly through. For a moment she was paralyzed with fear. She didn't dare go any further down and put her weight on it. Throw a knot in it and re-rig the harness? How, with no handholds or footholds to unload the line, and no spare gear? She hauled up a hundred feet or so and looked at it; it wasn't in much better condition; there were scrapes and broken strands everywhere.

What the hell am I going to do? She was getting dizzy again-whether that was the lingering dope or the blood loss, there was no way to tell. Well, one of the first things that was drilled into every new climber was: if you're in trouble and you've got a little time, use some of it to think. Olivia looked around.

From up there she had a pretty good view all around the coal mine's pithead, but there wasn't anybody outside. Probably wouldn't be until the shift change, and then no telling whether anybody would look up, or if they did, realize a climber just hanging out in space needed help. Some loud piece of machinery was going; she tried shouting anyway, on the chance it might do some good.

Well, there was one thing. Not too far off to the left was one of those cramped little down-time mine tunnels the Ring cut through. If she could get herself swinging the right way, and get about ten feet higher up the rope, it didn't look too far to reach. That was going to be no fun. I can manage ten feet. Sure I can.

Getting the swinging right was the hardest part, but finally she got a hand on the edge of the tunnel and held off the dizziness long enough to work her way around the corner and inside. By then she needed to sit down. She started letting out a little slack so she could get further inside and sit. After that, pull up the rest of the rope and check it all, and see if there was any way to rig it to reach the bottom safely. Once her head stopped spinning.

Somehow she fumbled it. The rope got away and slithered out of the tunnel, hanging straight down from above the cave, and a long way out of reach. Oh, God.

For the first five minutes she slumped against the rough interior wall and caught her breath. Then she figured she'd better find out whether there was anything there she could use. It didn't take long. The place turned out to be an irregular drift where they'd been digging into an ore seam for thirty feet or so, before the mine it belonged to flew away up-time. Some places were wider than others, but there wasn't anywhere high enough to stand up straight. Near the outside where there was some daylight, there was a little soot on the wall and ceiling, where their candles or lanterns must have rested, but that was all. Whoever ran that mine must have been the kind of neat freak who picked everything up at the end of the day; there wasn't so much as a candle stub lying around. About the only good thing was that it was shelter from the wind.

She drank a little water and closed her eyes for what seemed like a minute-twilight had crept up once more. For sure she'd been missed by now, but in this light it would be pretty hard to see anything in here even if they looked. Maybe in the morning . . . For now, she moved a little further in. Even in July the nights could get cool.

July 12, the third day

Deborah drew a pot of water to boil for porridge. There was no more labor to it than turning a handle right there in her kitchen. If she and Timothy had to work for the rest of their lives to pay off the mortgage on this house and land, and their children after them, it would be worth it. She happened to glance out the window above the sink, to see what the day's weather looked like. Some of the maize stalks were moving. But there was no wind, at this early hour. "Tim! Jack! Someone is picking in our field!"

****

Tim belted on his sword, but in his hands he carried a hunting rifle. Jack took a double-barreled shotgun from the closet beside the back door. The disturbance, they saw, was over toward the Wall, as close to it as they'd dared plant. They separated, to catch the intruder between them.

A popinjay in a lavender coat was scrabbling about in their garden, blundering into the plants and breaking some, picking up bits of something from the ground. A couple of times he looked up sharply at the cliff.

It was no trouble at all for Tim to walk up to within ten feet of the man and point his rifle an inch to one side. "You want to die, bastard?"

The man looked up at Tim and raised his hands in surrender.

"George Bennet. I never thought I would see you again this side of the Styx. What a pity." He gestured with his rifle to move him along to the front porch, Jack walking on the other side. "What mischief are you making here on my property?"

Bennet began a confused muttering of Ring's Fire, and from where it had fallen. It all began to come together in Morton's mind.

"Deborah, sweetheart, here's the one the police want so much. After you send for them, tell Villareal to come with his gear, too, will you? I believe there will be climbing to do today. Bess, there you are, kindly run and tell Master Oughtred the same."

Bennet suddenly seemed to focus. "Villareal? What is this? You are the Earl of Arundel's man, as I am. Where is your loyalty?"

"Loyalty? Loyalty? If you've done half of what I think, you've blackened the earl's name from here to Constantinople. Piss-poor loyalty that was! My loyalty is to this state where I took an oath of citizenship, and to my family here, and all the people who've treated me fair since I came. Jack and I did our job for Arundel, we got Master Oughtred here safe and sound, and the only thing I owe the old man now is the tavern gossip he pays me for. Loyalty!" He spit on the ground over the porch rail and moved his head fractionally toward the telephone. Deborah was already dialing.

****

Marvin Tipton was back on when the dispatcher hollered that Tim and Jack Morton had one of the arson suspects under citizen's arrest for, of all things, trespassing in a cornfield. The chief himself responded over the radio; he wanted to question this bum right away. Looked like Juergen Neubert's guess last night was right on the money. The longer ol' Juergen was on the job, the better he got. Marvin decided he'd better go out in the field and direct from there today, as soon as he could work up the search plan and get the teams on their way. Now, where were those jaegers and their dogs?

****

Leanna came running in from the bedroom. "Dad! Wake up! It's the Mortons on the phone. They think they know where Mom is. They want you out there with climbing gear, and anybody else you can round up."

Carlos levered himself off the camp mattress in the den, picked up the phone there, listened, organized priorities in his head. Leanna was already packing a lunch for him, and her husband Enrico had coffee brewing and his thermos on the kitchen counter ready to fill; Carlos didn't have to think about any of that.

First get some more help up and moving, then pull on yesterday's clothes and go. All his stuff was still in the truck from the other day. Too bad Sherrilyn Maddox wasn't in town, she was as good a rock climber as he'd ever met. The Fire Department high angle team, then. He called fire headquarters, gave them the what and where.

Leanna squeezed his arm as he ran out the door. Paola just looked at him wide-eyed.

****

When Carlos got to the Morton house, they had the creep in the purple coat leashed by his ankles to the porch post. They were watching him like a couple of guard dogs anyway.

Bennet was hollering, "What is the meaning of this, Morton? I am of the Earl of Arundel's companions. I have rights!"

Carlos blew his stack. He took the stairs in one stride, grabbed Bennet by his coat, and slammed him against the post. "You've got a right to keep silent and a right to a lawyer, you piece of shit, but I'm not a cop. Where's my wife?"

"I've seen you, you're no more than a tavern keeper. You dare lay hands on me?"

"I'm the guy who'll break your damn neck if you don't give me a straight answer. What'd you do to my wife?"

****

Fifty yards down the slope at the Mortons' parking turnout, Press Richards heard a roar that could lift a manhole cover. Oh, boy, that's Villareal. He slammed the cruiser's door and took off up the front walkway at a run. He wasn't worried Carlos would kill the guy, but he was a cop, and he had two priorities right then. First, get Olivia back safely, if at all possible. Second, make sure the charges stuck. Nobody was going to abuse a prisoner on his watch, and Villareal was big enough to do some serious damage without even intending to. The idea of playing a Pat-and-Mike routine with a civilian never even crossed his mind. He chose his words as he came within sight of the porch.

"Back off, Carlos. You don't want to give this guy's lawyer any ammunition." He pointed his finger at the perp in the purple coat. That long, curling blond hair he had was something else. "You're under arrest." He cuffed the prisoner, and rattled off his rights. "Morton, Oughtred, what can you tell me?"

Villareal suddenly went around behind purple-coat and grabbed his left wrist, turning the hand over.

"Hey, I told you to stand back."

"Look at this silver ring on his finger, Chief. It's Olivia's. I made it." Villareal let go.

Richards, Villareal and Morton all looked at each other. Tim Morton began to recount what he'd seen and heard. After a while the prisoner began to babble something about the goddess Calypso, above all earthly things. The geologist, Oughtred, agreed with Morton's thinking. She was likely up on the Wall someplace, and there was only one place up there they knew of that made any sense. That rope hanging there pretty well clinched it. The rescue truck was already pulling up; four of the Benedictine Brothers in fire department uniform got out and started up the front walk. Briefing time.

****

"Sounds like a plan, Brother Girard. Let's get out of here, before the road is full of buses."

"As soon as you can shift your equipment into our truck. And you can just call me Girard, while we're on fire department business."

"Fine, I'm Carlos and this is Will." He reached down and helped Will pick up his climbing gear off the porch. Moving his own was just a matter of snatching a few old milk crates out of the back of his pickup and passing them across.

The last thing he saw before they closed the doors and rolled away was Tim's stepdaughter Bess Lacey at the corner of the porch, patiently searching all around the Wall with Will's big tripod telescope.

There wasn't much to say, on the ride up to Schwarzburg. With two extra people sitting on top of the rock climbing equipment, it was cramped enough in back. Will was refreshing his memory of a few details from the little notebook he'd found on the grass by his path the previous day-no idea how it had gotten lost there. Their seatmates were praying silently.

The little dirt parking spot at the north end of the upper village was as far as they could take the rescue truck. From there, it was half a mile along a pack trail, then a rough path up-slope to the clifftop above the cave. Carlos looked around at everything they were unloading for the job. "Three trips to carry this stuff up, you think? What goes first?"

Brother Girard smiled. "Look behind you, Carlos. I made certain arrangements through fire headquarters while we drove up."

Carlos turned and looked up the road-several soldiers were bringing horses down from the castle.

The Morton family's side porch

Jack stood looking at the Wall. Nobody was talking to him just now; Father had gone off to guide the jaegers and their hounds while they worked through their land. Beside him, stepsister Bess was making good use of Master Oughtred's big telescope. What she could see through it, she could see very well, but she could see only a small patch of the Wall or the lower slopes at a time. If something was there for just a moment or two, and the telescope was looking in the wrong place . . . they needed more eyes.

He stepped around the house to where he could see the buses unloading, and smiled. He cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted his loudest, "Beaver Patrol! Beaver Patrol! To me!" Five faces turned toward him, and he swung his arm in the signal "Assemble" and then "Hurry."

Jan Brinker was first up the walkway as they came all in a rush. "Hello, Mister Morton. What is going on?"

"Troop 9 will take on a task no one else has thought of. Very likely Mrs. Villareal is up there somewhere, maybe not where anyone thinks. We will stand here and watch the Wall, steadily, for any clue. Point at anything you see, until Bess here can bring Master Oughtred's telescope on it. Did any of you bring telescopes or binoculars?"

Ralph Onofrio had. Karl Blume had. The boys and their Assistant Scoutmaster divided up the cliff into search sectors and went to it. Bess concentrated on stepping the big telescope from pocket to cliff-edge to cave-opening. After a time Stepmother brought them breakfast; they ate with their eyes on the Wall.

Above Murphy's Run

"Holy cow, look what those klutzes did with that rope! It's lucky the thing didn't come loose with them on it! And Livie."

"Carlos, if you must blaspheme in front of four monks, it's as well you chose to blaspheme the Hindu beliefs."

Brother Girard laughed.

"Mmp. Sorry. What do you want us to do, Girard? Belay Marcel, there?"

"No, he just needs to rig his rope and descender, so he can go down to assess the situation. I'll assist him as needed."

"Suggestion? No telling who or what is in that cave. Somebody else should go with him for backup, and they should both be armed."

Brother Girard gave him a startled look, then nodded. "Indeed. Marcel and Andre together, then. Carlos and Will, secure your own safety lines, then help Mario place the hoisting rig over the cliff edge; we may well need it."

"Right."

Stake down the base. Run backstays to handy trees. Thread the pulley. Lay out lines, ready to drop. Set down the rescue basket where it was out from underfoot, but easy to reach in a hurry if the team below called for it. Carlos's lips tightened at that.

Meanwhile, Brother Girard watched and waited with a walkie-talkie in his hand. It was a piece of junk. There were only two channels; the thing was made for kids to play with, and the effects of that were plain to see. Even the up-time duct tape repair was cheap stuff, it was starting to peel at the ends. The battery pack was a clunky thing with a belt clip, kluged on with a yard and a half of lamp wire. Still, it was the latest technology. It wouldn't dump acid out and quit working if it tipped over. Before long, it came alive.

"Rescue One Alfa, this is Rescue One Bravo, at the entrance."

"Rescue One Bravo, Alfa. You have found her?"

"Negative. Nobody is present, and we searched everywhere we could reach and called loudly. But there is a kind of camp a good distance inside, you can't see it from the entrance. I found damaged woman's clothing there. Does Carlos know what she wore that day?"

Brother Girard held out the radio.

"Carlos speaking. Most likely jeans, but sometimes she changes during the day. What kind of shirt did you see?"

"Plaid, mostly white with thin blue and red stripes."

Carlos groaned. "Has to be hers. She's got one like that."

What the hell? If she rappelled down, she'd have landed on the road and gone straight to the nearest house, the Morton place. Was she hiding from somebody? Could somebody else have taken her off somewhere?

****

Tipton heard it on his patrol car's CB rig. This was getting crazier and crazier. The chief had said Bennet didn't seem to have any notion about moving her after he and Chekhov hauled her up there-and where the hell was Chekhov?

The dogs hadn't scented Olivia anywhere but along the path between Oughtred's cabin, the Morton place, and the road to the foot of the Wall. The miners had stopped work; they were checking everything inside their own fence. The ground search teams were already moving in, best leave them to it. He was getting a sinking feeling about this, but if there was any chance at all. . . . What were they overlooking? Where else did they need to look?

Jack Morton and one of his Scouts were coming at a dead run.

****

"Rescue One Alfa, this is Bluelight Eight. Can you guys get a look into those cut-off mine tunnels below you?"

"Stand by, Bluelight Eight. This will require some thought."

A minute passed.

"Bluelight Eight, Rescue One Alfa. We have a plan. It will be necessary to place anchors on the way down in order to stay against the Wall. We have qualified rock climbers with us who can do this."

Marvin Tipton's mind was racing. Villareal and Oughtred could get there, but should they? If it was a wild goose chase, it could burn up a lot of time, and then they'd need to get back up before they could go anywhere else.

The kid with Jack Morton broke into his thoughts. "We can't see into there from this angle down here, Mr. Morton." His hand waved vaguely. "We'd have to be out there someplace."

Tipton's jaw dropped. He whirled to the car and twisted the channel knob. "Grantville Tower, this is Blue Light Eight. You got anybody who could do a flyby along the Ring Wall?"

****

The plane came skimming over the ridgeline, sideslipped down over the wooded slope, made a steep turn away from the Wall, poured on the power and climbed away again. A couple of miles away, it came around for another pass.

"What are you doing, Carlos?"

"Praying for the guys in that plane, Will. I've seen Belles fly. They're no crop-dusters, they're not built for this stuff."

Suddenly Brother Girard's walkie-talkie came alive again. "Blue Light Eight, this is Belle Three. My student caught a glimpse of something fluorescent pink. Going around for another pass."

"Blue Light Eight, roger." The radio went quiet.

"Do you think that's her, Carlos?"

"I don't know, Girard, I'm pretty sure she doesn't own anything that color, but no down-time dye looks like what he described." He looked out at the plane below them, maneuvering into position.

The plane came across the opposite slope this time, in a descending spiral toward the mine buildings. The engine started throttling up for the climb-out.

"Blue Light Eight, Belle Three. Contact. Upper left mine tunnel. A red-haired woman lying curled up in a sunny patch, a few yards inside. We didn't see movement."

"Belle Three, Blue Light Eight, roger and thank you."

"Blue Light Eight, Rescue One Alfa copies all. Proceeding with plan."

It was Olivia, right where Bess had said. And this was going to be a rock climbing job after all.

There wouldn't have been any point trying to set up directly above the tunnel where Olivia was, even if the terrain allowed for it, which it didn't. Carlos and Will were already dropping their lines over the edge and hooking up. The fastest way was down to the lower row of anchors they'd set the other day, across along the fixed line, and then down the Wall setting anchors periodically so as to stay pulled in; it wouldn't do a lot of good to get down there and not be able to reach it. The firemen pulled a powder-driven stud gun out of their bag of tricks, to speed that up. Down went the rescue basket from the hoisting rig, with a long tag line to Will's harness.

"Ready, Will?"

"Yes, Carlos, all right."

"One moment, gentlemen. Marcel, lend them your radio. What's your call sign?"

"Rockhound."

****

"What if she's dead, Will?" They were anchored about half way down to the tunnel entrance, taking a breather because they had to.

"Hope, Carlos, hope! She must have gotten up onto her knees for a moment, otherwise how could she have been seen from below? Pray with me for a moment."

They caught their breath and swung back into the job: drive an anchor, thread a ring, descend some more.

The mine drift was small and still damp with the night's dew when Carlos and Will finally reached it. She was curled up in what little sunshine was still getting inside this late in the morning, facing the sun. Carlos was first in; he felt her bare ankle. Her flesh was cold, and she wasn't shivering. His heart sank.

But her foot pulled back, and they heard a croak, "Go fuck yourself." She opened her eyes and looked; whether she really saw them was impossible to tell.

"Livie! I'm here."

"No. Bad dream. Carlos. Dead." Her voice was awful, a rasp.

"Livie, I'm alive and I'm here."

"No . . . no. Carlos is dead. He fell off the Wall."

"Livie, the basket is coming. We'll put you into the basket and lower you to the ground." That was the plan, the only choice that made any sense. She needed the ambulance, and the ambulance could only come by road. Will took the radio and started talking to the firemen.

"No. I am dead. Carlos is dead. Everyone is dead. We died when the Ring fell and went to hell."

"Olivia, mi corazon, I live, we live."

She looked at him, trying to focus, "Why are we all dead?"

"Nobody's dead. You're alive."

"This is hell."

"No, mi corazon, anywhere you are is heaven."

She blinked, then, and moaned, "Water, please. The stars are spinning."

Will had the tag line hauled in by then. Carlos got out the pulley they'd sent in the basket. While Will held his canteen to her lips, Carlos took the stud gun one more time and anchored that pulley overhead so it would never come loose with Olivia's weight on it. Then he shot in some more of the things and rigged a ring, so he could rappel beside the basket and guide her down.

Livie began screaming as soon as they started to move her. She hit Will so hard that she broke her wrist on the backswing against a ragged lump in the drift wall. That made it even more of a delicate job to get her settled in with a blanket around her and her climbing harness secured to the cable for a safety backup.

Then everything was ready. Will got on the radio again. "Rescue One Alfa, this is Rockhound. Take up the slack, with utmost care."

Over the edge, and down to the valley floor. Olivia didn't stop screaming until they reached the ground and the two female EMTs spoke to her.

Will cast off the rescue team's pulley so they could haul up their gear, and came down Carlos's line. By then the ground teams were streaming back and gathering around the command post. Carlos turned in the walkie-talkie to Tipton, stood up on the cruiser's bumper, and waved his hands for silence. "If you haven't heard, Olivia's on the way to the hospital, and Will Oughtred and I are leaving in a minute to follow her. Thank you, thank you all, for everything you did. I think we got to her just in time, I hope we did. God bless you."

****

Will had never really seen what Leahy Medical Center was like from the inside. For the first couple of days Carlos hardly left the hospital. The medical staff let him stay by her side, holding her for hours at a time, when it didn't interfere with treatment. Will sat with him when he could; it seemed to help, even if there wasn't much to say. Twice the doctors sent out the call for blood; Will's was acceptable, as was Paola's; Carlos' was not.

Even in these terrible circumstances, William Oughtred's curiosity as to new things could never be extinguished; he learned the names of some of the means of keeping Olivia in this world-a defibrillator, a crash cart, an oxygen concentrator, Code Blue.

September 6

The sky above Grantville rumbled darkly, flashing with lightning. A blast of wind came rolling down through the treetops like a passing train. Carlos Villareal barely made it to his old truck before the thunderheads opened and let loose a torrent.

He'd left before it was done. His soul ached. To hell with Bennet! He snorted at the irony of the thought. Yeah, any minute now. He took a breath and reached for the gearshift. The rain coldly hammered everything, the wind shoved the truck around, the windows seeped, and the tattered windshield wipers gamely did what they could. Here and there, through the blur, he glimpsed faint red taillights or yellowish headlights.

It was a relief to arrive at Leahy Medical Center. He managed to snag a spot close to the front portico, and waited a couple of minutes to see if the squall would break; meanwhile, he was left with nothing to think about but-everything. Livie would be sure to tease him about the poetry of counting moments between lightning, thunder, and rain cells when he told her. Finally, he flung open the truck's door, slammed it behind him, and dashed through the sheets of rain to the front door.

Carlos strode down the central hallway to physical therapy, taking barely enough notice of the people bustling past to avoid an actual collision. He leaned on the doorframe for a second or two with his head down, then slipped inside, dropped onto the oak bench by the doors, and settled in to watch the session.

It was a bright room, the walls a cheery butterscotch. The tall south-facing windows, adorned with flowers cascading from the sills, brought in all the light possible in the gloom. Two of the cast iron stoves were going, taking the edge off the dankness.

Busy as the place was, Carlos had eyes only for Olivia. She hadn't looked his way when he came in, and neither had the therapist she was conferring with. Well, he'd seen before how intense these sessions could be. It was just a miracle what physical therapy could do after the doctors finished. They'd told him her right arm ought to make a full recovery, or close to it. Knowing Olivia, she'd do the exercises for as long as it took.

After a time, Will Oughtred slipped in next to him and stretched out his legs. "The hanging went very well. It was well-attended. I wondered that you did not stay."

Carlos replied, bitterly, "No, I decided I didn't want to . . . but, Will, it was a good day for it."

"The rain? The thunder and lightning? The hurley-burley?"

"God's judgment, as you keep reminding me-any day is good for that . . . Look at her. Livie's making progress. She can bend her elbow pretty well now."

"Yes, she's doing well." Will paused, watching. "That rocking motion seems to help-you said she does four hours a day, everything taken together? But how is her state?"

"Her state of mind? It could be a lot better. I hope . . . At least the law sent Bennet to hell! Are the damned lawyers done discussing that damned Rothrock yet? Or are they still debating which circle of Dante's inferno to send him to?"

"Dante's inferno? You speak too casually, Carlos. Think what hell is. The absence, forever, of God. Bennet had no valid claim to mercy, so by his choices and guilt, he surely chose hell. We may never understand that choice. But truly, we both know, for Rothrock there are mitigating circumstances. If the legal proceedings and negotiations go as the newspapers predict, he's most unlikely to hang for his failings."

Carlos slammed his fist down on his knee without even realizing it. "Goddamn Rothrock! After all the damage they did, he did, hanging's not enough! Nowhere near enough! That torn ligament they've got Livie working on over there didn't have to happen, never mind all the rest of it!"

"Carlos, Carlos, softly, please, Olivia has not seen us yet. Have a bit more faith that justice will be done. In any case, death by hanging is the most severe sentence that court has in its hands-or cares to have. You know the great irony? Bennet would likely not have lived another year, perhaps half a year. He was deathly ill with both leukemia and syphilis.

"Let's go sit over coffee, Carlos. We can talk more there."

If there was anybody in Grantville Carlos could talk with about any of this, it was old Will Oughtred. He spread his hands for a moment and got up.

Sternbock's Cafe, off the hospital's lobby

Carlos stared down at the cup of espresso cradled between his hands. For all the attention he gave the stained glass window, welcoming as it was even on a day as gloomy as this one, it might as well have been bare mud brick.

Will's voice pulled him back to his surroundings. "I've come to see much merit in what English law has become here, through the twists and turns of history. Rothrock's trial, I think, will be all about the law."

Carlos chewed that over. "The law? I guess so. With that pile of paper you're spreading out, there sure isn't any shortage of evidence."

"Just so. I have talked to certain people and umm . . . retrieved the information necessary to prepare a complete account of all this, a bit underhandedly, I admit." He gestured toward one stack. "Here we have the transcript from Bennet's trial."

"You, a preacher man, underhanded?"

"On rare occasion. This is essential, if I am to present a report to, um, Arundel. He wanted the intelligence about the law here-and the politics; he has since the beginning. However, this series of events raised his concern to something well past a general interest in ordinary matters or their political implications. Oh, and please, Carlos, I do appreciate your reticence as to my holy orders, with regard to the good ladies of the Episcopal Church."

"Ffff! Sure, I got your back on that."

"Thank you. As to Arundel, he harbors both an apprehension and a deep curiosity about, well, everything related to us here-not just the bald facts of our laws and politics, but the full meaning! He seems driven to grok it all-I like that word-from the United States Constitution's fourteenth amendment to what the SoTF has made of it."

"The fourteenth . . . ? Oh, yeah, equal protection of the laws."

"Among its other provisions." Will's eyes flashed for a moment. "In those few words we see the heart and soul of the entire social philosophy you brought us, not just the formalisms of law. Anyone who hopes to comprehend what the Ring of Fire brought to this world must understand this deeply. I've said as much to Arundel, a time or two."

"Well, you took up citizenship-"

"Two years ago-and I'm still doing as I agreed for Arundel. Well.

"You know the words of that document, Carlos-but you've had those rights your entire life. They are new and very compelling to us-" Will stopped sorting papers to look across the table at him. "Just as your reaction to a public hanging is odd to those of this century."

"Those rights are the only thing worth fighting for . . . but I have trouble dealing with a public hanging. I'm not against the death penalty, but we put that behind closed doors a long time in our past. Sweet Jesus, I didn't need to watch it to know it was done."

"Mmm? You do trust in justice, then."

Carlos looked back at him, and waved an acknowledgment.

"But to return to this business, absorbing an essay on our laws here is one thing, fully grasping their logic and origin is another. By the light of German law heretofore, I'm certain Arundel will find it altogether astonishing that because of your old constitution Bennet had the legal right not to incriminate himself, and for that reason, there never was any thought of torturing him for a confession." He sipped at his espresso. "Well, Spee's Cautio Criminalis must have echoed down the centuries. I shall advise him to read it closely, if he hasn't already done so."

"Damn right, he should. It's enough to curl your hair." Carlos had read the English translation in the newspaper, during the witchcraft uproar a couple of years earlier. "The crap they used to do. Still do, in a lot of places." He took a gulp from his coffee.

Will set down his cup and looked at Carlos. "That aside, there are other things that concern us. In particular, that limestone cave up on the Wall."

"Huh? I'd just as soon we'd never seen it."

"I can well understand. However, I went there with a party of the mineral survey a few days ago. We were able to get in further than when it was first discovered, through a narrow passage Rothrock and Bennet hacked open in their search. In the chamber beyond, we saw impressively large calcite crystals."

That broke through Carlos's sour mood. "Oh, yeah? That ought to make the optics crowd happy."

"It would if they were clear, but if any of that kind have been found in the Germanies, I haven't heard. Still, some were beautifully colored. Doctor Jones was rubbing his hands with glee as we shone our lights around. He turned to me and exclaimed, 'Excellent, Oughtred, we must publish!' Here, Carlos, take a look." He took a small velvet bag from his leather case and spread out a sprinkling of translucent crystals, some almost white and some reddish, the largest the size of a man's finger.

Carlos looked close, then picked up a couple of them and turned them in the light. "Nice. Looks like calcite, all right. You sure, though?"

"I tested with acid. Little else would react the same way."

"Yeah. Too bad it's not clear calcite. Or clear quartz, for that matter. They'd be a lot more useful."

"Yes, well, who knows what else we might find in the lower strata of the Zechstein? But here's the thing. As I said, some of those crystals are rather beautiful, and could draw buyers for that reason alone. Rothrock had no idea what they actually are, but he filed for the right to mine the deposit. He owns it all, or holds a lease, or some other legal formula, I'm not precisely sure. Perhaps it would bring enough to pay a share of what your dear lady's care is costing."

"Sue the bastard? Well, why the hell not? If the claim's worth anything. I've got no idea what mining law is like by now."

"Or if his defense lawyers fail to consume it all." A rueful expression flickered across Will's face as he put away the stones and laid a notepad where they'd been. "And now, let's try to impose some kind of order on this mountain of words in front of us."

The second floor

It was very late when Carlos came into Olivia's room. She was already fitfully asleep.

He leaned over and kissed her forehead lightly. It was her soul that mattered; her state of mind tore at him. She twitched restlessly in her dream. He brushed a long curl off her face. Olivia was perfectly beautiful, ageless in a way. He rested his weight on the cot they'd put there for him. Cheerless as it was, it was beside Livie.

He had to persuade her to come home. He would try again in the morning, but gently. He understood her reasons; Bennet had invaded their home and made a wreck of it, besides all his other crimes, but he was finally gone for good. Yet, in her mind, Leahy Medical was safest; it was full of people at all hours, and always prepared for trouble. He hoped she would come 'round, and soon. Her physical injuries had nearly healed.

But after what had happened, he could not, would not, rush their life back together. He would try to sleep. The night terrors would start soon enough; Olivia's or his, then sometimes both of them would wake nearly screaming. Then Carlos would hold Olivia on her hospital bed until sleep came again.

She never remembered anything of the dreams, but he always remembered. For her, Carlos would always remember.

Morning

Carlos stopped short in the doorway when he caught sight of the manuscript stacked beside Will Oughtred's portable typewriter. The old man must have been sitting there in the cafe all night, going without a break. Carlos had agreed to proofread, but he hadn't expected anything as massive as this. It wasn't just Will's report, either. It was the table full of documents and books it had to be fact-checked against.

He took a couple of seconds to get his face back under control, then walked in. You kept your promises, if you wanted to keep your friends.

Will lifted the morning newspaper. "They've decided, Carlos. Rothrock is charged as an 'accessory after the fact to kidnapping and rape,' a far lesser offense than Bennet's."

Carlos blew up all over again. "The bastard! He went up there and saw her, and left her there! He didn't say a word to anybody, not even an anonymous note-he just plain left her there! Goddamn Rothrock-I could break his lousy neck!"

"As understandable as that would be, it would gain you and your family nothing, my friend, but to put your own head in a noose. Do not succumb to the devil's temptations. Let it be the jury that pronounces lawful judgment upon him."

Carlos just growled.

Will half-smiled for a moment. "That aside, there's this report to Arundel to finish; he has been asking when it would be complete since his first letter after correspondence resumed. I'd like nothing better than to deluge him with copies of all of this."

"Tell me he has some better reason than morbid curiosity-"

"I can tell you this much-what I suspect is true and what actually is true might not coincide entirely, but he's maneuvering for something, I am certain of it. He is nearly always planning and doing more than one thing, if over twenty years of acquaintance is any guide. But whatever might be in his mind, it will be with relief that I see this off by courier to my connection at Leiden."

"Huh? Leiden? Is that the only way you can get it to Padua?"

Will sighed. "My friend, Arundel is no longer in Italy, he has gone to be with Hartlib and other scholars in the Netherlands, because of what happened in Padua. Bennet's misdeeds are still coming to light. It wasn't in Grantville that they began, or apparently in Padua, either."

"So? My wife's hell and mine-"

"Were caused . . . were caused by a mad series of events that began with confusion and have culminated in disaster. Do you know we finally discovered what became of the former chain of couriers?"

"Maybe you said something; I don't remember."

"Well, then, at Arundel's urging after we regained contact, I hired the man who calls here to trace the whole chain and make inquiries as he went. A certain Armand d'Orsini, a man of seventy or so, traveled for many years between Padua and Innsbruck. On January fifth, he began his usual run north, went on for eight days, and stopped for the night according to his usual habit at the inn in Campo di Trens. And there he died in his bed. The innkeeper knew nothing of d'Orsini's business or relations, and had no better idea than to keep his saddlebags until someone might call for them."

"Nobody did?"

"Nobody did, until the man I sent. As it happened, the bags contained Arundel's letter asking what I knew of the Ring's Fire-by that time a wildly spreading craze among the continent's rich and powerful, and soon enough a commodity of political advantage. Months wore away with no reply from me, and no messages from Morton either after that letter left Padua. Then an ordinary article of mine appeared in one of the new scholarly journals. Arundel was baffled and worried. A man in his position is liable to acquire unknown enemies at any time, and not necessarily because of anything he's done or not done. And so, not knowing whether Tim Morton or I even lived by then, or what other unimaginable calamity might have come about, Arundel sent Rothrock and Bennet here to look and listen with the greatest caution, and to do whatever seemed best. The rest, we know all too well." He flicked his eyes toward the court transcripts.

"Shit! That's what started this whole clusterfuck?"

"Yes, Carlos. It was nothing more sinister than a man coming to the end of his appointed days. I have offered prayers for him.

"One thing more. Though I've served Arundel in compiling this, little in it is in any sense secret or even private. Nearly all of it comes from public records that any citizen may read. An agent connected to Schmucker and Schwentzel has approached me to make a book out of this miserable, confused affair. You and Olivia would be most welcome as co-authors."

****

Olivia's homecoming was far from the joyful triumph it should have been. It was bittersweet to see Carlos's gentleness as she nerved herself to step down from the truck, looking all around her, then through the garden gate, along the flagstones, and finally after long minutes, up the stairs onto the porch and through the front door. She wore her gun; at her insistence, Carlos and Will did likewise.

She examined the house room by room, over and over, visibly taking hold of herself as she went.

All was tidy and well-repaired by the hands of their neighbors, friends, and children, other than the empty places of certain long-cherished belongings that were no more. The pain of Bennet's wanton destruction-which that hateful despoiler admitted at trial. . . . He never explained what prompted his furious ransacking, or what its object had been. Century-old Mexican artifacts shredded, Olivia's classically themed portrait spirited away, massive frame and all . . . At the end, he set fire to the back patio arbor. None of it made the least sense to anyone, perhaps not even to him. He had screamed "witches" repeatedly at Olivia, Carlos, even Will during his trial, and been held in contempt thereafter.

Carlos helped settle her in the best chair, and brought her herb tea. While he warmed a bowl of apple crisp a neighbor had left, Will stood looking out at the front garden, wondering whether there was anything he could say to her that would help, or even whether it would be wise to say anything at all. But it was Olivia who spoke. "Carlos, you want to bring in the cassette recorder? If we're going to write a book about this mess, we'd better start saving our recollections."

September

"What the hell happened, Will?"

They were seated around a painted iron table, looking out into Olivia's back garden, where a young peach sapling had grown noticeably during the summer. Four or five bees hummed among the flowers in the golden light of afternoon. Even on this late summer day, Olivia wore a wool jacket half-buttoned, and had a light blanket thrown over her lower body.

Will cupped his hands around the mug of warm chocolate, made Mexican style, and tried to formulate an answer. Many answers.

"Bennet's delusion, I think, is the lesser mystery. You were among the artists and art teachers who posed in costume during photography and drawing sessions?"

Olivia nodded.

"One of those who came here to discover what might be of use in his profession returned home to Italy with photographs taken during the sessions. He was already an accomplished and respected painter. One of those photographs ironically became the inspiration for his own depiction of Calypso. Arundel purchased it as a gift to his host, who hung it in one of the salons, where Bennet saw it often. It fed his growing insanity. I can only guess what he imagined when he saw your portrait from Gozo, after he had already kidnapped you.

"But as to larger matters . . ." he paused again to marshal his thoughts. "The Earl of Arundel rarely does anything for a single reason. However, I think I understand one of his purposes.

"He wishes England to take her place among the powers of the earth, as she once did in your history. But having pondered deeply on that history, and on the works of economists from Adam Smith onward, he has gained a very different understanding of the foundations of wealth and power from that of most minds of our time. He has discarded the long-held assumption that of course economics is what is called a 'zero-sum game,' because he sees that land is no longer to be the only source of wealth-not even the chief source. Therefore he is indifferent to the gains of others, so long as England gains-and the Howards. But for anyone to gain, the knowledge here in Grantville must not only be kept safe against all hazards, it must be spread to the world and brought to England as quickly as it can be. This has already begun, of course; one of my former countrymen at the high school has returned home to teach mathematics at Cambridge.

"Richelieu's unspeakable assault two years ago, which came so dreadfully close to success, shook Arundel badly. He wrote as much when I reported what nearly became of the library. He declares Richelieu's vicious plot to be a knowing and willful rebellion against the manifest will of God, blackest treachery even against the church he proclaims holy, against all of the Christian churches, and even to the great detriment of all the people of France. He has said that whatever brilliant arguments Richelieu may have conceived to excuse such a sacrilege in his own mind, it was in stark truth done in the service of Satan.

"Rothrock told me that when Arundel first read my report of the attack against the library and school, he was shaking with fury. He struck his fist against the dining table so hard that the plates jumped, and roared 'Never again.' He is determined that everything that is of use must be copied, translated, archived, and taught in so many places that there will never again be a place where it can all be destroyed at one blow. As you may well imagine, I am one of many who share in that purpose."

Olivia couldn't stop her face from showing the bitterness she felt. "I hope to hell he can find better help than he did the last time."

Carlos looked off toward the picket fence for a moment and snorted. "He'll sure need a lot of it. Does he have any idea how big a job he's talking about?"

"Oh, he fully understands that he cannot fund such a massive task from his own purse, nor even direct it. Many scholars are already at work with and without him; they have reasons enough of their own. No, what he hopes to do is assist, encourage, lightly guide, whisper a word in the right ear, spend a few guilders where they would clear away whatever bottleneck is most troublesome. Of special importance, watch for key omissions and commission someone capable of attending to them, so that essential accomplishments that might take decades take years instead, or some that might take years should take months. He'd hoped the University of Padua might become a center for it all, but Bennet's offenses against decency there have come to light and made it impossible for him to accomplish anything. He's with Samuel Hartlib in Leiden now. They're constantly at the engineering school and the university.

"As for me, he's written of hopes to hurry along certain important improvements in printing. He wishes me to meet with the Kubiaks to see what might be done."

Olivia lowered her cup to her lap and looked at him. "You know, outside of editing our manuscript, reading is about all I've been doing lately. Good luck getting anything about England straightened out, with that bloody-handed madman Charles Stuart in the way. Not to mention Boyle. And I wonder what Cromwell's up to, now that he's loose?"

"The Stuarts . . . Even here in Grantville, I shall not speak of them. The rest of the landed aristocracy, well, little is likely to be done with England's wealth of coal, of iron, of timber and deep harbors and hard-working folk, while so few keep their grip on the land and the gold, and use it only for extravagant entertainments and displays of curiosities, wrestling for political advantage. And Arundel, being of that aristocracy, will need to be agile, if he hopes to gain by such an overturning of the order. But any courtier must be agile, always.

"But Cromwell, now, there's a joker in the deck! It's said he travels with a radio operator, and knows many things the other Cromwell did not. I wonder who may be busy among the libraries and factories of Grantville on his behalf?

"Meanwhile, having fulfilled the commission I agreed to, I have a new offer from Arundel. His son, Lord William Howard, is to study here, and he wishes to engage me to guide him. I'm giving it serious consideration, after our book is at the printers."

October

"Beautiful, Carlos. Stunning. Is it what I think?"

"Yeah, Will, it's one of the little geodes Jack cemented to the Wall, and, yes, it turned out to be ametrine inside. The other one's in Roth's vault. Go ahead and pick it up. Have a look."

Oughtred turned it under the brilliant light over the bench where Carlos had been working at it. With the dull crust gone, it was still close to five inches across.

Carlos pointed with a pencil. "If you squint, you can kind of see the outlines of the continents in it.

"I didn't want to just cut this up and sell it off in little pieces, like that guy in Jena did with what Tim brought him. Jeeze, I wish to heck I'd mentioned what got stolen, sometime at the Gardens when Tim was around. Or if he'd just said something about what he and Sybil found.

"Anyway, we got this back. But now I don't know what to do with it. It's probably worth an emperor's ransom."

"I don't doubt it is, Carlos. And our emperor has better sense than to squander all he has on pretense and display. Well, then, why not let Roth manage the sale? He would surely know the price of such a marvel, and how best to bring it to market."

****

Olivia didn't put her hand on her pistol, but she stood with her body between it and the door as she turned the knob with her other hand.

A messenger from das Furstenhaus Thurn und Taxis handed her a thick packet and a receipt to sign.

As she took it to the dining room table, she called down the cellar stairs, "Carlos! Will! Come on up and look at this thing!"

Will's eyebrows rose when he saw the parchment outer envelope, complete with a green satin ribbon sealed in amber wax with the sigil of the Earl of Arundel.

The letter, when she opened it, was dated September 21, 1634.

"You've become a personage of note, Olivia; that's the earl's own handwriting."

"Um, okay . . . looks like the first part of this is an abject apology for dumping Bennet in our laps, and everything he did . . . Huh? He and Lady Alethea are coming to Grantville, and he wants to visit us and apologize again in person. But will you listen to this! He says 'no noble lady, however distantly related to my house, should have suffered such indignities and offenses!' Good grief, Will, I thought you said he understood our laws and why they're the way they are, after everything you sent him. It doesn't matter who I'm related to, nobody from a scrubwoman to a senator should have to go through what I did! I think I'll write to him myself and tell him thanks for the sympathy, but they hung Bennet for what he did, not who he did it to, and the laws in this state are the same for everybody. He'd damn well better get that through his head, if he's coming here."

Will stood with a startled expression on his face, while she picked up the inner envelope, the same as the outer, and sealed in the same way. Her hand still trembled with indignation as she broke the seal and opened it; the letter inside slipped out and fluttered to the table.

She picked it up, still shaking her head at how obtuse the nobility could be, even when they were trying to be fair and decent. She began reading. After the salutations and the expressions of sympathy and regret, came the heart of the missive.

****

My lord husband and I have found much to ponder in Master Oughtred's many letters, together with the books and documents he hath commended to our attention. Among these are A Vindication of the Rights of Woman, as well the provisions of the old United States Constitution. If you and the justly famed Mistress Mailey would do me the honour of calling at our suite during our stay in Grantville, I would very much like to hear your thoughts of the history of your Nineteenth Amendment and in what manner its like might be brought home to England, for I fear that our land may never find her rightful place as long as half her people are denied theirs.

Lady Alethea, Countess Arundel

****

Second Chance Bird, Episode Six

Garrett W. Vance

Chapter Thirty-One: One Man's Junk is Another's Treasure

Captured Oriental Junk, South Coast of Mauritius

Pam and Dore climbed the wide, stair-like ladder out of the cool shadows of the lower decks to stand blinking beneath the Tropic of Capricorn's blazing sun. Squinting against the glare, Pam saw Dore looking wistfully back down toward the wonderful galley they had discovered-the height of luxury and abundance after their long sojourn marooned on a remote shore. Pam smiled at Dore's almost child-like eagerness to play with her new toys and motioned her to follow. "Okay, pal-o-mine, you'll have your chance to do your thing in there soon enough. Let's go check out the upper cabins."

The junk was cruising slowly down the coast of their cove, pushed along by a summery breeze in her slatted crimson sails, engaged in another practice run. Sailors rushed to and fro, sometimes pausing to puzzle over her unfamiliar designs. The bosun's voice could be heard on the foredeck, by turns roundly cursing any man who was slow to grasp the intricacies of the foreign rigging, then damning the mad heathens who had built such an unusual craft in the first place. Pam had full faith that her crew would manage; they were moving forward in any case, which must surely be a good sign. Now that they had a ship, she didn't want to dally. The fate of the colonists weighed heavily on her, as it did on all aboard, and all possible haste would have to be made.

Their eyes somewhat adjusted to the brightness, she and Dore headed to the high aft tower that Pam thought of as "the castle deck." Standing in its shade, they peeked into the bottom cabin. The windows had been opened to freshen the air inside, which had a pleasant woody scent. Earlier, the sailors had reported that they had performed a very thorough cleanup, removing all evidence that the pirates had ever lived aboard. One of the cleaning-crew sailors, Hake, had remarked that the heathen pirates had been remarkably neat and clean, except for some bloodstains here and there, very likely from tortured captives; "Once they've dried, they're hell to remove." Pam had grimaced at that, but didn't fault the fellow for his honesty.

"Let's go inside!" Pam said, Dore nodding eagerly in reply.

The cabin was no disappointment even after the delights to be found in the galley. These were the quarters the bosun had suggested for Gerbald and Dore. The door opened near the bottom of the castle deck's ladder. As the only married couple of the expedition, they would be given the second-nicest room on the ship, the first being reserved for the captain. They found a spacious, wood-paneled apartment, elegantly furnished with the same kind of heavy and ornately carved lacquered-wood furniture found in the lobbies of fancier Chinese restaurants. It most certainly had been reserved for distinguished guests, or perhaps used by high-ranking ship's officers. They found fresh bed linens neatly folded and ready for use in sandalwood scented cabinets. Pam was very pleased to see they were made of silk. The bed was, much like the Redbird's, built into the walls. It was a lot wider, yet a bit shorter than what they were accustomed to. There were plenty of large cushions and pillows if they needed to spread out onto the carpeted floor.

After the initial inspection, Dore wrung her hands and exclaimed, "We can't possibly stay here!" She was obviously shocked by the level of opulence. "This is a room for a prince or a duke, not a washerwoman and her old soldier husband!"

"Nonsense," Pam replied firmly. "You're the chief cook and Gerbald is my personal bodyguard as well as an acting sergeant in our fighting force, so you get the good stuff. Enjoy it!" Dore looked unconvinced but Pam added "That's an order!" and gave her friend a playful grin.

Pam wasn't surprised when the upper quarters were double the grandeur and four times the space, occupying the entire floor of the tower. Pam looked around and quickly decided she would make the area near the door the dining room and office. The back third of the capacious room would be made private, since that was where the bed was, as well as the bathroom. She was pleased to see those facilities were a bit more advanced than on the ships of Europe. There was more than enough space for her needs. Placed along the dark-stained wooden walls were many beautifully painted movable screens. These would be perfect for dividing the room.

The two friends grinned like fools at their change of fortune. To go from roughing it, stranded on a deserted shore, to occupying ship's quarters that oozed with comfort was a pleasant kind of shock. Pam shook her head slowly, gazing at the luxurious space as if she were in a dream, daring it to be solid. Pam and Dore began rearranging the place to suit Pam's needs, taking one of the decorated screens from the wall and placing it in front of her bunk, to make it a sleeping alcove. The wood bases of the five-foot screens were quite heavy and certainly designed to stay upright even in the worst storms. Pam was pleased to find that this ship would provide a gentler ride than poor old Redbird had. They were under way at a fair clip now and she could barely feel it. As they went for another screen, Pam bumped into a pile of pillows leaning against the wall and knocked them over. When she leaned down to straighten them, she noticed there was an opening in the wall-a thin, dark crack running from the floor to a height of about three feet.

"Hmm, what do you suppose this is?" She pushed the pillows away and felt along the crack with her fingers. It was actually a small, hidden door that had been left just slightly ajar. A thrill rose in her. So, our lovely craft has secrets. Wonderful!

"Dore! Try to find a knife or something we can use to pry this open!" Dore began to scurry around the room in search of a suitable implement. Pam kept tugging and pushing here and there until she discovered a tiny spot the size of a man's thumb that appeared to have been worn smooth by years of touch. She pushed it and the door popped open as neat as could be. "Never mind, Dore. Bring a candle!"

Dore, well-practiced with the flint and steel she carried in her apron pockets, had a candle lit faster than Pam could strike a match. She handed it to Pam and they both got down on their hands and knees to peer into the space they had revealed.

To Pam's amazement, there was a deep closet here, a secret room. Among the various fascinating items within the dark space, the one that caught her eye above all was a large wooden box reinforced with metal bands. Crawling over to it, she tried to pull it toward the door. It wouldn't budge. There was something about the thing. . . . The very heaviness of it made the teeny-tiny hairs at the nape of her neck stand up and do the mambo. Sticking out of an ornate-looking brass lock was the back end of a tarnished silver key. Apparently its last user had left in a hurry . . . possibly the fat, turbaned pirate captain? The box looked like a certain kind of container all right, built like a safe, massive and thick. It was darkly age-stained and covered in a faded but flowing white script. She didn't dare think the words that were screaming to be heard in the back of her mind. It simply couldn't be . . .

"Open it, Pam! Let us see!" Dore urged her on, her voice a bit higher-pitched than normal, more like that of a child's than a serious-minded, late-middle-aged woman of God. Pam marveled once again at the amazing youthening effect adventure was having on her friend. They kneeled in front of the mysterious box, both giggling, holding on to each other for support.

Pam hesitated with her hand trembling near the key until Dore gave her a gentle push. They both jumped a bit, their nerves as taut as guitar strings.

"Oh, we are so silly!" Dore said, laughing "It's probably full of ship's papers, all written in that ridiculous squiggle these Easterners use instead of decent letters." Even so, her face was still full of expectation.

"Right!" Pam agreed. "It's not like we would actually find anything valuable on a real pirate ship! This isn't a movie, right?" They both laughed while Pam turned the key. There was a muffled click deep within the mechanism, then the lid popped up a few inches as it released from a spring. Pam and Dore's eyes were as big and round as harvest moons as they gazed at what lay within.

"No, it's a real treasure chest!" Pam announced with comic nonchalance. "Holy shit," she murmured as she raised the chest's heavy lid until it caught some kind of stop and held open. "Holy shit," she said again as her hands touched cool metal and smooth stone. Despite her amazement at such an unexpected discovery, Dore managed to give Pam a quick look of disapproval over her choice of language. Suddenly Pam's mouth was a bit too dry and she nearly croaked, "I can't believe this."

Dore murmured something incomprehensible as she peered over Pam's shoulder. This was replaced by a funny kind of squealing noise and she held onto Pam to steady herself. Scarcely believing what she was seeing, no, touching, Pam filled her hands with a shining mixture of gold and silver coins, glittering jewels and pearls. The box surely held a fortune, a small one perhaps, but a fortune nonetheless. As if to make sure it wasn't a figment of her imagination, she pried one of Dore's hands from its painfully tight grip on her arm and poured lucre into it. They knelt there staring silently into the chest's gleaming contents for a very long time.

"It's real. A real treasure chest on a real pirate ship. Yo-ho-ho." Pam's voice was hushed and full of wonder.

"One might say that our fortunes have changed," Dore said, her head shaking slowly as if to dispel her disbelief.

"Go fetch Gerbald!" Pam told Dore, now feeling dizzy as if she were on some kind of wild carnival ride, the thrill switching to terror and back to thrill again. She dug deeper into the chest, scooping the contents to one side. Besides the coins and gems there were some larger pieces buried within: tiaras, combs and other less easy to identify objects, all a-glitter with precious stones.

Dore ran for the door so fast that she might have shot off the top floor like a cannonball if she hadn't caught herself. Pam had never seen her friend move like that, but then chalked it up to her years surviving in the rough following Gerbald in and out of battles. Dore was certainly full of surprises, but then these days surprises had become the norm.

Shortly a huffing, puffing Dore arrived with an amused Gerbald hurrying after. His ever-present goofy hat was knocked from his head by the low door casing as Dore literally pushed him through. Before he could bend down to retrieve the hat, he froze in place, seeing Pam holding a double palm-full of treasure. His eyes widened and he just stood there staring while Dore picked up his hat, long the object of her scorn, taking care to scrunch and twist its seemingly indestructible mustard yellow felt between her strong hands with great disdain. Failing to make much of a dent, she stood on her tip-toes and plopped it back onto his head where it looked no worse for the attempted wear and tear. "There, he is speechless! If only we had one of those video cameras to record the moment for ages to come."

Pam smiled to see a bit of the feisty old Dore back in play.

Gerbald straightened the much-abused and well-loved hat over his salt-and-pepper hair, taking a moment to digest what he was seeing. With a regal sweep of her arm, Pam escorted him to the closet, which he crawled into with easy grace. He pushed the box to gauge its considerable weight and was able to move it a quarter of an inch. Then he scratched his chin and grinned.

Pam grinned back at him. "I think this must have belonged to that fat, old pirate captain. The writing on it looks more like that swirly Arabic script than Chinese characters. This wasn't the first ship he'd captured, I'll bet. We are probably looking at years of plunder here. I guess you really can't take it with you."

Dore, who had managed to compose herself, quoted scripture in her old familiar Christian soldier's tones: "Treasures of wickedness profit nothing: but righteousness delivereth from death. The Lord will not suffer the soul of the righteous to famish: but he casteth away the substance of the wicked. Proverbs 10:2-3."

Gerbald nodded politely in agreement with his pious wife, buying some always useful good will with the gesture, then turned to Pam. "Pam, when your luck changes it really changes. What do you intend to do with all this?"

"I've decided already," Pam said, while letting a handful of gleaming coins slowly fall back into the chest with a musical tinkling. "We should divide it equally among everybody on this ship."

Dore nodded in staunch approval.

"That is the right thing to do, my Pam!" Dore told her. "We are all in this together. Shall I summon the bosun now?"

"Allow me to tell him," Gerbald cut in. "After all, I missed out on the thrill of first discovery. I would very much like to see our good friend's face when he hears of this windfall. I will tell only him for now. We can divide it all up and then pass it out to the men before tonight's party. I'll bet they will be over the moon."

"Tonight's party?" Pam asked. She saw Dore deliver what must have been a painful blow to the small of her husband's back.

"Oops," Gerbald said in English with a long-suffering sigh.

"Spiller of the beans!" Dore growled at him, also in English. After many years together they used English and German interchangeably, and sometimes mixed the two together in one sentence, despite their best efforts not to. Pam mused that this habit was evolving into a creole some were calling "Amideutch." Dore continued in German, which would always be the most comfortable for her, "It matters not. We have all had enough of surprises by now anyway. We have earned a bit of fun after our many troubles and so tonight is for celebration!" she said expansively, her face alight with pleasure.

"Who are you and what have you done with Dore?" Pam said but Dore didn't seem to hear. She was now pushing her husband toward the door. "Go now, oaf. We must make ourselves presentable. Now that our Pam is a captain, she can't go about dressed in these rags! Out with you!"

Gerbald didn't resist. This time he was careful to duck and keep his hat on.

"Maybe you can buy a new hat now," Pam called after him. It never hurt to hope.

"What? Waste such riches on everyday items? No, I shall use my share of the riches to do something truly wonderful. I shall buy my own television set."

"Not until I have a decent house you won't, foolish man. If the Lord has seen fit to gift us with riches, we must use them wisely!" Jumping, Dore took a swipe at the much-hated hat, but Gerbald was too fast. Her hand flew through thin air as Gerbald disappeared from sight, launching himself out the door and dropping from sight in a blur. No crash or injured call for help came, so Dore and Pam, now giggling like schoolgirls again, began rummaging through the room's many drawers and cabinets, laying out exotic garments on the bed and divans as they went.

Chapter Thirty-Two: Counting their Blessings

Soon after, the bosun was brought in to view their unexpected bounty. He let out a long whistle as he squatted in front of the brimming chest. "I've sailed the seas since I was ten years old," he said, "and never have I seen this kind of wealth. I will be able to buy some land and retire with such a bounty. Truly, your generosity is great to share it, Captain. We would never ask it of you." His eyes glistened moistly.

"You've earned it, my friend," Pam told him. "You all have. Let's count it out, the four of us, and the lojtnant as witness, equal shares for all." The bosun nodded, but Pam still had some idea that she would somehow end up with more. The men of the sea had ways of doing things, and she knew the captain traditionally got a larger share of the booty, a much larger share. She intended to protest, of course, but wheels were already turning. Pam had projects lined up for years to come, and now she had that most critical of all resources: funding. One thing was certain, the first thing she would do with her share of the take was to make damn sure her colony succeeded, which went hand in hand with saving the dodo.

When the lojtnant arrived, he expressed much the same sentiments as the bosun had, but Pam told him to just accept what was coming to him and be happy. He smiled and replied, "As you wish, Captain," obviously as glad to get his hands on such a large chunk of change as they all were.

Together, Gerbald and the lojtnant managed to drag the chest out of its closet and bring it over to the large table Dore had cleared of Oriental knickknacks for the purpose.

"Okay, here's what I think we ought to do," Pam said, after considering the situation for a few minutes. "Let's start with the coins. We will group them by types first and then the ones that don't match any others we can group by material and weight." She reached into the chest to scoop up a double handful of coins which she piled onto the table's surface.

"Here, these two are the same, they look like copper and they have square holes in the middle. Chinese, maybe. I bet they're not worth much." She pushed them off into their own area. The next coin she held up to the light, and made a long whistle. "If this isn't a gold doubloon, I'll eat Gerbald's hat. I always think of the Spaniards hanging out in the Caribbean, but I guess I remember reading something about the Philippines as I was getting ready for this trip. Let's hope there's more of these."

It turned out they weren't able to recognize most of the coins, but the bosun had an old sailor's eye for metals and was able to make what Pam thought were pretty good guesses about the value of each. Gerbald, as an ex-soldier, had also seen his share of coin and did his best to help the bosun make identifications. They sorted the coins into gold, silver and other less identifiable metals or blends of metals. Piles sprung up around the table as they worked. Pam could scarcely believed they were engaged in such a project. Once they finished with the coins they turned their attention to the loose precious stones.

"Could this be a ruby, Pam?" Dore held up a red gem the size of her thumb.

"Well, maybe. I really don't know much about this stuff." As it turned out, no one else in the group did, either. "Where the hell is a jeweler when you need one?" she muttered. They ended up grouping the gems into pretty little mounds by color. Overall, the coins were quite a bit more numerous, but they still ended up with a respectable amount of possibly precious stones.

Next came the jewelry. The lojtnant carefully handed Pam a fanciful gold tiara encrusted with what must surely be blue sapphires. Pam placed it on her head and grinned.

"Look, I'm Wonder Woman! Now we just need to find the bullet-proof bracelets!" Gerbald, a dedicated student of American pop culture, laughed. Dore just rolled her eyes to signify "How much of such foolishness must I endure?" while the Swedes wore the painful smile of wanting to show approval for a joke they just didn't get. Pam tried to explain Wonder Woman and the concept of a super-hero to them in Swedish. She was getting pretty good at the language, but would need a lot more time to really become fluent. Finally, after several long minutes of word searching and gesturing, the bosun and the lojtnant both nodded with the satisfaction of understanding.

"We see now," the lojtnant said, "This is just like the sagas from the old days! This woman is as strong as Thor, she can fly like a bird and she has enchanted accoutrements to aid her in battle. It's obvious! Wonder Woman was one of your gods before you Americans became Christians! It's just as in our Norselands where the stories of the old gods still survive in the tales we tell children!" The bosun agreed heartily while Pam just smiled and gave up.

"Close enough," she said, and remembered to take the tiara she was still wearing off, feeling like an idiot for having it on throughout her lengthy explanation. She held it in her hands for a moment, admiring its sparkling beauty. "Hey, I know someone who we should give this to. Princess Kristina! Look, it's even in the Swedish colors, blue and gold." The Swedes clapped their hands at this suggestion. A generous percentage of the treasure, in the form of jewelry, was put aside to donate to the princess's crown jewels, a gift from her admirers. A pang of sadness came to Pam as she thought of poor old Fritjof, and how much he would have approved of such a gesture. Even so, Pam didn't give everything to her patron. There was a certain pearl necklace that called to her in a siren song, and she claimed it without apology. "I heard there's a party tonight and a girl has got to have something to wear!"

It took another hour to divide all the shares out of the various piles. As Pam had expected, the Swedes insisted that she take a larger portion. Since it was hard to gauge the value of the gems, she took a lion's share of those, figuring that some might be worthless, while others might be worth more than the entire find. She would have to wait until she found a qualified jeweler to find out, and that would likely be a while. Despite her many protests, she ended up with a larger pile of loot than the rest.

"Look, I know you mean well, fellows, but really, I want everybody to have an equal share."

The bosun listened to her patiently, but his answer was always the same: "You are the captain, you get more. It's tradition."

Finally, Pam conceded. "Fine, but I want you all to know I'm going to use most of my take to help make this colony work. I really don't need this much money for myself. I'm already pretty well off."

This was met with warm smiles from her companions, which made her feel better about it. Smiling back, she dropped her take back into the chest, locked it, and put the key in her pocket.

The bosun summoned the men. One by one, they filed past the table receiving their share, their eyes bugging at the size of the unexpected windfall. Apparently sailors of the day were not very well paid. The shares weren't really that big; it hadn't been that large a box. Even so, each seemed overjoyed, and thanked her profusely before making way for the next.

When the task was all finished, Pam shooed everyone out of her cabin and fell down on the bed, very much ready for an afternoon nap.

It is better to give than receive but it's lot of work, too.

Chapter Thirty-Three: The Captain's Ball

As the breezes died with the evening calm, the junk was anchored back where it had started, not far from the camp that had been their home. Dore had come back to wake Pam and help her get ready for the party. After some fussing, they stood on the narrow deck outside Pam's door, both dressed in fine Chinese silks. The clothes they had chosen were most likely designed for men, but they had made do, with pleasing results. Dore had found a long skirt which she belted with a sash and a simple tunic top, all in deep reds which suited her well. The tunic must have belonged to a large man as it had plenty of room for Dore's buxom figure. Pam, who was slight in comparison, wore a pair of knee-high black silk pants, a simple white shirt that buttoned at its collar-less neck and a cerulean blue silk jacket ornately embroidered with gold pheasants and cranes, with large gold buttons and teardrop-shaped clasps. She left the jacket open to show off the lovely pearl necklace from the treasure chest.

"Look, I'm wearing the Swedish colors!" she said to Dore. "The men will definitely approve. Plus, it's got birds!" She felt as if she were sixteen again and headed for the high school's spring dance.

"Really, Pam, these garments are far too fancy for me. I am embarrassed to be seen in them! Tomorrow I shall have to find something simple that can withstand the galley. It would be a shame to ruin such finery as this."

"Yeah, yeah, tomorrow, fine, but come on, tonight's a party! Live a little! I now know that you do know how." Pam gave her friend a sly, knowing grin which made Dore blush, took her by the elbow and guided her toward the ladder. At the bottom Dore told Pam to go ahead, she would check on her foolish husband before rejoining her.

On the main deck, the men had placed a long, low table near the second and largest of the three masts. It was covered from end to end with food, a collection of dried meats and fruits found in the galley, fresh fruits from shore and a row of very large fish they had barbecued with spices. The aroma was utterly delicious and drew Pam closer. She thought it might be a mix of garlic, Chinese five spice, cloves and black pepper. Is that sesame oil and a dash of rice wine splashed on, too? Heaven! Pam's mouth watered. The lads had been very creative, indeed; she thought even Dore would approve. It had been a very long time since she had smelled such potent seasonings, and she felt delightfully hungry.

Pers saw her and hurried over. He slowed when he noticed Pam's change of clothes and smiled approvingly. "You look very nice," he complimented her, despite his obvious shyness about speaking on such a subject.

"Why, thank you, Pers! You look very nice yourself!" He was dressed in a canary-yellow version of what Pam wore, but without the jacket. The pants were too short on the long-legged youth, riding well above the knees, but he still looked handsome in the exotic outfit. Pam took his arm and gave it an affectionate squeeze. She nodded toward the table "It looks like you fellows found the galley!"

Just then Dore joined them. Pers gave Dore, the indisputable ruler of all things to do with food, a nervous glance and hurriedly told them, "We wanted to give Frau Dore a night off from cooking. We men of the sea are not wholly without talent in that arena. I hope you like what we have prepared. We were very careful not to make a mess."

Dore scanned the table, sniffing warily at their offerings. After a long moment she smiled, finding the sailor's efforts to be to her satisfaction. After all, it was nice to have a night off, and now she need not feel guilty for it.

"It looks fine, Pers," she told the nervous youth. "You men have done a good job. I thank you."

With Dore's approval, Pers immediately brightened and led them to the place of honor, a line of five comfortable-looking chairs placed on a temporary platform raised three feet above the deck. Behind the stage, the clever sailors had hung a variety of flags and banners decorated with all kinds of fanciful motifs, to very festive effect. Pers ushered Pam into the middle seat, which was practically a throne; intertwining serpentine dragons of ebony with ruby eyes and ivory teeth framed a plush velvet cushion in scarlet and gold trim. Found amongst the cargo, it had been undoubtedly headed for some exotic sultan's palace.

The men were still going about their tasks under the watchful eye of the bosun, although many a glance was stolen in the direction of the food. Pam arrived a bit early, but no one seemed to care. She was delighted to see they had all managed to trade their island rags for new clothing from the hold. No two were dressed the same, and they looked more like a band of circus performers than a ship's crew. Pam was smiling at the bustling scene so widely her face began to hurt. She turned to Pers, who was apparently assigned to be their maitre d and asked, "You got any booze?" Pers smiled his sunniest smile and disappeared from her side in a Pers-sized gust of wind.

He returned shortly with two elegant ceramic bowls garnished with fresh flowers, full of fruit juice and a very healthy shot of what tasted like rum. "I believe Herr Gerbald called them mai-tais. He says he will be your bartender tonight," Pers told them as they each took a careful sip. Even Dore smiled at the delicious taste and took another, bigger quaff. Pam looked at her friend and grinned. No teetotaling for the Christian soldier tonight. Looks like we won't have to play our usual game of "let's get Dore drunk." She's leading the charge for a change! This is definitely going to be fun! Pam thought with glee. She was fairly vibrating with excitement and drank again, deeply, with intense pleasure.

"Tell Gerbald he's a genius and to keep these coming," Pam said. "I intend to get loaded. Party on!" Pers had enough English by now to get the gist of her meaning and smiled with professional grace as he melted away. The kid has a future as a great waiter, he's a natural! Despite her proclamation, Pam tried to pace herself somewhat. She knew she was going to have to give a speech or two and wanted to be well-relaxed for that, but not to the point of word-slurring wasted. She could do that after the speeches were done.

The sun was setting and various torches and lanterns were being lit. The men assembled on the deck, ready to commence the official celebration. Someone had found a very large gong which Lind struck with a cloth hammer, the deep, vibrating tone signaling everyone to be quiet. By now Gerbald was sitting next to Dore, who was on Pam's left. The bosun and Lojtnant Lundkvist soon joined them, sitting to Pam's right.

The bosun stood and caught the crew's attention. "Good evening to you all. Here at last we find ourselves delivered from our isolation, aboard a ship that, while strange-looking, is a nimble and sound vessel worthy of the Swedish Navy!" He waited while a hearty cheer went up from the men, Pam and her retinue joining in. After a minute he silenced the men with a certain gesture, and continued. "And though some of us gathered here are not Swedes by birth, they have earned their place in our ranks through their great courage and dedication to our beloved princess! All hail Pam, Gerbald and Dore!" The cheers were louder this time, which Pam didn't think was possible. The attention made her face flush redly as usual, but she smiled and took another big gulp of cocktail to steady her nerves.

The bosun, once again cutting the cheers off with an effortless gesture, turned to the two Germans and the American, a woman from a country that didn't even exist in this world and probably wouldn't. "As far as we are concerned, you three are every bit as Swedish in your hearts as we are, and I welcome you as brothers and sisters. Hurrah!" The men went wild this time and the three of them found themselves urged to their feet to take their bows. Gerbald and Dore returned to their seats but the bosun beckoned for Pam to join him at the front of the stage.

"And now let's hear it for our fearless captain, Pam Miller! Three cheers!" Gerbald must have coached them in the English-style he'd gleaned from watching old movies, as "Hip-hip-hurray!" sounded across the deck. When the traditional cheer finished, the bosun, who was proving to be quite the expert master of ceremonies, gave Pam a courteous bow and asked her, "Please, Captain Pam, a few words for your men if you would." He stepped back then, leaving Pam in the figurative spotlight.

She smiled at all around her, not feeling as nervous as she usually did. She was comfortable here; these were her people, more than any she had ever known. There was nothing for her to be shy about. She spoke out loudly and clearly, "My beloved brothers and sisters, my dearest friends in all the world. You are the best of the best and it is my supreme honor to be chosen as your captain. I will work my hardest to earn your trust in me, and lead us on to victory. In Princess Kristina's name, I swear!"

She paused and another cheer went up, everyone clapping as loudly as they could. She felt as if she were a rock standing in a sea of love and each wave that washed over her filled her heart with perfect joy. Deep in her mind she took some of that feeling and put it away for safekeeping. She knew she would need it someday when the doubts returned. The love she felt tonight would be a talisman against the darkness that sometimes tried to steal her few joys. Maybe that won't happen so much anymore. Things have changed. I have changed.

With what she thought might be the sweetest smile she had ever worn, she raised her hands and shouted over the din, "Let the party begin! I order every man aboard to drink as much as they want. Let's raise some toasts!" She felt like a rock star.

There was a bustle about the deck and soon she saw that everybody was holding some kind of a cup. They still had quite a bit of their carefully-rationed rum left, almost an entire barrel, which she figured they would be finishing off this night. Gerbald told her they had also found a number of very large ceramic jugs filled with a palatable alcoholic beverage he thought must be rice wine stored in the ship's hold along with a collection of jugs and barrels containing strange-smelling and rather less reputable-looking liquors. We aren't going to run out of booze in any case, God bless us one and all! We'll be needing His mercy when the hangovers hit tomorrow!

The crowd was very quiet now, waiting for her lead. Pam held her cup aloft and in what she had been taught was the Swedish way and made a point of meeting the eye of every single person aboard. Once she had accomplished that feat she shouted. "Skal," and downed her cup in one swallow, quickly followed by everyone else. As soon as the cups were refilled, she began working through a long list of toasts, to the men, to their country, to their king and princess, to the lost men of the Redbird, and finally to their new ship. She paused then, looking a bit perplexed. She turned to the bosun who was beginning to list a little bit thanks to the quick succession of shots. There was little doubt that everyone was starting to feel pretty darn good.

"Herr Bosun, what is this ship's name?" her voice had grown just a tad thicker but still could be heard clearly all across the deck.

The bosun stepped over to her and scratched the back of his head as if it would help him think. "Truth to tell, Captain, I have no idea. I think that's it painted there on her aft, but none of us can read it!" Then he laughed and everyone joined in, the raucous sound echoing all around the bay.

Once the hilarity had subsided, he said, in as serious a tone as he could muster, "Captain Pam, she's your ship so you must name her," and gave her a slightly wobbling but deferential bow.

Her mind a sudden blank, Pam turned to Gerbald and Dore for help. Those two had been drinking almost double time and were already about two sheets to the wind and starting to let out the third. They both broke into fits of laughter when they saw Pam looking at them so seriously. That almost made Pam start laughing, too, but she kept in control.

"This is serious, you guys, we need a name, and we need it quick!"

"How about The Hungry Dodo?" Gerbald offered, trying hard to keep a straight face. His goofy hat was tilted nearly sideways on his head and Pam figured the only reason it hadn't fallen off was because of the longtime bond of affection they shared. The hat, in combination with the incongruous fuchsia silk blouse he wore, really did make him look like something out of a Dr. Seuss cartoon and Pam struggled to keep a straight face.

"No, no . . ." she told him. "Dodos aren't exactly symbols of good fortune, not yet anyway." She turned to Dore, whose perpetually rosy cheeks blazed like fire engine lights on the way to a three-alarm fire.

Seeing that it was her turn, Dore sat up nearly straight and said "How about Chinese Chopsticks?" with sincere earnestness, except it came out sounding more like "Shineeze Shopstigs." She waited expectantly for Pam's certain approval, her big, blue eyes as wide and glassy as a stuffed toy's.

Pam had to look away from the two of them before she lost it. Meanwhile Pers had come onstage bearing yet another round of drinks (someone should tell him to stop . . . well, maybe later) and her face lit up; an idea was coming.

"Pers! The other day, when we were taking the dodos back to the forest . . . what was it that you called them?"

"Ummm, 'stupid creatures'?" he blurted out, too late realizing that wasn't likely what she was looking for. He looked embarrassed by his candor.

Pam had to laugh then, but stayed in control. Everyone was still waiting on her decision. "No, no, something about them being lucky, or something." Pam started to chew on her pinkie's sometimes-abused nail. Pers, who quite sensibly hadn't been drinking at all, having been sentenced to take the night's watch after the party, thought hard for a moment and then raised his hand hesitantly. "Do you mean when I called them the 'second chance birds'?" he asked in a hopeful tone.

"That's it!" Pam suddenly rushed over to hug him. If not for his quick reflexes and fast feet, she would have knocked him and the small drink staging table he had set up right off the stage. After a good squeezing of surprisingly bear-like strength, no doubt augmented by the high octane content of her blood, she let go of the scarlet-cheeked Pers and turned to those assembled.

"The Second Chance Bird." She worded it in English as Pers had. "That's what we'll call her!"

Pers quickly translated this into Swedish and another great cheer went up. Pam took the fresh cup Pers held out to her and raised it. "Here's to the Second Chance Bird! God bless her and all who sail on her!"

Pam thought the sound of the cheering had grown a bit hoarse, but they bellowed away at full volume once again anyway. Feeling her duties had now been performed, she gave everyone a deep-almost too deep-bow, managed somehow not to pitch headfirst over the side of the stage and returned to her seat amidst thunderous applause. She was smiling so hard and so wide that her face would have hurt had she been able to feel it.

The lojtnant, who was seated beside her and who rarely said anything beyond that which was required by the diligent prosecution of his duties, turned to Pam and, addressing her in the most genuine and admiring tones, said: "Captain Pam . . . you sure know how to party!" Pam raised her cup to his and they knocked them together with a sloshing clunk, drank them down and in unison signaled for more.

Off the hosting hook, Pam began to relax and really enjoy the festivities. It was hard to believe these jolly fellows were the same intent and nearly-dour men who toiled so hard in silence throughout the day. They have been through a sea change, she thought and then started laughing. The lojtnant asked her what she was laughing about and she tried to explain but just got more and more mixed up until they were both snorting with laughter, him still clueless as to the phrase's meaning. Gerbald pitched in, trying to help and soon they were all laughing so hard they could barely speak and weren't even sure why.

Pers looked on, frowning with a mother-ish kind of concern, wondering how he was going to get them all to bed and praying no enemies would come across them in such a debilitated state.

During their exploration of the Second Chance Bird's many holds and storage rooms, the men had found musical instruments and were now bringing them out. Pam saw something slightly resembling a violin but round-bodied and with only two strings, what might be a hammer dulcimer, some long-necked apparatus that could be distant kin to a guitar, oddly-shaped drums, cymbals and other unidentifiable noise makers. Apparently the junk had once boasted a small orchestra, very likely for the entertainment of its august owners and their distinguished customers. Many of the Swedes could play an instrument. It was a seaman's tradition, but their own fragile pieces had been lost with the wreck except for a tin flute or two.

The men started warming up with the foreign instruments, creating a cacophony that would make an alley full of amorous cats cover their ears with their paws. After a few minutes, this transformed into something resembling a tune. Soon enough they were playing a rollicking sea shanty that Pam could recognize as one she had heard many times on the voyage around Africa, a real foot-tapper made somehow thrilling by the unusual sounds forming its melodies and harmonies. Now that the band was in full swing, the five luminaries managed to get down from the stage without falling. Anyone who wasn't playing music was dancing. The Second Chance Bird was a floating party, the long suffering crew indulging at long last in the comforts of civilization.

Pam clapped as she watched Dore and Gerbald spinning about in some kind of folk dance. Suddenly Dore grabbed Gerbald by the scruff of his neck and dragged him into a passionate kiss. Gerbald's eyes went wide for a moment, but sensing there was nothing to do but enjoy this shocking public display of affection from his wife, embraced her and kissed her back. When they finally parted, both looked as embarrassed as kids caught necking in the library. The men raised a ribald, but also encouraging cheer. Pam felt like the queen of the May, surrounded by a bunch of men, some of whom were not bad looking at all, no sir, all eyes on her and appreciative of her charms in a delightfully non-threatening way. Ahh, what fine gentlemen, she thought as she took turns whirling about the deck with one fine fellow after another. Another good thing about time travel! In this century they still make them like they used to.

The party wound down as the hour grew late and the revelers finally grew tired, or in some cases, completely incapacitated. It was well past midnight and Pam thought she should probably have passed out by now herself, but she had somehow fed on the positive energy around her. She felt stupendously drunk, but also calmly aware. She saw the bosun, who she had been talking with just a moment or three before, was now curled up under the mainmast like a big gray tabby cat and finally had to admit the party was over.

Head held high but beginning to feel drowsy, Pam allowed the attentive and long-suffering Pers to escort her to her cabin. She walked with the careful, mincing steps of the intoxicated, carefully stepping over the snoring sailors who hadn't made it to their bunks below decks. As she slowly climbed the stairs with Pers literally bringing up her rear, Pam chuckled to herself that it was the only teenager in the group who had got stuck with taking care of all the drunk adults. What a fine example we are setting for today's youth. Pam thought with pride. Someday I hope Pers has children of his own to put him to bed when he gets shitfaced.

Pers guided her to her bunk and gently aimed her so that when she fell her head was near the pillow and most of her body off the floor. He picked up her dangling legs and placed them on the bed, then located a light blanket which he covered her with. Even a balmy night like this could get chilly before dawn.

Pam was still awake, or semi-conscious at least. She reached up to take Pers' hand and squeezed it softly. "Yer a goo'boy, Perzzz." she mumbled, eyes mostly closed, her face the very portrait of pickled contentedness.

Pers smiled down at her and gave her hand a squeeze back, which he doubted she could feel. "I didn't know my real mother very well," he told her as he very gently lifted her head and slid the pillow under it. "I was so young when I left . . . but I do know one thing: You are a lot more fun than she was. Sleep well, dear Pam." He stroked her hair lightly and turned for the door. Before he closed it behind him he could hear the gentle breathing of the fast asleep.

A little while later Pam opened her eyes again, awakened by noises nearby. Listening carefully she heard muffled thuds and giggles coming from the cabin beneath hers. Gerbald and Dore's cabin. Dear Gawd! She grabbed a couple of pillows and crammed them over her ears to shut out the far too intimate sounds emanating from below. It must be like their second honeymoon. No, it was probably their first honeymoon. Pam looked up at the cabin's ceiling, softly lit by dim starlight reflected off the waves and through the open windows. Yes, she was happy for her friends and yes, maybe just a tiny bit jealous. To distract herself she reviewed the day's triumphs. Memory became mixed with dream as the waves rocked her back to sleep and the last clear thought she had before drifting off again was, I'm Pam Miller, pirate captain! Who'd have ever thunk it?

Chapter Thirty-Four: Anchors Aweigh

The decks of the Second Chance Bird at anchor in Castaway's Cove

Nobody was up early the next morning except the few unfortunate marines assigned to the watch. Pam woke to a splitting headache and after some debate swallowed a couple of her precious aspirin with the carafe of water Pers had thoughtfully left for her the night before. "I'm giving that kid a promotion," she mumbled through dry lips.

After a while the drum corps marching band in her head settled into a less driving beat and she decided she might be able to get dressed. This took much longer than usual, considering the clothing was of an unfamiliar design and her hands felt like she was wearing oven mitts.

"That's the last time I drink that much," she growled, ignoring the annoying voice in her head reminding her that she said that every time she had a hangover. Finally managing to pull her new boots on, Pam made her way to the door. She opened the door, allowing a shaft of bright sunlight into the room and closed it again as quickly as she could. The beam of light still seared in glaring orange across her closed eyes.

"Dear God, I swear, I'm going straight." She sat down for a while, cursing herself for not thinking to bring her up-time sunglasses on this little jaunt. Looking around, she found a floppy hat with a wide brim that resembled the ones she had seen Dutch merchants wear. She put it on, trying not to think about how it had ended up here. It was a bit large, so she tied a scarf around her head to make it fit better. She caught a glimpse of her red-eyed, exotically-clothed self reflected in a silver platter on the table and laughed aloud.

"I'm either a pirate or a pimp! Grandma would be so proud." Pushing her hat's brim low over her eyes, she made her way out of the door into the late-morning sun.

The decks below resembled a zombie movie. Everyone seemed to be stumbling along in slow motion, their usually tanned faces bleached a deathly shade of gray. Except for Gerbald.

Gerbald was the proverbial cat who had dined on canary. Pam watched him swagger around the decks, grinning as only a man who had gotten totally laid the night before can. She rolled her eyes at him as she gathered him up and headed out to find the bosun. They found him running his hand over the junk's delicately curved, crimson- lacquered railing, Pam wasn't sure over the noise of the surf, but she thought he might be softly cooing. He looked up with a grin that made Gerbald's giddy expression seem droopy in comparison.

"Captain Pam, Herr Gerbald, good morning! What are your orders, ma'am?" The bosun, a cheery sort to begin with, was as bright as the new dawn, in the highest of spirits. Apparently he was immune to hangovers and Pam stilled an annoyed twinge of jealousy.

"Well, I think we ought to discuss that. Let's have a meeting." Pam saw that the bosun was now distracted by the sails, which resembled giant Venetian window blinds to Pam's eyes. "So, Herr Bosun, what do you think of our new ship now that you've gotten to know her a bit?"

"Oh, Captain Pam, she's lovely," and then he really did coo, making Pam and Gerbald's eyebrows arch in surprise. "She looks ungainly at first glance, but there is a swan hiding within this duck. See that high aft deck? I thought they were mad, but now I think it's there to keep us dry in a following sea. The bottom is flat, but she's got a kind of a wedge keel, we can go shallow with her and even beach her with ease, but she should go confidently in high seas as well. I'll wager she's watertight, too. The hull is some kind of a sealed box. I'm not sure yet how they did it, but they're a clever lot, all right! And look here, these paneled sails and rigging are going to give us far more control than a regular rig, once we master their ways. We haven't sailed her as much as I'd like, nor have we had any foul weather to try her with, but I'm already sure she's the best damn boat I've ever set foot on! We've nothing like her in the North Sea, and I'd take her into those cruel waters with no fear."

Pam nodded with a smile at the bosun's boyish enthusiasm. She understood many of the nautical terms from her hours pacing the decks of the Redbird on the long journey around the cape, watching and listening to the sailors at their work. She was very pleased the bosun had a new love in his life, and left him to his bliss to go find the lojtnant.

Soon, the senior crew were all gathered on the dizzy heights of the junk's castle deck. It was time to make some serious decisions. Pam felt calm despite the mantle of authority that had somehow found her shoulders to fall on, definitely not something she had ever expected. "Okay, we've got a real good ship, the bosun tells me. We can sail her?"

"Yes, Captain Pam!" The bosun's pride in his shiny new vessel resounded in his voice. "Our men are learning her ways quickly. We shall master her."

Lojtnant Lundkvist spoke up, "Captain, you should know that this ship is not without teeth. If we are attacked, we can fight back if we must. There are two guns of Chinese make on each side. They are odd of course, but they look well-made and surely operate on the same principles as our own. With your permission, we would like to test them."

Pam nodded her assent.

"Also," the lojtnant continued, "we have mounted the Redbird's carronade on the foredeck on a swiveling turret we were able to improvise. Its range is short, but its firepower is devastating. The perfect thing for cutting those smug French assholes down to size." This was definitely the happiest Pam had ever seen the fellow, a military man with shiny new weapons on his way to test them out on a much-despised enemy.

"Please, do your tests. I don't need to tell you to be careful. It's good to know we can give somebody a bloody nose if need be. Although, it makes me wonder how the pirates originally captured this vessel. There would surely be damage, like what we saw happen to Muskijl when the French took her."

The lojtnant answered, "The Second Chance Bird is in fine condition, no signs of battle damage. They probably captured her in the same way we did-through subterfuge."

"Yeah, must have. I suppose we'll never know." Pam pushed the thought aside, yet another mystery. They had things to do here and now. She gave them all a determined smile. "All right then, gentlemen, which way do you think we should go?"

The bosun rubbed his chin, considering. "Well, Captain Pam, the colonist fleet was last seen headed northeast up the coast. Undoubtedly, they, too, were captured. I would suggest we follow that course slowly, looking for signs of wrecks, begging pardon for saying so, and hoping to find our folk in good health in some safe harbor. On your maps of the island from up-time, there are several places to check. We believe the site of Vieux Grand Port will be the first such we meet, followed by Poste de Flacq, among others. It would be best if we were not seen and if we are sighted to have plenty of distance to run in."

Pam nodded her approval. "Sounds good to me, Herr Bosun. Let's do it. Slow and steady."

Gerbald spoke up then. "We must consider what happens when we do find the colonists." Gerbald's face was stony, the mood Pam had come to think of as his warrior mode. "Muskijl was badly outgunned by those bastards and though our new vessel may be better armed than Redbird, I doubt she can match a French warship. We must be prepared to face a stronger enemy-one that has captured a source of labor for establishing a military stronghold on this island-with the comparatively few men we have."

Lojtnant Lundkvist nodded his agreement. "If that is the case, we must do what we can to help our people. We may be small in numbers, but we have proven ourselves in combat! Please, Captain Pam, whatever happens, let us do what we can to aid our people if they are being so poorly used!"

"Absolutely! Maybe we can't fight a sea battle, but we can go in by land and we can hit them hard. They won't be expecting us. They must have been sure we went down and didn't even bother to come look for survivors after the storm, figuring it would have finished us off if their hits didn't. Well, guess what, messieurs! We ain't dead yet." There was real steel in Pam's voice. A powerful anger had grown in her over the months since her expedition had been upended by the French. She intended to make them pay.

"Up-time, the French had control of this island for a hundred-odd years and now they have decided to stake their claim early. Their spies must have found out about the Swedish colony plan and so they sent their warship in a bid to beat us to it. Well, they succeeded, for now, but we are back in the game. Gerbald, Lojtnant Lundkvist, please work on plans of attack for any situation you can think of." She smiled a smile that any she-wolf on the hunt would be proud of. "Think sneaky and fast. The element of surprise is what's going to do it for us, just like when we captured this ship."

After a moment's thought, Pam said, "Bosun, have all the men continue to wear the Asian clothes and have them tie up their hair in scarves. We want to look local from a distance."

"Aye aye, Captain!" The bosun looked positively jolly, a man back in his element and ready to work. "We'll look like real heathens and run before anyone can get close enough to see we are good Christian soldiers."

They all grinned at each other. Some of the tension of the last months was melting away, replaced by a healthy excitement. The odds might be steep but at least they were back in control of their destinies, free men and women with a good ship to carry them on their mission.

"All right, let's get going! Anchors aweigh!" she shouted at the top of her lungs into a rising antipodean wind. On the decks of the Second Chance Bird, the men smiled as they made ready to sail.

Chapter Thirty-Five: Smoke on the Water

They followed the coast warily, always prepared to turn tail and run if they saw another vessel, since it was unlikely that any such would be a friend. They looked for signs of human activity along the shores. Perhaps the other boats had been wrecked by the battle or the storm and their passengers now castaways such as they had been. They took their time, anchoring quietly at night in what safe coves and cover they could find, keeping their lights dim and their voices down. The Second Chance Bird was on the prowl.

On a slightly overcast morning, they saw their first sign of people. They had set sail at first light, heading for the large, natural harbor at Poste de Flacq, one of the proposed destinations for the colony ships. Pers knocked politely on Pam's door to summon her to the wheel. She hastily put on one of her new Chinese suits, and arrived on the bridge sleepy, but resplendent in red and gold brocaded silk. Before she could greet the bosun, Pers reappeared with coffee for her, served in a deep ceramic bowl decorated with evergreen trees. She took a long, grateful sip before trying to speak.

"Uhh, report, please." She looked to the bosun.

He spoke in the hushed tones they had adopted during their hunt. "We've sighted a lot of smoke coming from behind that point, Captain. Looks to be from a number of what might be cook fires or possibly land clearing." That made Pam grimace. The bosun continued, "It's a pretty certain sign there are people there. Plus, we are fairly sure this is the site of Poste de Flacq on the up-time maps. A good place to build a fort."

"Okay. Yeah, that could be good or bad, depending on just who it is having breakfast over there." The caffeine, in somewhat less concentration than the coffee up-time, began to kick in. The discovery of a possible human presence made Pam's heart race with excitement.

The lojtnant spoke next. "May I suggest we row the longboat that we captured with this ship along the shore and have a look around? We can keep close to shore and stay hidden among the rocks along that point. The seas are fairly calm today." He was obviously eager to find out what was coming.

"No, I think it's too risky that you'd be seen. Gerbald and I will go have a look overland. You can put us in over there behind the point. It's wooded and will give us plenty of cover."

The bosun didn't look very happy at that prospect. "Begging your pardon, Captain, but it's likely going to be very dangerous. They will have sentries."

"Don't worry, friend. Herr Gerbald and I are very good at staying hidden in the woods. They will never know we were there."

Gerbald nodded his assurance, his eyes gleaming at the opportunity to do some scouting in his favorite environment, the forest.

After a quick breakfast-which Dore insisted on and to which there was no saying no-Pam and Gerbald arrived on deck ready to head out on their spy mission.

Pam was dressed in whatever green and preferably not-too-shiny clothing she could find amongst the ship's unusual collection. Unfortunately, it was all pretty gaudy. With a grim smile she strapped on the leather gun and ammo belt Gerbald had fashioned for her from materials found on the junk. The Smith and Wesson .38 caliber pistol she had used on four pirates was officially hers now and Gerbald insisted she bring it with her. The truth was, she liked the feel of its deadly weight at her side and would not hesitate to use it again when the time came.

Gerbald, of course, had on his perennial outfit of sage green wool long-coat, a black T-shirt featuring a faded Lynyrd Skynyrd band logo, brown breeches, knee high leather boots and crazy old mustard hat, along with his trusty katzbalger shortsword and pistol grip Snakecharmer shotgun hanging from his wide belt. He was the very picture of a new-fangled USE bad-ass, the toughest stuff of up-time and down-time rolled into one dangerous package. He took a look at Pam's bright green silks and laughed aloud.

"You can fly, you can fly, you can fly!" he sing-songed as he pointed merrily at her undeniably elfin looking outfit.

"That's pretty funny coming from a guy who looks like he's just come from Beyond Thunderdome. By the way, Dr Seuss called and he wants his hat back."

They shared a brief laugh, then boarded the trusty pinnace, sitting quietly until they were put ashore. The sailors wished them luck and a safe return. They watched until their two spies had vanished into the trees before rowing back to Second Chance Bird with worry etched on their tanned faces.

Chapter Thirty-Six: Contact

French slave colony near the site of Poste de Flacq, Mauritius

"This is not good." Gerbald peered through the scope, scowling while Pam did the same with her binoculars. They were on the top of the high bluff that formed the point, laying under ferns and watching the harbor below, a deep one with a fairly impressive set of docks already in place. There they saw their would-be guardian, the Muskijl, damaged but still afloat, tied up to the dock behind the massive French warship that had claimed it. There were also several medium-sized lateen-rigged boats, certainly belonging to Arabs or other such denizens of these far seas. Their hearts sank as they saw the Annalise and Ide laying at anchor nearby. Now they knew how these people had accomplished so much building in the months that had passed: Swedish slave labor.

There was a town taking shape on a gently sloping hillside behind a five-meter wall of heavy timbers running some twenty meters back from the shoreline, the beginnings of what would eventually be an imposing fortress. They could see sturdy Swedish men tethered together in work crews making it all happen. To Pam's surprise, their overseers looked like black Africans dressed in white robes with their heads covered, nearly the same garb as the Muslim pirates they had defeated to take Second Chance Bird. Pam was no history expert but, like many Grantvillers, she had become a lot more interested in the subject since she had been thrown backward through it. She knew the West African slave trade was largely run by Africans themselves and that must have been where the French had found these fellows. Pam bit her lip as the slavers shouted at the colonists in what sounded like broken French; the snap of a whip echoed across the quiet bay, making her cringe. Out on the end of the dock, she saw several French soldiers passing around a wineskin and enjoying a little fishing, while their mercenaries oversaw the work for them.

"Scumbags," Gerbald muttered under his breath.

"There are a lot of them, aren't there?" Pam muttered darkly.

"Yes. Not just the French, who are probably renegades and pirates, but their black slave drivers as well. At least a hundred of the enemy would be a good guess."

"We'll need help, then." She bit her lip as she scanned farther back from the harbor. There she saw men and women carrying barrels and performing menial tasks, their feet bound or chained. "We have to free the enslaved colonists and the crew of the Muskijl and use them against their captors." Gerbald looked doubtful. Pam gave him an encouraging nudge with her elbow. "Come on, that's how they do it in the movies! It's worked for us so far."

Gerbald gave her an unconvinced smile. "A risky proposition at best. The Swedes will be tired and weak from ill use. Just trying to contact them at all while they are under guard will be risky. They are bound. The ropes we can cut through quickly but the chains will require either more time or a key. It will be difficult." Gerbald's expression was grim.

"Okay. We told Second Chance Bird to give us a week out here in the field before taking further action. Let's take our time, lay back and watch for a while. Once we know more about the routines here, we can move."

Gerbald grinned at her with wry amusement. "Yes ma'am, Captain Pam!" he said in his best West Virginia drawl. He was always full of pride in his mastery of the accent and American slang and seldom missed a chance to show it off. "And when we're ready we can open up a king-sized can of whoop-ass all over them suckas! KA-BLAM!"

Pam rolled her eyes as the two of them vanished back into the shadowy forest, sly and silent as foxes.

****

Pam and Gerbald watched the slave colony from various vantage points over the next three days. The Swedish colonists looked fairly healthy despite their ordeal, at least from a distance. They were a robust lot and were weathering the hardships as well as could be. At night they were housed in makeshift huts in an open meadow fenced with an imposing array of ten-foot high bamboo stakes. The few children they had brought along were kept in the enclosure all day, tended by the expedition's few elderly. Pam saw that even this group was given work to do, weaving rope and baskets. The sight of the children and the old folks put to work by their new masters made Pam's blood boil.

Oh, I'm going to put the hurt on those froggie bastards just as soon as I'm able, she thought redly, a part of her shocked at the depth of her own wrath. The men had been put to work logging and constructing the growing fort. Many of the women were sent out to the fields to tend newly planted crops. Other small groups of women were made to forage for fruits and nuts along the forest's edge, always under the watchful eye of a slaver.

They decided it was one of the latter groups they would approach, since they were the least heavily guarded and cover was nearby. They were confident in their ability to remain unseen by the enemy among the trees and brush. Gerbald stayed back, prepared to distract or even kill the guard if necessary. Pam did her best to disguise herself as a colonist by wrapping her head in a dirty gray cotton towel she had taken from Second Chance Bird's galley and draping a brown wool blanket from Redbird's pinnace over her shoulders. Slipping silently out of the underbrush with the practiced stealth of a long-time birder, she joined the group of foragers.

Walking slowly, as if bound, she made her way from the deeper woods to the forest's edge, joining the women at the trailing end of their party farthest from the guard. She stayed low, endeavoring to be seen but unseen, just another slave. Ahead of her was a tall, statuesque woman in her late twenties, her fair features now deeply tanned and careworn, her golden blond hair tied back in an unkempt pony tail. Pam studied her for a while, before making the decision to approach her. She looked like the calm sort, not someone who would react loudly and stupidly to a stranger in their midst. Pam, following her gut, came up behind her, keeping the tall woman's larger frame between her and the guard who stood some twenty yards off.

"God dag, van." Good day, friend, Pam greeted her quietly in Swedish and continued in that language, her months with the sailors serving her well. "Please don't look back at me, just keep working while I talk."

The woman almost turned to look over her shoulder, but caught herself. One sea-green eye regarded Pam from its corner for just a moment, after which she turned slowly back, continuing to gently pick small berries. Pam briefly wondered how they knew they weren't poisonous but didn't want to think of the likely answer.

"I will listen," the woman replied quietly.

"Good. My name is Pam Miller, I'm an American from the United States of Europe. There are more of us who remain free. Can I trust you not to betray us?"

The woman nodded firmly, her shoulders tightening under her ragged blouse.

"Good, good, I knew I could. We have some soldiers and we intend to free you colonists, but there aren't enough of us. We have to find a way to set your men free to fight with us when we make our move. We will probably want you women to create a diversion to distract your captors while we do that. Are there those among you who are brave enough to help us?"

The woman turned slightly back toward Pam and hissed proudly under her breath. "All of us! We will do anything to be free again."

"I thought as much. I've come to learn Swedes are just as tough as us West Virginia hillbillies! All right then, I need you to spread the word that we are coming, but only to those who really need to know. You can let the rest in on it when the time comes; the secret will stay safer that way. We will make our move from a few days to a week from now; we need some time to get prepared. I'm not sure yet how we are going to pull this off, but I will get word to you people the same way I am now. Make sure it's you or someone trustworthy taking up the rear of your foraging expeditions from now on."

"It will be so. You are the American Bird Lady who led our expedition, yes? One of the future people?"

"Heh heh, yeah, that's me, the Bird Lady of Grantville. Call me Pam."

"I am Bengta. I am very happy you are alive. We feared the worst."

"Nice to meet you, too, Bengta. Just hang in there, we are going to do our best to get everybody out of this, I promise."

"I am so happy!" the woman's voice was quiet but filled with emotion. Suddenly she lowered it even further, a furtive hiss, "Pam! The guard comes this way; you must go!" Bengta continued to pick berries and kept her head low, avoiding the surly man's look. No answer came and she soon realized that Pam the Bird Lady was already gone.

Chapter Thirty-Seven: The Plan is Hatched

The Second Chance Bird at anchor near the site of Poste de Flacq

That evening, after a quick celebration over dinner at Pam and Gerbald's safe return, the senior staff gathered on the high castle deck. The Swedes' faces were a study in smoldering rage as they heard the news of their colonist's enslavement.

Lojtnant Lundkvist shook his head slowly. "I don't see how such a small force as ours can take on so many, even with our skill and experience. But if you order it we shall try, Captain Pam."

"Actually, Gerbald and I have been working on a plan. Trickery has worked so far, so we intend to stick with it," Pam said, her voice full of a sly eagerness.

"It seems that it is our turn for a masquerade, gentlemen," Gerbald told the men with a positively wicked smile. "Beware Greeks bearing gifts."

****

The next morning Pam and Gerbald were rowed to the shore again. They made their way quickly through the forest to where the foraging party was again working their way along the freshly cut forest's edge. Pam winced at the destruction of so much timberland. These renegades were definitely not following her zoning plans. She quickly spotted her contact trailing along at the end of the group. Pam came up behind her, hidden in the underbrush.

"Hello again, my friend. I have news."

"As do I."

"Tell me."

"We have done as you asked. We are prepared to make our break. We have hidden weapons, tools, stones, whatever we could manage. When your signal comes we will fight."

"That's good. I forgot to ask you last time, what became of the Muskijl's crew and soldiers?"

"The sailors are working on building the fort. Some of them, the officers and marines mostly, are being held captive in the French warship. We all fear for their health greatly; no one knows what condition they are in. Those filthy French bastards and their foreign dogs hung the captain of the Muskijl when he refused to cooperate, as an example to us all. If we weren't so useful, I doubt any of us would have been spared." Bengta's voice was thick with controlled anger. "Do you see that heathen devil who guards us? When the signal comes I intend to stove his skull in with a stone, may God forgive me."

Pam nodded solemnly. "I killed four like him myself with a pistol a few days ago. It was necessary, God forgives. Just be careful." Pam reached into her rucksack to pull out a bundle filled with sharp knives, a few hammers and some chisels she had collected from the Second Chance Bird. "I've brought these for you; can you keep them hidden? They may help."

"Yes, indeed they will. I will make sure they get to those who can use them best. Thank you, Pam, you are our savior!"

Pam blushed at the woman's fervency. "I'm just doing my duty. I got us all into this mess and I'm getting us all out. So, here's what's going to happen; make sure only your most trusted leaders hear this part. Tomorrow afternoon you are going to see a strange-looking ship pull into the dock; it's called a Chinese junk and you won't be able to miss it . . ."

As Pam outlined the plan, the woman's face grew bright beneath the grime of the brutal captivity she suffered.

Pam finished up. "The signal to raise holy hell is going to be 'Save the dodo!' When you hear that, go to work."

"'Save the dodo!' Yes, the princess' funny birds. They are rather cute, I think. We have done as you asked and try to protect them, driving them into the woods when we find them so the heathens can't eat them."

This bit of news almost made tears of joy erupt from Pam's eyes.

Bengta stole a quick glance back to smile at her. "It shall be as you say; we will be ready. You will have our gratitude, Pam Miller. You are a very brave woman. We have seen that these swaddle-headed fools greatly underestimate women and they shall die regretting it." Bengta turned briefly to check on the guard, who seemed to be dozing at his post. When she turned back Pam was gone.

"Go with God, Bird Lady," Bengta whispered into the trees.

Chapter Thirty-Eight: Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow

"You want to what?" The expression on the bosun's face was a mixture of horror and astonishment. Pam had expected this and repeated herself in a calm voice.

"I want all you men to shave your beards, hair and eyebrows off." Looking around at the sailors gathered in the early dawn on her main deck, Pam realized that while she didn't quite have a mutiny on her hands, what she had to say was not popular with the crew. Tough, she thought, feeling firm in her resolve. "Look, I know it sounds awful, but honest, it grows back! If I'm going to make you guys look like Orientals of any stripe, we have got to lop off those golden locks, like it or not! We are stretching the boundaries of believability to their limits, and this is the best way I can think of to start making you look non-European. Hopefully the make-up will finish the job and we can pull this off."

A sea of unhappy and even downright angry faces glared sullenly at her, the sound of grumbling emanating from their midst. She looked to Gerbald for support but found that he had made his way to the back of the crowd and was attempting to hide behind a mast. Now that he was actually having to go through with the plan he had helped hatch, it seemed his enthusiasm had taken a powder. Pam grimaced and was about to start to speak when Dore stepped up beside her, brandishing a sturdy pair of scissors and a straight razor as if they were sword and dagger.

"That's enough whining. What are you, cowards?" Dore bawled at them so loudly it made them all take a fearful step back. "The captain has given her orders. Now line up and get ready for your haircuts! You, there hiding in the back, the celebrated German sergeant, front and center. You shall be first! Make a good example for these men or you might find my hands become shaky!"

The sailors all parted to make a path for Gerbald, whose usually unflappable face had turned a flushed shade of red. He nodded resignedly and came forward, head held high, to sit on the chair they had placed on the deck for the day's barbering.

"Here, let me take your hat," Pam said a little too eagerly.

"I think not, I shall hold it myself," he replied, giving her a wary look and clutching the misshapen monstrosity of mustard-colored felt to his breast.

"It was a good try, Pam," Dore told her as she set to work. Gerbald kept his salt-and pepper-hair close-cropped and shaved regularly in the up-time style so the task didn't take long. When Dore came to the eyebrows, he flinched.

"Must you, Delilah?" he asked in a pleading tone.

Pam patted him comfortingly on the arm. "Yes. It will make you look incredibly odd, and that's the point. We need to do all we can to convince these renegade French and their lackeys that you are some kind of Asian traders. Look at it this way, Gerbald. You are playing a part in a play and simply doing what is needed to complete the costume. You'll be a real actor after this!"

That seemed to mollify him and he closed his eyes tightly as Dore carefully shaved his eyebrows off. When she was all finished, there was no trace of blood and Gerbald resembled a shiny new dodo egg. Some of the gathered men couldn't resist a chuckle, including the bosun.

Gerbald gave the man a fierce glare. "Ah, Herr Bosun. I'm sure you will want to go next. Here, have a seat."

All good humor evaporated from the bosun's face as he realized there was no escape. He managed a weak kind of smile for the benefit of the other sailors and took his turn in the barber's chair, looking for all the world as if he faced the gallows. It was Pam's turn and she started by snipping his chest-length gray beard right to the chin. She thought he might start crying, so she moved around in front of him and was as gentle as she could be. When she was all done, she paused to admire her work.

"My goodness, Dore, doesn't he look like a younger man now?" she asked her friend with just the slightest eyebrow twitch in her direction.

Dore caught the signal and nodded her agreement enthusiastically. "Oh yes, Captain Pam. You have cut at least twenty years away along with all that fur. Herr Bosun, you are truly a handsome fellow!"

When it came down to it, they weren't kidding. The bosun had a good, strong chin and he sincerely did look a lot younger without all the gray hair. He pointed his chin forward proudly and grinned as he rubbed it, his cheeks a brighter red even than their usual cherry flush.

A couple of hours later, the entire crew was lined up for inspection as Pam and Dore admired their work. At first glance they faced a collection of strangers, a very good start indeed.

"All right, take a break and get something to eat. In half an hour be back on deck for your makeup, and don't be late," Pam ordered them.

She and Dore took their leave, retiring to Pam's cabin. Once the door was closed they both broke into helpless fits of laughter.

"You thought that was fun," Pam managed to gasp, "just wait till we paint them all bronze!"

****

To be continued . . .

Playing Nice in Someone Else’s Sandbox: An Examination of the 1632 Universe and the Grantville Gazette

J. D. McCartney

What is the 1632 Series? A Short History of the (Alternate) Universe

The year is 1631 AD. The place is an insignificant patch of land in the middle of the Germanies (Germany as a united country did not yet exist). The historical backdrop is the Thirty Years’ War, a bloody and terrible struggle between Catholic and Protestant nations for control of central Europe. In the midst of this scene, a miracle appears; a perfectly circular ring of flame burning so high it can be seen for miles throughout the surrounding countryside. When the flames die, what the Ring of Fire[1] left behind may be still more miraculous: a modern-day West Virginia town from the future, the year 2000 AD, full of the normal assortment of farmers, miners, scoundrels, champions, hippies, reactionaries, and folks just trying to live their lives. In West Virginia, in 2000, they were just ordinary people, but in this time and place, they have the power to shake the world . . .

This is the setting for Eric Flint’s first novel in the 1632 universe, entitled 1632[2]. The book follows a fairly familiar alternate-history plotline; a modern American (or a group in this case) is dropped without warning into an historical time period in a foreign land, and are forced to adapt to their new surroundings. In this case, the hillbillies (a term that is used with pride throughout the series) adapt by setting up a new democratic state in Thuringia, one of the Germanies, with the assistance of the fortuitously encountered King of Sweden and leader of one of the Protestant sides of the war, Gustav Adolf. That’s when things begin to get complicated.

As its main premise is to alter history, the events in the 1632 series start to diverge fairly quickly from the recorded timeline. Battles are fought out of sequence, new alliances are forged, new dynasties produced, new technologies introduced, historical personages refuse to die “on schedule,” pianofortes are introduced before the end of the Baroque period, and most of North America is bought up by Cardinal Richelieu, sold by King Charles to help finance a war in the Baltic Sea.

These are only a few of many examples of alterations the series has produced in OTL (1632 shorthand for “Our Time Line”). Each new book in the series takes the reader a little further down the path of the altered timeline, and as Eric Flint is opposed to the “Great Man[3]” interpretation of history, the stories often cover several interlocking subplots with different casts of characters, and sometimes different authors as well. There are, to date, over four-and-a-half million words in print, and the printed books in this series are just the tip of the iceberg. It would take a small army, or at least a platoon, to keep track of all these details; fortunately Eric Flint has enlisted one.

What is the Grantville Gazette?

It started with an online discussion forum. The forum was called the “1632 Tech Manual,” and it was set up by Baen Books for fans of 1632 to discuss the series, and for Eric Flint to solicit technical advice on relevant questions. That was its original purpose, but when fans gather together online, fan fiction is sure to follow.

To Eric Flint and his publisher, Jim Baen, some of the fan fiction produced on the “1632 Tech Manual” was noticeably good; even good enough to publish. So they did. The first instance of fan-written stories for the 1632 series appearing in print was an anthology entitled Ring of Fire. The anthology contained some works by established authors as well as first-time (fan) authors, but all the stories were fictional accounts set in the 1632 universe.

A second anthology was planned, but more stories were being submitted than could possibly fit into it, even after the submission deadline had passed. Rather than ignore these stories, Eric Flint and Jim Baen decided to incorporate them into an experimental online magazine. Thus, the Grantville Gazette[4] was born.

The Grantville Gazette is a collection of fiction stories set in the 1632 universe and non-fiction articles dealing with topics relevant to the series. It was originally put out every six months, but now new volumes are published online bimonthly. It has an administrative staff which is in part selected from the fan base, and solicits new stories and articles via yet another unique process, discussed below in the “Baen’s Bar Forums” section. The Gazette also has five print editions out. To distinguish between print and electronic editions, online volumes of the Grantville Gazette have Arabic numbers (1, 2, 3 . . .) while the print editions have Roman numerals (I, II, III . . .). The first four books in the print edition (Grantville Gazette I-IV) contain the same contents as the electronic versions (Grantville Gazette Vol. 1-4), but the speed of online publishing was fast outpacing the printed books, so the latest print edition, Grantville Gazette V, collects stories from Volumes 5-11 of the online edition. The online edition is currently up to Volume 36. (Editor's note: You're reading this in Volume 37.)

It is important to understand that in its current incarnation, the Gazette is not a fan fiction collection, but a web magazine. While the Gazette is not strictly speaking fan fiction, it does what fan fiction has always done; it creates a filled space between major storylines, populated by the imaginations of the readers. Unlike most other fan fiction in existence, however, the contents of the Gazette are considered “canonized,” and can and frequently do impact the main storyline, taking the 1632 universe in directions Eric Flint could not have foreseen.

It is not unusual for authors to call upon fans for help in keeping track of series details, or to solicit technical advice, but this is usually where it ends. There have been some instances in the past of series authors letting fan fiction feed back into the main storyline, such as Marion Zimmer Bradley’s Darkover series, and the FanDemonium publishing house for Stargate novels. For the Darkover series, fans submitted their stories to Bradley, and those she approved of sometimes made it into print. In their heyday, Darkover fans collaborated in the publication of twelve anthologies of fan fiction over the course of two decades. (Coker, 1) Some of the stories in these books even became canonized.

Unfortunately, the interaction of fans with the Darkover universe ended due to a kerfuffle over a threatened lawsuit, and Bradley moved to disband her fan organizations. (Coker, 1) Fandemonium is a publishing company that puts out fan-produced stories in the Stargate universe, but with strict limits on fan fiction. The company is licensed directly from Metro-Goldwyn-Meyer (MGM), and MGM has approval power over “each stage of the novel’s production, from initial outline to final draft.” (“Stargate Novels,” 1)

The Grantville Gazette is different. Here, stories are not subject to authorial or corporate approval. All stories are submitted to a public forum (Baen’s Bar “1632 Slush”) for critiquing and comments. Story editing and peer review can be and is performed by any member of the Baen’s Bar community, in addition to the editorial board. Perhaps most important is Eric Flint’s role in the process, or, rather, lack thereof. As one member of the forum put it:

“Eric has relinquished control of that process. Frequently-VERY FREQUENTLY-there are stories in the Gazette he has not read. He doesn't have time. The ed board does it. THAT is unique. Public submission, public review, group editorial selection, primary author relinquishing control[.] Never been done before. Unique.” (Rick Boatright)

In letting his fans shape the developing world of 1632 without direct supervision, Eric Flint has taken fan participation to a whole new level. This is cultural convergence happening even as we speak.

The Gazette Stories

As an alternate history series, the Grantville Gazette stories often have to challenge the preconceived notions that many Americans hold about early modern Europe, such as the idea that society was strait-laced in the Victorian Age and got more rigid going further back in time. Many authors use the fumblings of the American up-timers to poke gentle fun at the inadequacies of the American educational system regarding European history.

One of the most common uses of fan fiction is to expand the story to explore themes that the author did not or could not cover in the original storyline. It is often a chance to develop unseen or alternative relationships between main characters, especially for the predominantly female authors of most fan fiction. The Grantville Gazette offers a particularly rich source of material for these explorations, as the writers can challenge not only common standards of what a relationship should be, but perceptions on what historical standards of relationships were.

As with any culture meeting another, there are instances of up-timers and down-timers intermarrying, with all the miss-steps and culture clashes one would expect. One of the common themes in these stories is the historical status of betrothals, dowries, and family expectations of marriage in seventeenth-century Europe, and these do not always live up to twenty-first-century American expectations. The historical status of queer lifestyles is also up for challenge. There is at least one continuing serial featuring a lesbian couple ("Game, Set, and Match," "Boom Toys"), and two stand-alone stories that feature real historical characters who were known to be gay or transgender ("Venus and Mercury," "Land of Ice and Sun").

Another common theme in the Gazette fiction stories is exploration. Several authors have taken the opportunity to extend the influence of the 1632 characters to wildly separate parts of the globe. Their travels include founding a new settlement in North America in "Northwest Passage," hunting for quinine and rubber in South America in "Stretching Out," advising Russian nobles in "Butterflies in the Kremlin," and trying to prevent the dodo’s extinction on the island of Mauritius in "Second Chance Bird."

Technological adaptations and applications of twentieth-century knowledge to seventeenth-century resources are also a common story theme. One of the earliest continuing serials dealt with the efforts of a group of teenagers to start a company manufacturing pedal-powered sewing machines. Other stories have dealt with military weaponry, airships, planes, radios, and even road paving.

Of course, all of this technological convergence requires a lot of research, as well as historical acumen in knowing what would be plausible in the seventeenth century. This is part of the reason that the original “1632 Tech Manual” was established, and why every Gazette volume has contained non-fiction articles as well as fiction stories. The articles are designed to inform the authors and potential authors as well as the readership of various details of the state of the 1632 universe, and the historical aspects of the seventeenth century. They include such diverse topics as finance, mineralogy, farming, period-specific dancing, astronomy, population studies, and early disease theory. The nonfiction section of the Gazette can also be considered writer’s tools, in that they provide valuable information that other authors can use to shape their stories for the 1632 universe.

The Baen’s Bar Forums

The Baen’s Bar forums are the main clearinghouse for Grantville Gazette stories. Stories are first submitted to the “1632 Slush” forum. Stories are the only content allowed to be posted here, and all potential stories must be submitted to the forum first, even those written by established authors. Comments and criticisms are reserved for the “1632 Slush Comments” forum. This process takes advantage of the long history of beta readers in the fan fiction editorial process, but with the unique twist that the end results are being considered for professional publication. This peer review process also involves more than just editing for grammar and style. Since all the contributions to the Gazette take place in a shared alternate-history universe with an established canon[5], the stories are also carefully screened for continuity, anachronisms, and overall fit within the world’s development and timeline. More comments on the beta reading process are below in the “Gazette Authors” section.

The comments on stories also have a direct impact on which get chosen for publication. When asked about the story selection process of the editorial board, Paula Goodlett, the current editor of the Grantville Gazette, stated,

“A potential author will usually post his first effort and have it get ripped up by the commenters. Then, if he’s serious, he’ll listen to what they tell him and rewrite it. Once a story is getting a lot of comments, I’ll take a look at it, or another member of the ed board will do so. After making sure the story doesn’t violate already published canon in the series, we’ll also determine whether or not any technology that’s developed or used in the story is even possible, once we consider the limitations of the seventeenth century. Just staying within canon and the technology limits isn’t quite enough, though. We want a story people want to read and that’s our primary goal.”

One of the unique elements of the Gazette is that some story characters, before being used in a submitted story, must be “claimed,” or checked out of a central database. The three character types available are up-timers[6], real, historical seventeenth-century down-timers, and invented down-timers. The up-timers, and the invented down-timers are kept track of on “Virginia’s Grid,” a spreadsheet where Dr. Virginia DeMarce, a retired historian, keeps track of the essential data on these characters in the 1632 universe. It contains birth dates, education, employment, marital status, and most importantly, who currently has claim to the character for serials. It is the rough equivalent of a census table, with the addition of authorial rights.

In order to claim a character, a writer first decides character type, looks over the grid to see if there are any previous claims active, and then starts a thread on the “1632 Tech” forum with the subject line “Ping Virginia.” If Virginia DeMarce comes back with the all clear, the writer is free to develop that character in their story, with the caveat that they cannot change previously canonized events.

Historical personages are also available for stories, but are not kept track of in the same manner. However, the first person to use a historical person in a Gazette story is generally regarded as having dibs. Another possibility of character use is the cameo, where a character that someone else may have claim to makes a brief appearance in a story. Cameos do not involve character development and must take place in a location the cameo characters would logically be in. Using characters in cameos is less formalized, but it is generally regarded as good etiquette to consult with the character’s creator or current claimant before using him or her.[7]

The 1632 universe started with a small West Virginia town, Grantville, plonked in the middle of seventeenth-century Germany, with a scattered handful of down-timer Europeans (from the seventeenth century) passing through. As the series grows and the characters wander, more and more people are introduced to the world. With so many characters available, many scenarios can be explored without reliance on the “main” characters, which may be a blessing.

The downfall of many fan fiction stories is their inability to merge with the main storyline; they take characters in directions they were not meant to go, or simply into situations the main story producers don’t wish to deal with. In the Gazette, such explorations are actually a helpful means of story development. As Eric Flint’s universe has expanded, some of the personages introduced in the Gazette have since been introduced into the larger novels that make up the backbone of the series. If these novels are the backbone, the stories of the Gazette are its arteries, pumping new blood to outlying regions. One of these character sets was a family of professional middlemen named Cavriani, who carry one of the main story threads in 1634: The Bavarian Crisis.

By letting others play in “his” sandbox, Eric Flint has turned the Grantville Gazette into a writer’s playground. He stated in the afterword to 1634: The Galileo Affair that part of his goal in the establishment of the Gazette was to encourage new writers; he seems to have more than accomplished this. The Baen’s Bar 1632 Slush/Comments forums are a never-ending writer’s workshop, where new authors can hone their skills, seek commentary, and feedback is nigh-instantaneous and constructive.

The Gazette Authors

It is perhaps telling that many of the stories and authors of the Gazette originated in the 1632 Tech forums on the Baen’s Bar website; a message board that started as a technical advice forum for Eric Flint when he started working on the series. Jenkins in Fans, Bloggers, and Gamers suggests that women fan writers are drawn to continuing serial stories and emotional character development, while male writers are more drawn to technical details and quick resolutions. The Gazette from the beginning has contained both fiction and non-fiction articles, and the fiction sections contain both continuing serials and stand-alone stories. It is perhaps for this reason that the normal fan fiction gender gap is reversed in the Grantville Gazette; the profiles on the “Authors” page are about 80% male. Whether by accident or by design, the Grantville Gazette has created a writing space that welcomes all types of burgeoning writers, and fulfilled at least one utopian goal laid out by early participatory culture predictors.

Because of the open nature of the 1632/Baen’s Bar forums, I was lucky enough to be able to start a Q amp; A dialogue with some of the Baen’s Bar forum-goers in the “1632 Tech” forum. For reference, the question set and selected responses are in Appendix A. The forum-goers’ answers were enlightening and often opened up new modes of enquiry. When asked to self-identify as an author, beta reader, or series fan, most respondents stated “all of the above”; a few identified their growth sequence from fan to author to reader/commenter on the forums, in that order. When asked how working with the Gazette had impacted their development as a writer, only one person out of fourteen replied that it had no impact; of the rest, the most popular response was that the Grantville Gazette was their first professional sale, first time writing fiction, or entry point into the SFWA (Science Fiction Writers of America). Based on the responses, it seems that fiction writers were more likely to respond to the questions posted; looking back there may have been an unintentional responder bias in the way the questions were set up.

Some of the most diverse replies came in response to the question “How has your work contributed to the shared world of 1632?” These included: the introduction of new technologies such as ballet dance techniques and engineering education, cultural innovations like modern musical theory, maintenance of complex character databases, expanding the storyline into other countries outside Europe, dealing with the problems of using radio during the Maunder Minimum[8], establishing strategy for Cardinal Richelieu (one of the recurring characters in the series), art direction, and the creation of “How-To” writing guides.

I also asked the first-time authors why they chose to submit their first work to the Gazette. Nearly everyone cited the helpfulness of the forums in providing feedback, or stated that they were actively encouraged to write something by another forum member. (In fact, most of the replies to this section could probably be summed up tongue-in-cheek as “The forums made me do it!”) I think most of the responses to this question are fairly well encapsulated by the first answer, “This community not only [recruits] new authors, and pays professional rates, they actively teach writing to those willing to listen and act on advice, and respond with useful information within hours.” (Jack Carroll)

Another question involved the rules for beta readers. There do not appear to be any established guidelines, but most of the forum members cited personal rules fairly similar to those listed by Henry Jenkins in Convergence Culture, i.e.staying positive, making suggestions, and making an honest effort to help improve writing skills. (189) Comments included, “We check each other for accuracy and suggest research resources” (Jack Carroll) , “Try and be constructive . . . and sometimes it’s a real emphasis on try . . .”, “No hitting . . .”, “Are the events/situations logical/plausible? Economically viable? Physically viable? Is the time line too compressed (a common problem)?” (Kerryn Offord), “I try to be constructive, yet at the same time realistic.” (David Carrico), “I try very hard to be honest.” (Rick Boatright), “Honesty and Thumper’s mother’s advice[9]” (John Zeek) “Rule Number One: BE NICE!” (Garrett W. Vance).

I also asked what the respondents previous involvement with fan fiction was, thinking that most of them would have used the Grantville Gazette as a stepping stone from fan fiction to published work. To my surprise, most of the people surveyed had no previous involvement with fan fiction at all; they were far more likely to have written nothing previously or only technical works. This may be a logical outcome of the Gazette’s history as an outgrowth of a technical advice forum, but it did lead me to re-examine some of my main assumptions about the Gazette authors. In fact, after I responded to another’s urging me to write my own story with an explanation of my busy finals week schedule, this was posted on the forum: “WOW . . . you have the PERFECT qualifications to write 1632 fiction. Never written fiction in your life. Never intended to[.] More educated than you have any reason to be[.] Absolutely balls-to-the-wall busy-no time at all[.] Yep. PERFECT qualifications.” (Rick Boatright) It would seem that first-time fiction writers are more the rule than the exception in the Grantville Gazette universe.

I ended the questions with an open comments section. Several people commented on the amount of research necessary for this particular genre, but a few that I specifically want to draw attention to commented on the environment presented by the forums themselves, such as, “Because all submitted drafts are visible on-line to all members of the 1632 community who hold a log-in password, authors receive help that no print publication could come anywhere near matching. Rather than feedback from a single first reader, we get feedback from dozens of fellow writers as well as the editorial board members. Instead of a couple of sentences, we get detailed analyses that can run for pages.” (Jack Carroll), and “This is an utterly unique forum, due partly to Baen’s general support, but mostly to Eric’s willingness to let people play in his sandbox with very few restrictions.” (David Carrico) This last comment, along with a few other iterations of the word “sandbox,” is the inspiration for the title of this essay.

Sharing the Sandbox: Fan Fiction vs. Open-Source Authorship

Eric Flint himself said in the afterword to 1634: The Galileo Affair, just before the first print edition of the Grantville Gazette came out, that “ “Fan fiction” usually has a negative connotation to science fiction readers-“derivative, unimaginative, poorly written dreck[10]” being the gist of most complaints-but there is no intrinsic reason that needs to be true.” This negative reputation of fan fiction in the publishing industry was one of the first topics of my initial email conversation with Paula Goodlett, the current editor of the Grantville Gazette. When asked what made the Grantville Gazette’s attitude toward fan fiction different than that of many other publishers, she responded,

“Jim Baen was never opposed to experimenting. Eric Flint was impressed by the stories that were being written. The Gazette is different because the authors have Eric Flint’s permission to write in his universe, for one thing. Most authors aren’t willing to allow fan fiction, much less publish it. And certainly they aren’t usually willing to modify their own plans for a series to accommodate events written in a fan fic story. But Eric is.”

Henry Jenkins in Convergence Culture wrote that the normal approach to fan fiction is to “-get to know your characters, remain consistent with the aired [or written] material, and speculate based on what you know about people in the real world.” This may be a good basic approach for generic fan fiction, but the structure of the Grantville Gazette means that these writers need to go through several extra steps. The expected end point for their stories is not just an online forum; it’s a web magazine with paid subscribers and certain standards of professionalism. Stories must pass through a peer review system before even being considered for publication. Arguably, the willingness of Eric Flint and Baen Books to incorporate these divergent storylines into the main series canon, along with the self-correcting nature of the forums, has taken the stories of the Gazette to a place beyond simple fan fiction. The Grantville Gazette occupies some kind of happy middle ground, between the free-for-all continuity-less space of speculative fanfic and the structured collaborative novel.

Eric Flint perhaps said it best in his afterword to 1634:The Galileo Affair:

“In terms of its narrative structure-as well as the way it’s written-the 1632 series could just as easily be considered a shared universe as a series in the traditional sense of that term . . . The basic premises of the setting and the story as a whole are established in 1632 and then expanded and elaborated in 1633. From there, the story branches in many directions. Branches-and constantly reconnects. Characters who play a major role in one novel will not necessarily appear onstage in another, although their actions will often have an indirect effect. Minor or secondary characters in one story will become major characters in their own right in another.” (670)

In attempting to give new writers/tech advisers access, one could argue that Eric Flint and Baen actually followed an old science fiction publishing model of the shared universe, where multiple authors contribute stories with different characters and plotlines that do not necessarily overlap but are all based in the same “world.” Robert Aspirin’s Thieves’ World springs to mind as a good example of the genre. This shared universe, however, is a place whose continuity and rules are policed and in part defined by the readers themselves, and is in effect an open-source universe.

Towards a Convergence Culture

Henry Jenkins suggests in Fans, Bloggers, and Gamers that academic studies of fandom have gone through three generational developments, from outside objectivity to attempting to integrate new media studies to the new hybrid academic fan (13). However, since Jenkins’ book was published, a new generation has arisen, which doesn’t consider participatory culture to be “fandom” at all, but an ordinary part of life in a digital world. The authors and reviewers of the Grantville Gazette may be the pioneering wave of this generation in the literary world. Their work is a striking example of what can happen when the barriers between creators and fans break down, or never come into existence in the first place.

In Fans, Bloggers, and Gamers, Jenkins states of Levy’s concept of knowledge community, that fandom is a rehearsal for the real world, that the way these people interact to a shared purpose is a model for future politics or online communities. The Grantville Gazette is certainly an example of a collective intelligence[11], but it does not need to serve as a model of anything other than itself; a shared community space where fans/technical consultants/series readers can share ideas, improve writing skills, and ultimately produce a finished product for the enjoyment of the community.

I would politely assert that this community is not a model for all online knowledge communities; I think we have already seen in the development of niche groups online that different paradigms beget different digital environments based on the needs of their users. The early alt message boards were not a scaled-down version of today’s social media, nor is the Grantville Gazette an early utopian version of the way in which all writing interaction needs to work. What the Grantville Gazette is, and what it can serve as a model for, is a means of sharing this fan-supported collective intelligence within an existing world framework, without infringing on creative license or intellectual property rights. The end result is a sort of open-source, distributed authorship, produced and policed by the fans.

Some might say that forcing fan fiction to work within set boundaries is taking away some of its best elements, that you give these authors a sandbox but take away the limitless shore. I would say that this sandbox has expanded, beyond the original shoreline to include an entire world.

Acknowledgements

Thank you to all the members of the Baen’s Bar Forums who answered survey questions, provided feedback, and conducted the initial reviews of this paper. Thanks also to Paula Goodlett for helping me with my initial research questions. Thank you to Virginia DeMarce for pointing out that “dreck” is a real word in the German language. I am especially indebted to Kerryn Offord for explaining the character claiming process and to Rick Boatright for pointing out that incorporating fan fiction into the main storyline is not unique to the Gazette. Thanks to Jack Carroll for very patiently explaining (twice) that the Ring of Fire was not actually a ring and not actually fire, and also for pointing out that the Gazette authorship can be considered open-source. I would also like to thank John Zeek for pointing out that non-fiction articles are there partly to help guide novice writers. A big thank you to any and all who provided useful quotes for this essay. Also grateful acknowledgements to anyone who pointed out technical mistakes along the way. Finally, thank you to Professor Ede, who helped me find my topic and let me have fun with my assignment.

References and Works Cited

"1632: Tech: The Grid." Official 1632 Fan Site. Web. 16 May 2011. .

"Baen's Bar ›› 1632 Slush." Baen's Bar -- 1632 Slush. Baen's Books. Web. 16 May 2011. .

"Baen's Bar ›› 1632 Slush Comments." Baen's Bar -- 1632 Slush Comments. Baen's Books. Web. 16 May 2011. .

"Baen's Bar ›› 1632 Tech." Baen's Bar -- 1632 Tech. Baen's Books. Web. 16 May 2011. .

Boatright, Rick. “Online posting. Baen's Bar » 1632 Tech » English paper research questions. Baen Books. 25 May 2011. Web. 6 June 2011.

Boatright, Rick. “Online posting. Baen's Bar » 1632 Tech » English paper research questions. Baen Books. 25 May 2011. Web. 7 June 2011.

Boatright, Rick. “Online posting. Baen's Bar » 1632 Tech » English paper research questions. Baen Books. 7 June 2011. Web. 9 June 2011.

"Bradley, Marion Zimmer." Fanworks.org:: Fan Fiction Policies. Fanworks. Web. 9 June 2011. .

Carroll, Jack. Online posting. Baen's Bar » 1632 Tech » English paper research questions. Baen Books. 10 June 2011. Web. 14 June 2011.

Carroll, Jack. Online posting. Baen's Bar » 1632 Tech » English paper research questions. Baen Books. 25 May 2011. Web. 6 June 2011.

Coker, Catherine. "The Contraband Incident: The Strange Case of Marion Zimmer Bradley." The Contraband Incident. Transformative Works and Cultures, 2011. Web. 9 June 2011. .

David Carrico. “Online posting. Baen's Bar » 1632 Tech » English paper research questions. Baen Books. 25 May 2011. Web. 6 June 2011.

Flint, Eric. 1634: The Galileo Affair. Riverdale, NY: Baen, 2004. Print. Ring of Fire

Flint, Eric. Grantville Gazette: Sequels to 1632. Vol. 1. Riverdale, NY: Baen, 2004. Print. Ring of Fire

Flint, Eric. Grantville Gazette IV: Sequels to 1632. Vol. IV. Riverdale, NY: Baen, 2008. Print. Ring of Fire.

Flint, Eric. "Grantville Gazette » Submissions." Grantville Gazette » Grantville Gazette. Baen Books, 15 June 2010. Web. 16 May 2011. .

Flint, Eric. Ring of Fire. Vol. 1. Riverdale, NY: Baen Pub., 2004. Print. Ring of Fire.

Goodlett, Paula. "Re: Researching the History of the Grantville Gazette." Message to the author. 21 May 2011. E-mail.

Goodlett, Paula. "Re: Researching the History of the Grantville Gazette." Message to the author. 11 May 2011. E-mail.

Hawnt, Andrew. "Fandemonium Books | Designer Whey Protein." Designer Whey Protein | Designer Whey Protein On Sale Now. Web. 09 June 2011.

Jenkins, Henry. Convergence Culture: Where Old and New Media Collide. New York: New York UP, 2008. Print.

Jenkins, Henry. Fans, Bloggers, and Gamers: Exploring Participatory Culture. New York: New York UP, 2006. Print.

Offord, Kerryn. “Online posting. Baen's Bar » 1632 Tech » English paper research questions. Baen Books. 25 May 2011. Web. 6 June 2011.

Offord, Kerryn. “Online posting. Baen's Bar » 1632 Tech » English paper research questions. Baen Books. 25 May 2011. Web. 6 June 2011.

"Stargate Novels::Frequently Asked Questions." Stargate Novels::Home. Fandemonium. Web. 09 June 2011. .

Appendix A: Snippets from Question and Answer Session on Baen’s Bar Forum, with Grantville Gazette Writers

1. What is your relationship with the 1632 world (author/fan/beta reader/etc) ?

rboatright

Yes… all the above. I was recruited from fan position to consultant during the writing of 1633. Now, writer, editor, researcher, fan, etc.

Johnzeek

yes Reader, Beta reader, Fan, Writer(author would be pretensious)

Karen

I'm an author of a number of fact articles and fiction stories. I'm also one of the GG Ed Board members and so read every story posted. Every one who reads and comments on stories is a beta reader.

GWV17

I write stories, I participate in the 'writing group' discussions here on the bar, and I'm the art director for the magazine.

2. How has working with the Grantville Gazette impacted your development as a writer?

W1PK

It's entirely responsible for my becoming a fiction writer. The EB nagged me to attempt a piece of fiction, and then showed me what I was doing wrong. I had no idea I was capable of it.

kao16

It's where I've done all my writing. Looking back at my early efforts (published) sometimes makes me cringe

virginiaeasleyd..

I still have trouble thinking of myself as a writer (of fiction) rather than a historian.

LisaS

Can't really say it has.

dvdscar

Definitely improved my skills at the craft, and proved to me that I can write professional level work that editors will buy.

ivergmail

I doubt I would have written fiction otherwise. In terms of nonfiction, I have already published quite a bit, both in my field (intellectual property law) and in connection with other hobbies (in the early 80s, Apple II assembly language programming).

I was sending out queries and proposals for a book on mirrors in history and science to agents around the time I became active in the bar. If I hadn't started writing for the 1632 universe, I would have rejiggered my book proposal as one agent suggested to focus on mirrors in nature. But the Bar's quick response times rather spoiled me.

bhasseler

The two more frequent pieces of advice given are "show, don't tell" and only change the point of view at a section break. Trying to keep that in mind as I write amp; revise hopefully means that a story comes out tighter amp; more coherent. In general, I've learned to be more aware that just because I know what I meant doesn't mean a reader can automatically keep track. There's a balancing act where I want my characters to seem like they really do have some idea what's going on around them in the 1632verse but without needing to comment on every development in the series to date.

Karen

Before the Gazette I had made a few minor attempts at writing fiction. Now I am published and qualified for SFWA. Writing for the Gazette taught me how to be a writer. :-)

f/Russiaw/Love

It has helped tremendously. It helps to restrain all the crazy ideas into a workable mold. Also before this, I had no idea how to do dialogue between characters; it was a mystery.

3. How has your work contributed to the shared world of 1632?

virginiaeasleyd..

I nag, I correct, I post lots of notes and bibliographical references, I have a database of historical down-timers with over 150,000 individuals in it, and I keep reminding people that the real world is infinitely more complicated than any known theory of history wants it to be.

bhasseler

When Virginia made the 7G edition of the up-timer grid, I was surprised to see how many characters my story canonized. It was cool to see a business and an organization that I made up appear on the grid. But I was really surprised to see I was the first one to specifically mention the Jesuit Collegium of Grantville in a story.

4. If you submitted a story to the Grantville Gazette/Ring of Fire series as a first-time author, what made you start here?

W1PK

This community not only rectuits new authors, and pays professional rates, they actively teach writing to those willing to listen and act on advice, and respond with useful feedback within hours.

virginiaeasleyd..

I wrote in the first Ring of Fire anthology, before the Gazette started. I did that because Eric nagged me into it and the people on Baen's Bar urged me on.

dvdscar

It was here? :-) Seriously, I discovered the opportunity and developed my first story idea within minutes of each other. And once I sold, it was the greatest feeling in the world. Better than your intoxicant of choice.

jones

A challenge. I complained to Eric Flint (by E-mail) that his portrail of the European Jewish community of the era was less than accurate. His reply, paraphrased, was "fix it, write a story". The Joseph Hanauer series is that story. I wrote SchwarzaFalls as a crutch to support Joseph Hanauer. I had to get Joeseph into the Ring of Fire from the Soutwest, and to do that, I needed to understand the roads and geography of that side of the RoF. The crutch, being a self-contained short story, was easy to publish

GWV17

I started here because of the blurb I saw in the back of Eric Flint's 1632 (I was completely mesmerized by that novel!) that said you could work on and submit stories set in Eric's wonderful world online and they pay pro rates. I had Birdwatching half written in my head as fanfic and ended up getting to sell it, a huge boost to my career! Little did I know I would eventually become art director, which I'm pleased to say happened because I was goofing around making funny pictures and teasing Paula Goodlett, our editor extraordinaire- she saw I was fast with Photoshop and gave me the job (which no one else wanted, especially Paula!). It's been a great experience, especially the art- only a nut like me would want to take on an entire issue of diverse stories and articles single handed, its a HUGE amount of work, which I always like to take the opportunity to remind everyone of. LOL

5. If you're a beta reader, what rules do you try to follow when commenting on/editing other people's work?

kao16

Try and be constructive… and sometimes it's a real emphasis on try…

Try and read the first few paragraphs before giving up (Ignore language problems, especially if it looks like the writer is a non native English speaker (We get a few of these… the language problems are easily dealt with if the story is good))

Look for plot.. Is the story interesting? Does it further the 1632 universe?

Are the events/ situations logical/ plausible? Economically viable? Physically viable? Is the time line too compressed (a common problem)?

Did I enjoy it?

Then start thinking about "how to make it better/ make it work".

GWV17

Rule Number One: BE NICE! -It's easy! I believe that we should offer constructive writing critique in a helpful and positive way. If I don't think someone elses' story is working I will try to help them fix it. There's little I hate worse than people in writing groups who are snide and put other writer's work down without making any attempt to help them improve (oh yeah, it has happened), there is simply no need for that kind of poor behavior and I tend to stamp it out when I come across it, ouch for them. All in all this is a great place to write, most folks are very helpful and professional, and this uniue alternate history is a lot of fun to work in, especially if you like research.

6. Have you written/read fan fiction before visiting the 1632 forums, and for how long?

dvdscar

Nope. Had been writing on/at a novel for 15+ years at the time I sold my first story, but no urge to do fan fic before 1632.

Johnzeek

The isn't really Fan-Fic since many of the ideas of the writers of stories in GG and the RoF influnce the prime authors

GWV17

I've read a bit of fan fiction and written some odds and ends over the years, it's fun of course, but I have always felt that unless its a shared universe, like a TV series or our 163X alternate history where collaboration is intended, that you are playing with other people's toys and you can't keep them. It's much more fun to make my own toys.

7. Feel free to comment on any part of your experience that I haven't covered.

W1PK

Grantville Gazette is a unique place to learn to write and sell fiction. Because all submitted drafts are visible on-line to all members of the 1632 community who hold a log-in password, authors receive help that no print publication could come anywhere near matching. Rather than feedback from a single first reader, we get feedback from dozens of fellow writers as well as the editorial board members. Instead of a couple of sentences, we get detailed analyses that can run for pages. Instead of waiting a year to get a response, we get it in hours, sometimes minutes. In my case, I went from first attempt to write a story to acceptance in four days. The one caution is that all this is forthcoming only to those who actually make use of the advice they receive, and make the necessary corrections promptly and without nagging. Arguing, blowing off comments, or just not getting the point are quick ways to get ignored.

virginiaeasleyd..

It's often been fun. Sometimes it's just plain drudgery.

dvdscar

This is an utterly unique forum, due partly to Baen's general support, but mostly to Eric's willingness to let people play in his sandbox with very few restrictions.

ivergmail

I also maintain story time frames, which tracks the temporal settings of the stories, to make it easier to spot potential conflicts.

rboatright

"How did you do it?" Lucky. In the right place at the right time.

jones

Feel free to comment on any part of your experience that I haven't covered. Thank you!

– - Research. It takes a lot of research to write historical fiction. When you've got a large community as we have in the 1632 universe, you can leverage that to get a lot of research done. Writing the Joseph Hanauer series forced me to dig up topo maps and geologic maps of the entire route from Frankfort to the Ring of Fire, just so I could make sure that, when he walked up a hill, there was really a hill in that place, and so the chalky soil could be chalky here, and the rocks sandstone there. Then, I had to research the coal mine, digging up photos of the actual mine, re-engineering it to fit where Eric Flint moved it, so that I could write properly about such simple things as the bus trip from Grantville to the mine on Joseph's first day of work. The research of others was immensely important in this, particularly Virginia DeMarce's population database and story timeframes database, and Jack Carroll and I collaborated on much of the work on gearing down the power plant as it plays strongly into his work on the growth of the post RoF electrical industry.

Karen

I've been at this since "1632" was first published. It has been interesting, sometimes amusing, often frustrating (why won't they do the simplest research!) and I've learned a great deal about many things.

We love stories so write us one! No excuses. We've heard 'I can't write, I can't write fiction, I'm too busy' from many of our now published authors. :-P]

Appendix B: 1632 Books in Print as of June 2011

1632, February 2000

1633, August 2002

1634: The Galileo Affair, April 2004

1634: The Ram Rebellion, May 2006

1634:The Baltic War, May 2007

1634: The Bavarian Crisis, October 2007

1635: The Cannon Law, October 2006

1635: The Dreeson Incident, December 2008

1635: The Eastern Front, October 2010

1636: The Saxon Uprising, April 2011

Ring of Fire, January 2004

Ring of Fire II, January 2008

Ring of Fire III, July 2011

Grantville Gazette I, November 2004

Grantville Gazette II, March 2006

Grantville Gazette III, January 2007

Grantville Gazette IV, June 2008

Grantville Gazette V, August 2009

[1] Though the event is referred to colloquially as the “Ring of Fire”, this is more of a poetic metaphor than a technical term. What the characters actually saw (based on later authorial discussions) was “a very brief, very bright flash of light emitted from a spherical surface 6.1 miles in diameter centered somewhat below ground level. The flash of light lasted much less than the blink of an eye, but was probably a quantum mechanical after-effect of a spatio-temporal transfer event that was orders of magnitude briefer than the visible flash. Milliseconds for the flash, possibly picoseconds for the transfer event.” (Jack Carroll)

[2] The book starts in the year 1631 but ends in 1632. The series which followed, also generally called “1632,” is named for the first book.

[3] The “Great Man” theory is a once-popular historical approach credited to Thomas Carlyle, who declared that all history was essentially the biographies of great men.

[4] Grantville, West Virginia, was the fictional town transported back in time at the beginning of the series.

[5]Canon: A body of works considered to be established or significant (Oxford English Dictionary). In fan-speak, established facts or an unalterable part of the storyline.

[6]Up-timer: one who comes from up-time, i.e. the future. Down-timer: one who comes from down-time, i.e. the present.

[7] I am grateful to Kerryn Offord for clarifying the ins and outs of the character claiming process.

[8] A period of sunspot inactivity in the late 17^th – early 18^th century, which would have adversely impacted the ionosphere, and hence short-wave radio transmissions

[9] Paraphrased: If you can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything at all.

[10] “dreck” is a mild swearword in fan-speak, meaning something like “yuck.” It is also the German word for “manure.”

[11] Henry Jenkins, in Fans, Bloggers, and Gamers, defines the term collective intelligence as “knowledge available to all members of the community”, in contrast to shared knowledge, which is “information known by all members of the community”. He further defines the term by saying, “Collective intelligence expands a community’s productive capacity because it frees individual members from the limitations of their memory and enables the group to act upon a broader range of expertise.” (139)

Climate: The Little Ice Age After the Ring of Fire

Iver P. Cooper

In winter 1634, James Byron "Jabe" McDougal "recalled that "the winter of 1631-32 had been quite a shock to himself and his fellow up-timers. Not only were they considerably farther north than they had been when Grantville was in West Virginia, but they were smack in the middle of what up-time historians had called the "Little Ice Age," which had begun some two centuries prior and would continue for another century, give or take. (Robinson, "Mightier than the Sword," Grantville Gazette 6).

****

So what was this Little Ice Age? The real Ice Ages were prolonged (as in millennia) periods of pronouncedly colder world or hemispheric temperatures in which the polar and continental ice sheets were of considerably greater extent than in historical times. There have been a dozen or so major glaciations over the last million years. A particularly big one occurred 650,000 years ago and lasted 50,000 years. However, the one that is usually considered the last Ice Age peaked about 20,000 years ago.

So that implies that a little ice age is one that is shorter and milder than that one, yet still noteworthy. Defining when a little ice age begins and ends is a bit tricky. Do you draw the line based on when a particular glacier advances or retreats, when a particular lake freezes or thaws, or when the grapes are harvested? If you rely on mean temperatures, then over how many years do you average them, and to what longer reference period do you compare that moving average? What if the temperature "breakpoints" are different in Iceland than they are in France?

Depending on who you ask, the Little Ice Age began in 1200, 1250, 1300, 1350, 1400, 1450, 1500, 1550, 1600 or even 1650. There is more agreement as to when it ended; 1850 is the year usually cited, but some would say 1870, 1900, or even 1920.

When people talk about the Little Ice Age (LIA) nowadays, they are mostly interested in the Big Picture: Was the LIA, viewed on some appropriate time scale, a global, a hemispheric or merely a European phenomenon? How much colder was the earth then than it is now? What caused it? Is the Earth warmer now than it was during the "Medieval Warm Period" that preceded the LIA? And to what extent is that warmth attributable to human activity (changes in albedo as a result of deforestation, or increases in greenhouse gases as a result of factory emissions)?

However, for those writing in the 1632 Universe, the Little Picture is what we need: what is the climate likely to be like in Germany, Italy, France, Scandinavia, England and in other areas of interest, each yearover the decade following the Ring of Fire (RoF)? (The RoF occurred up-time on April 2, 2000 and down-time on May 25, 1631 Gregorian calendar.) How does it compare to the climate in living memory, for both the down-timers and up-timers? What practical effect will it have on health, agriculture, transportation, communications, mining, industry and warfare?

In the first part of this article, I will provide some background as to the effects that climate can have on human society.

In the second part, I will try to fill in the Little Picture, based on the assumption that the Ring of Fire hasnot altered world climate; i.e., I can rely on modern reconstructions of historical temperature and precipitation averages in the areas and years of interest.

Finally, in the third part, I will consider the Ring of Fire as a meteorological phenomenon, and speculate about how much and for how long it could perturb weather and even climate.

PART I: EFFECTS OF CLIMATE ON HUMAN SOCIETY

Climate and Health

Excessive heat and cold can directly threaten human life. In studied regions of England and Wales (1993-2003 data), it was found that risk of mortality increased by 3% for every degree Celsius above the "heat threshold" (95th percentile of the mean daily temperature for the region), and by 6% for every degree below the "cold threshold" (the 5th percentile). In general, heat effects were seen once mean temperature reached 17-18^oC, and cold effect below 5^oC. (Hajat). At least in modern Europe and the United States, cold-related deaths are more common than heat-related ones, and that was even more likely to be true in LIA Europe.

The very old and very young, and those in poor health, are the most vulnerable to temperature extremes. However, the human body can adapt over time, which is why we can live in both cold and hot climates.

In addition, there are "cultural" as well as biological adaptations, and these can work in the short-term. In cold weather, one can wear heavier clothing, or go indoors and build a fire. In the 17th century, there was less that could be done about hot weather, of course. Especially since many Europeans thought that bathing was a bad idea.

Lives may be also be lost as a result of flooding caused by excessive rainfall, if the endangered population cannot flee to higher ground in time. Drought can also kill, if water has not been stored in advance. In hot, dry climates, dehydration is often associated with heat stress.

Even when climate extremes don't kill you outright, they can cause famine, which in turn reduces the body's resistance to infectious disease. "Malnutrition aggravated an influensa epidemic of 1557-8" (Mandia).

Normal seasonal variations may also have health consequences. Sometime around 400 B.C., Hippocrates declared, "The changes of the season mostly engender diseases." The basis for seasonality is not always clear. It may be related to increased pathogen (or disease vector) survival under particular temperature and humidity conditions, increased opportunity for transmission as a result of travel or overcrowding, or reduced host immunity or impairment of other host defenses (e.g., drying of the mucous membrane).

That said, some diseases definitely have seasonal propensities. In autumn and winter, we have influenza; in spring, measles; in summer, malaria (and in modern times, polio). (Dowell). In 1908 Manhattan, scarlet fever and measles were most common in March; there was a higher incidence of death from pneumonia and bronchitis from November through April; death from childhood diarrhea peaked in July-August, and cases of typhoid in August-September (North).

For malaria, the role of climate is well-understood. "Malaria transmission does not occur at temperatures below 16^oC or above 33^oC, and at altitudes › 2000m because development in the mosquito (sporogony) cannot take place. The optimum conditions for transmission are high humidity and ambient temperature between 20 and 30^oC. Although rainfall provides breeding sites for mosquitoes, excessive rainfall may wash away mosquito larvae and pupae." (Cook 1202). The northern limit for malaria in Europe has been the 15^oC July isotherm (Reiter).

While Europe was colder during the LIA, it wasn't cold enough to prevent malaria. However, a correlation has been reported between high (over 16^oC) summer temperatures in Kent and Essex parishes; Reiter speculates that the "hot weather . . . could certainly have increased the probability of transmission by shortening the extrinsic incubation period (the time required for the mosquito to become infective after feeding on an infected person)."

Yellow fever also is seasonal. In Trinidad, the density of one mosquito carrier was six times more common in the wet season (May-November) than in the dry season; bear in mind that in the tropics; the seasonal variation of temperature is small (Chadee).

Plague is rather more problematic. In Switzerland, 1628-30, the outbreaks were mostly between September and January, with November the month of highest frequency (Eckert). But other outbreaks favored summer, with peaks of mid-summer for Penrith 1597-8, Marseilles 1720, and London 1665, and late-summer for London 1625 and Debrecen 1739 (Welford).

****

The climatic deterioration was blamed on human misconduct. In Switzerland, Cysat wrote in 1600, "Unfortunately because of our sins, for already some time now the years have shown themselves to be more rigorous and severe than in the earlier past. . . ." (Pfister2007).

From blaming sins, it was a short step to looking for sinners. In Treves, Hans Linden's Gesta Treverorum blames the nigh-continuous crop failure of 1581-99 on "witches of devilish hate," and proclaims that "the whole country stood up for their eradication."

Accusations of causing "unnatural weather" or crop failure peaked when climate extremes disrupted agriculture. Moreover, it was generally considered unlikely that a single witch could control weather on a large-scale, which meant that the witch hunts were comparably large in scale (Pfister2007, Behringer).

In the 1620s, in Central Europe, there was a succession of extremely cold summers. For example, on May 24, 1626, there was a hailstorm in Stuttgart, "which brought hailstones the size of walnuts. . . ." Two nights later, ice formed, and crops failed. Witch-burnings in central Europe rose to a peak of over 500 a year, well above the "normal" (presumably, non-weather-related) level of the mid-16^th century of 100 a year. As late as 1630, "suspects still had to confess that they had been responsible for the extreme frost in May of 1626."

****

The wealthy, of course, get to choose where they live, and they live where conditions are healthiest. Lamb has pointed out that in Surrey, 20^th-century luxury housing is on the hilltops, whereas in the LIA, the favored sites were in the valley bottoms (LambCHMW 251).

Climate, Agriculture and Fishing

Jabe McDougal was not the only up-timer who has the Little Ice Age on his mind. One May, after the death of Mabel Jenkins in 1632 (Grid), Joe Jenkins grumbles that "there's snow on the ground" and "it's still here from February." He is worried that it won't be gone in time to plant corn and tomato, and adds, "If it weren't for the wheat, I could just up and starve with this here 'Little Ice Age.'" (Howard, "Golden Corn-A Tale of Old Joe on the Mountain Top," Grantville Gazette 9).

In the broader scheme of things, climate change can affect what crops can be raised in a particular part of the world. The ability of a plant to grow in a particular place is dependent on soil and climate.

Too much or too little heat, or too much or too little rain, can result in crop failure. Both droughts and floods can kill crops. Floods can be caused, not just by excessive rain, but by normal rain after a prolonged dry spell, as a result of which the soil has lost its normal ability to absorb water (Brooks 60).

If food cannot be rapidly and economically brought in from an unaffected area, crop failure leads to famine. Famine several years in a row can result in a major increase in illness, death or emigration, or in political unrest resulting in overthrow of the government or bloody suppression of a rebellion.

The down-timers in Thuringia are growing grain (primarily rye, barley, and spelt), vegetables, grasses for hay, and woad for dyeing. Of course, those are already adapted to the local climate. How will the plants that passed through the Ring of Fire, and are accustomed to the conditions of West Virginia in 2000, fare in LIA Germany?

There are complex plant-specific crop models available for predicting the combined, nonlinear effects of temperature and rainfall on plant development. These take into account changes in the sensitivity of the plant depending on its growth stage.

That's too complex for us, but we can look at what are called "cardinal temperatures"-minimum (base), optimum, and maximum (ceiling). Even those have their subtleties, as the cardinal temperatures may differ for germination, vegetative growth, and reproductive yield (which for grains is the crop yield).

Generally speaking, cool season crops (oats, rye, wheat, barley) have a base of 0-5^oC, an optimum of 25-31^oC, and a ceiling of 31-37^oC, and hot season crops (melons, sorghum) have a base of 15-18^oC, an optimum of 31-37^oC and a ceiling of 44-50^oC (Change, Climate and Agriculture 75).

Crop maturation is a cumulative process and crop scientists sometimes use the concept of growing degree days, awarding one GDD (^oF or ^oC) for each degree (^oF or ^oC) that the mean temperature on a particular day exceeds the base (some versions truncate if the temperature exceeds a ceiling). For example, wheat has a base of 40^oF; corn, 50^oF; and cotton, 60^oF. Insects also have GDDs; 50^oF for the European corn borer. (Fraise).

A decline in mean summer temperature has a double whammy. It reduces both the height and breadth (growing season length) of the GDD curve. In England, in the coldest years of the LIA (1695, 1725, 1740, 1816), summer temperatures were about 2^oC below the modern norm, and the growing season "was probably shortened by two months or even more." (LambCHMW 223).

The principal Indian crop in New England was maize, and there's reason to believe that the native strains required 2000 growing degree-days (GDDs), base 50^oF, to reach maturity. (The Indians also grew beans but these reached maturity more quickly.) In the 1960s, Connecticut, Rhode Island, Massachusetts, the Connecticut River Valley (NH-VT border), southeast New Hampshire and southwest Maine all were receiving at least 2000 GDDs (the area around Boston typically received over 2500 GDDs). A 2^oF reduction in mean July and mean annual temperatures would put all of New Hampshire, Vermont and Maine, as well as northwest Massachusetts, under the 2000 GDD mark (Demeritt).

Grantville is based on Mannington, located in Marion County, WV. According to the 1997 Census of Agriculture, Marion County had only one farm growing wheat and oats for grain. It had 251 farms producing hay (primarily from alfalfa). You can figure that alfalfa would be cut at 750 GDD, base 41^oF, to yield a fiber content 40% neutral detergent fiber. For 45% NDF, you would allow another 220 GDD (Pennington).

While there is no commercial production of corn in Mannington, canon says that there was a small quantity of seed corn available in Grantville as of the RoF (Weber, "In the Navy", Ring of Fire 1). There are also sunflower seeds, see Vance, "Second Chance Bird, Episode Two," Grantville Gazette 33. Sunflowers have a base of 44^oF and require a GDD of something like 2300. (Putnam).

We can compare these temperatures to those that are reconstructed for the places and times of interest.

Bear in mind that temperatures below the base temperature might not just stop growth, they might kill the plant altogether. Flowers and young fruits of fruit trees are often killed by mild frosts (0-5^oC) (Hatfield).

The USDA defines plant hardiness zones based on the extreme cold (expressed as the average minimum annual temperature) that a particular plant can tolerate. Zone 1 is -60^oF to -50^oF, zone 2 -50 to -40, and so on up to zone 11, 40 to 50. Each zone may be further subdivided into two subzones, "a" and "b," with "a" as the colder half. (Zones 0 and 12 are special cases; 0a is under -65^oF, 0b is -65 to -60, 12a is 50-55 and 12b is over 55.)

Plants vary in terms of what kind of climate they like. For example, the orange tree (Citrus sinensis) is considered hardy in zones 9a-11a, whereas the Scots pine (Pinus sylvestrus) grows in zones 1-4.

In 1990, the USDA prepared a map of North America depicting which areas are in which hardiness zones, based on their average annual lows (over the period 1974-86). This of course changes as the climate changes; in 2006, the Arbor Day Foundation updated the U.S. hardiness zones to reflect the most recent 15 years of data and perhaps half the U.S. (excepting California and Nevada) experienced a one zone (10^oF) increase.

The logic behind the hardiness zone definition is that even a brief exposure to a cold enough temperature will kill the plant. However, it ignores the fact that a plant may withstand a short exposure to say -5^oC yet be killed if there are too many days at 0^oC.

Also, it ignores the effects of day length, summer heat, wind, and the amount and distribution of rainfall, which in turn are influenced by latitude, elevation, continental position, and mountain barriers. The American Horticultural Society has a Plant Heat Zone map; the zones are based on the average number of days per year above 30^oC, thus accounting for summer heat. There are other zoning systems, that take additional factors into account, but we can't use them in LIA Europe because we lack some of the necessary data.

****

Besides the direct effects of climate on plant growth, there are also indirect effects. Plant pests are also affected by temperature; a warm winter may mean a bumper crop of insects in the spring. In late 17^th-century Switzerland, cool springs led to crop losses as a result of attacks of the parasite Fusarium nivale, which is active under snow cover (LambCHMW 206).

****

Domestic animals are also affected by climate. Animals can be killed by climate extremes, especially the combination of heat and drought. Even conditions that don't kill can reduce reproduction, growth rate, and milk production.

****

Considering domesticated plants and animals together, both temperature and precipitation can have significant adverse effects. The so-called LIA-type impacts are:

March, April: cold decreases forage for dairy animals and the volume of the grain harvest.

July, August: rain interferes with the harvesting of crops.

September, October: cold forces animals into the barn earlier and reduces the sugar content of vine-must; prolonged rain reduces area sown and nitrogen content of the soil (thus affecting the following year's productivity).

Pfister2006 has combined temperature and precipitation monthly data to arrive at a "biophysical climate impact factor."

****

Fish have preferred water temperatures. During the LIA, cod and herring moved south, hurting the fisheries of Norway, Scotland and the Faeroe Islands, but benefiting the English (Mandia).

Climate and Transportation

In 1630, the cheapest form of transportation was by water. However, except in far northern Europe, transport was dependent on liquid water; skating or skiing on ice or snow was fine for individuals but not practical for large-scale freight movement.

So that means that we need to ask when will geographically significant navigable rivers freeze and thaw, in which months will strategic harbors be closed by sea ice, and when will particular sea routes be endangered by icebergs.

Rainfall can also make a difference. In some parts of the world, rivers are navigable only for part of the year. Or in some years and not others.

Land transportation is also affected by climate. Snow can close a mountain pass, or simply make it slower to travel by road. Rainfall can turn dirt into mud, or make a ford impassable, or cause a flood that destroys a bridge.

On the other hand, the freezing of rivers (while not good for water travel) can make river crossings easier. In 1597-8, Matteo Ricci wrote that "once winter sets in, all the rivers in northern China are frozen over so hard that navigation on them is impossible and a wagon may pass over them." (Brooks 55).

Up-time transportation technology also has its vulnerabilities. Cold temperatures can reduce starter battery life, render fuel viscous, and cause engines to stutter. High temperatures make it easier for engines to overheat.

Climatic interference with transportation can make it more difficult to relieve a local famine by moving in food from elsewhere.

Climate and Communication

Prior to the RoF, messages traveled, at least over distances beyond line-of-sight, at pretty much the same speed as people and goods. On land, the fastest communications were those provided by a post horse system, and at sea, messages could be carried by a sailing ship built for speed and not burdened with a heavy cargo. The effect of climate on these channels of communication have already been discussed in the context of transportation.

The up-timers will be introducing radio and telegraph communications, and radio waves and electrical pulses travel at the speed of light. Of course, as a practical matter, it takes time for an operator to convert a message into transmissible form, and, at the receiving end, for another operator to convert it back again. If the message has to be relayed, then effective transmission times are increased. But it's still much faster than horse or ship.

Our climate is the result of the heating of the earth's land masses, oceans and atmosphere by solar radiation, coupled with the rotation of the earth about an axis tilted relative to its orbital plane.

The amount of solar variation emitted by the sun varies, and it turns out that there's a pretty good correlation between the number of sunspots and the solar output. All else being equal (and it rarely is), if solar output decreases, so will mean global temperature.

However, there is a more specific effect on radio communications. The solar radiation includes not only light photons, but also charged particles, and when those particles strike the earth's atmosphere, they ionize some of the air molecules. When solar output is high, the degree of atmospheric ionization is higher, and it is easier to bounce radio signals off the "ionosphere" so that they can travel longer distances. The principle is explained in much more detail in Boatright, "Radio in the 1632 Universe," Grantville Gazette 1.

Climate and Mining

Surface temperature doesn't have much of a direct effect on underground mining; the temperature underground is mostly a function of latitude. However, it can affect how easy it is to get miners and their goods to the mine, and to ship off the ore. A good case in point is that in the nineteenth century, cryolite could be mined in Greenland for only a small part of the year.

Rainfall is another matter. Drainage was a serious problem in both European and Japanese mines, and I imagine that in periods of heavy rainfall, the problem was exacerbated.

Climate and Industry

Industrial production presupposes the existence of healthy indoor temperatures. It is already a common practice to heat homes and shops during the winters in colder regions of the world. Factories in those climes will also need heating systems, and, if it gets colder, they will require more fuel (most likely wood or coal).

Summers in warmer regions are more of a problem, because the only form of cooling is ventilation. True air conditioning requires up-time technology. Fortunately, in those areas affected by the LIA, summer is not a major concern.

The effect of increased rainfall is a more subtle one; more rainfall will be associated with more humidity, which means more problems with decay (wood) and rust (iron). This may increase industrial demand, but it also means that the maintenance costs will be higher.

Climate and Warfare

The conduct of war is also affected by climate, both indirectly and directly. If harvests are poor, it will be difficult to feed the troops and their work animals. If roads are muddy or snow-covered, troop movements will be slow. If the soldiers are not conditioned to the local climate, and properly dressed for it, there will be weather-associated deaths.

Climate begets weather, and one of the more piquant examples of the effect of weather on warfare was the January 23, 1795 capture of the Dutch fleet by the cavalry of the French Republic. It was trapped to the lee of Texel Island by ice.

PART II: CLIMATE IN THE 1630s (OLD TIME LINE)

The Up-Timers' Perspective

The up-timers are coming from a West Virginia town. While Grantville is fictional, it is based on real-life Mannington, in north central West Virginia (Marion County). Climate data for Mannington goes back to 1948, but unfortunately it's spread over three different weather stations. For nearby Fairmont, there's continuous data from a single station.

Please note that interannual variability of even annual (let alone seasonal, monthly, or specific day of the year) temperatures is such that it is customary for weather services to calculate "climatological normals" over a thirty-year period.

Table 1 shows the sort of climate that the up-timers of Grantville are accustomed to. From this we can estimate seasonal average temperatures as follows: winter (DJF), 31.7^oF (-0.2^oC); spring (MAM), 51.0 (10.6); summer (JJA), 70.5 (21.4); autumn (SON), 54.2 (12.3). The average of the daily minimums for January was 20.4^oF.

(Climatography #81, #85)

Fairmont (ZIP code 26554) was in the 1990 USDA Plant Hardiness Zone 6A (average absolute annual minimum temperature in range -10 to -5^oF, -20.6^oC to -23.3^oC), and in zone 6-7 of the 2006 Arbor Day Foundation update.

In this part of West Virginia, the first freezing temperatures (end of the growing season) is typically in the first half of October, and the last freezing temperature (preceding spring planting) in the first half of May. http://www.accuracyproject.org/w-FreezeFrost.html

A Global Overview of the LIA

In 2002, Mann presented a figure comparing temperatures for the period 1000-2000 for eight different parts of the world. Mann considers the LIA to be 1400-1900, and my comments are based on the reconstructed annual means. I will call an LIA "low" if the temperature was less than the lowest value for that region during 1000-1400.

Northern Hemisphere: the lows are in the late-16^th, late-17^th, and late-19^th centuries, with highs in the early 17^th and mid 18^th centuries.

West North America: the deep lows are in the late-16^th and mid-19^th centuries, and a shallower but broader low appears in the 17^th. The highs are in the early-15^th, mid-16^th and late-18^th centuries.

Subtropical North Atlantic: there's a broad shallow low centered on 1700, and a high in the early- and mid-16^th century.

Western Greenland: The entire LIA was warmer than in the late-14^th century, but at its warmest in the early-15^th and coldest in the late-17^th and late-19^th centuries.

Central England: The LIA saw a long decline to the low of late-17^th century, then an improvement in the early-18^th century. Temperatures remained well below the broad peak of the 13^th century.

Fennoscandia: the deep low is just after 1600, and temperatures gradually recovered to a broad peak in the late-18^th and the whole 19^th centuries.

Eastern China: the biggest temperature drop of 1000-2000 was before the LIA, in the 12^th century. During the LIA, temperatures remained at or above their 14^th century levels, with a broad peak in the 19^th century.

Tropical Andes: the LIA really began around 1500 here, but there were no sharp lows. The lowest points are in the late-17^th and late-18^th centuries. The early-17^th century was cooler than the 15^th century but otherwise unremarkable.

Thus, the LIA was not simply a four-century cool period; it included warmer and cooler intervals, and these weren't synchronous between regions. However, it has been contended with some justice that it was a period of greater temperature variability.

1630s Europe: Historical Accounts

We can learn a lot about past climates from historical records. At the very least, they speak directly to the real-life consequences of weather conditions (droughts, floods, freezes, heat waves, and storms). And in some cases the historical records provide quantifiable information (e.g., the dates that particular lakes or rivers froze or thawed, the dates of harvesting grapes or other crops) that can be correlated with overlapping instrumental records so that the older temperatures may be inferred.

While our interest is particularly in the 1630s, we will from time to time look back at dates that would have been in living memory, and forward to the 1640s.

Pfister has constructed, by rating the severity of temperature and rainfall extremes in documentary accounts and weighting them together, an index of climate impact on European agriculture. There were major peaks in 1569-73, the late 1590s, 1614, and 1626-29. 1628 was a "year without a summer." (cp. Battaglia). "After 1630 the level of climatic stress drops substantially." The next peak, in the 1640s, was of about half the magnitude of the one in 1626-29.

Temperature increased from the 1620s to the OTL 1630s, and the number of witchcraft trials in eleven regions of Europe, standardized relative to the regional means, declined. In the OTL 1640s, they increased again, to higher than the 1620s level (Oster, Fig. 1).

Great Britain. According to Wikipedia/River Thames Frost Fairs, in the 17^th century, the Thames froze over at London in 1608, 1621, 1635, 1663, 1666, 1677, 1684 and 1695. With particular regard to the winter of 1635, the frost was severe from December 15 to February 11. It was followed by a warm and moist spring, and a very hot and dry summer and autumn. But the following winter (1635-36) was unseasonably warm. 1637 was also cold. The summers of 1636, 1637 and 1638 were all hot and dry (Marusek 116; LambCPFF 568).

During the LIA, the 25-year average of the English price of wheat increased from its low around 1500 to a high around 1650, then dropped to a shallower low in the late-18^th century, and then climbed to a greater high in the early-19^th century (Flohn 44; LambCPPF 462).

Note that during the coldest parts of the LIA (which for England was the late-17^th century), the growing season was shortened by 1-2 months compared to that of modern England (Mandia).

Scandinavia and the Baltic. Historical climatologists have found records of the date of ice break-up at the harbor of Riga (Latvia) going back to 1529. We know that in the 1620s, 1620-21 was a severe winter, 1622-23 was average, and 1625-6 was mild. And in the 1640s, 1642-3 was severe, 1648-9 was average, and 1649-50 was mild. But the data for the 1630s are missing. The average break-up date is March 24 in a mild winter, April 3 in an average one, and April 12 in a severe one, but the variability is fairly high. (Jevrejeva). For the 17^th century, the earliest date was Feb. 2, 1652 and the latest May 2, 1659 (LambCPFF 587).

There is also data, complete from 1600 on, for ice-breakup at Tallinn (Estonia), which is near the average western limit of the ice cover in the Gulf of Finland. (Tarand 192). The means for 1597-1629 were year-day 97.4 for Riga and 106.18 for Talinn, and for 1630-1662, they were 80.25 and 99.73 respectively. The estimated winter air temperatures for Tallinn were -5.84^oC and -4.72^oC for the two periods. And the "Ice Winter Severity Index" for the Western Baltic dropped from 0.73 to 0.44 (it was 0.02 in 1988-93). (Eriksson; Tarand 192).

Alas, the post-1622 Great Sea Toll records for Stockholm, recording the dates of first arrival and last departure for each shipping season, were requisitioned by the Swedish Army as-brace yourself-wadding for artillery. Nonetheless, useful records relative to the shipping industry have survived, and the climate observations from these records have been scaled and calibrated with overlapping instrumental data to reconstruct winter temperatures for Stockholm. These reveal that 1614-23 (-2.43^oC) and 1624-33 (-2.20^oC) were the second and fourth coldest decades since 1500. (The dangers of relying too much on the generic Little Ice Age label are shown by the fact that one of the five warmest decades, 1734-43, is within the conventional LIA.) The decade of 1634-43 was a bit warmer than 1624-33.

I have found reports of crop failures in Norway in 1632 and 1634 (GroveLIAAM, 67). These are probably attributable to the proximity of glaciers. The 1742 report of the court of inquiry on Elekrok stated "it was apparent to us that it was the nearness of the glacier which is the cause of crop failure on this farm . . . the ears on the side towards the glacier . . . were quite brown, and the other side green. . . ." (71).

The Netherlands. In East Friesland, on Sept. 1, 1637, there were great floods (Marusek 116). (The specific date won't be repeated in the new time line, but there may still be a propensity to flooding that autumn.)

For wheat prices, the first LIA climb came later than for England, possibly in the 1640s. Otherwise, the fluctuations were similar to those for England but smaller.

Germany. The walls of historic buildings at Tonning on the west coast of Schleswig-Holstein reveal that the flood of Oct. 11, 1634 reached a height of four feet above the ground surface. (LambCHMW 17). On Norstrand Island, 6,123 people drowned, and 50,000 livestock were lost (Rabeljee). This flood is mentioned in Grantville literature, but the up-timers didn't think to warn King Christian about it because they assumed it would be "butterflied away." Instead, it came ahead of schedule. See Boyes, "A Great Drowning of Men," Grantville Gazette 28.

The price of rye in Germany over four centuries has been analyzed. Peaks corresponded to a poor harvest-this could be because of climate, or because of warfare. Considering just 1590-1650, there were small peaks in 1590 and 1610, moderate ones in 1626, 1634 and 1649, and a large one in 1622. However, the worst one of all was that of 1816 (the "year without a summer") (Mandia, Fig. 17). Other than in 1634, the 1630s appear to have offered cheap rye-albeit not as cheap as in the "good years" of the 16^th century. The high prices in 1634 were probably attributable to plague (Pfister2007, Fig. 8).

France. On October 6, 1632, southern France was so cold that sixteen of Louis XIII's bodyguards died from exposure (Marusek 115). The winter of 1638 was also severe; in Marseilles, the "water froze around the ships."(116).

Wine grapes will reach maturity more quickly if the growing season (April-September) is warm, than if it is cool. Based on the extensive wine harvest data, the summers of 1634-39 were warmer than the 1599-1791 mean (Ladurier; Chuine).

French wheat prices followed a pattern similar to that of British, but the fluctuations were more moderate (Flohn 44).

Switzerland. Based on historical documentary evidence, Pfister constructed crude thermal (warm months-cold months) and wetness (wet months-dry months) indexes for Switzerland. The 1630s appear to be a little on the warm side, and markedly on the dry side. The 1640s were colder, although nowhere near as cold as the 1670s, 1690s, or 1810s, and not as dry (LambCHMW 204).

In the Alps, we have the very visible evidence of the advance and retreat of the glaciers. Unfortunately, in the 17^th century, we do not have good maps of their positions, and hence we have to rely on diaries and legal documents. In 1600-19, there are repeated descriptions of the destruction of houses, the failure of crops and the decline in tithes as a result of glacial advance (Ladurie 143ff).

It appears that the glaciers were more quiescent in the 1620s and 1630s, but they remained dangerous. A third of the cultivable land at Chaimonix was destroyed in 1628-30, and the Mattmarksee (influenced by the Allalin glacier) flooded in 1620, 1626, 1629, and 1633 (Aug. 21). In 1636, the people in the valley of Randa thought that the whole Zermatt glacier was coming down on top of them; forty people were killed by ejecta. In the 1640s, there were new glacial advances. In May, 1642, the Les Bois glacier was reportedly moving by "over a musket shot every day." Such ominous developments led to the famous June 1644 procession, led by the local bishop, to seek divine intervention to hold the glacier at bay (Ladurie, 165-173).

Wine harvest dates for fifteen locations in the Swiss Plateau and northwestern Switzerland have been used to reconstruct April-August temperatures. Harvest on year-day 285 indicated temperatures identical to those of the base period 1961-90; earlier harvests implying warmer temperatures. In 1632-33, temperatures were a little below base, whereas in 1634-39 they were higher, peaking at 1.78^oC higher in 1638. The temperature anomalies in 1640-43 were negative (Meier).

Northern Italy. The second quarter of the seventeenth century was not marked, as was the first one, by any "great" winters (enough for large bodies of water to have ice thick enough to support people) or even "severe" winters (causing the death of animals and plants) (Alfani Graph 1.3). The flooding of tributaries (Tanaro and Bormida) of the Po was perhaps half as common as in the preceding quarter-century, but nonetheless more common than in the next one.

In 1629, a landslide, triggered by heavy rain, caused loss of life and property in the hamlet of Onera. In 1629-30, a plague epidemic killed about 27% of the population of Northern Italy, but the extent to which climatic factors contributed to its occurrence remains in dispute (Alfani). In 1632, there were complaints about both heat and drought (Marusek 115). In the lower Po valley, cereal yields were "seriously reduced in the period 1590-1630, especially." That was, of course, attributable to the flooding (Grove 129).

The Italian price of wheat in the LIA reached a peak just after 1600, then descended to a broad low in the 18^th century, then climbed more moderately to twin peaks in the 19^th (Flohn 44).

Spain. The period 1575-1650 was "generally wet," at least in the southeast. 1617 and 1626 were "deluge" years, and "catastrophic floods were unusually frequent between 1571 and 1630, especially in Catalonia." (Grove 129). There was major flood activity in 1630-1650, too (Llasat Fig. 5).

The Black Art of Reconstructing Past Climates

Crude thermometers appeared in the 17^th century, and our oldest continuously monthly temperature records date back to 1659 (for central England). For that region, the coldest winter was in 1684, the coldest summer in 1725, and the coldest year overall was 1704 (Manley). Other early records are those for Berlin from 1697, for Hoofddorp and Zwanenberg/De Bilt in the Netherlands from 1706 and 1735, respectively, for Uppsala (Sweden) from 1739, and for St. Petersburg from 1726 (Flohn).

Clearly, this direct data doesn't tell us anything about what the temperatures were in 1631-39. However, it does help in calibrating "proxy" data.

A "proxy" is any observable variable of the fossil record (this term used in a broad sense) that can be reliably correlated with direct temperatures for part of the range of the record, so that the historical temperatures can be reconstructed for the rest of that range.

For our purposes, it isn't sufficient that the proxy be highly correlated with the actual temperature, it also must be "high resolution." For example, if we couldn't determine the age of a proxy value more accurately than the nearest decade, or if the proxy value reflected the temperatures over the preceding decade, then the resolution it offers is just decadal. We want resolution down to the annual level.

Here are some of the sources of high-resolution proxy data:

Ice Cores-the upper portion of an ice core exhibits a layered structure with annual variation; the light bands are formed by freshly fallen, clean summer snow and the dark bands are formed by old, dust-contaminated winter snow. The thickness of the light band is indicative of how much snowfall there was. Air bubbles in the ice preserve "fossil" air, in which the level of greenhouse gases can be measured. Also, oxygen isotope ratios are influenced by ocean temperatures. Obviously, ice cores are only available from a few parts of the world; notably Greenland, Antartica, and a few glaciers.

Tree Rings-the light colored layer grows in the spring and the dark colored one in late summer. Narrow rings are indicative of poor growth conditions, such as drought or severe winter. Tree ring data is available only where trees grow.

Corals-we can see annual variations in skeletal density and geochemical parameters. The light layers are from the summer and the dark layers from the winter. Oxygen isotope ratios are indicative of ocean temperatures. The most useful corals grow in shallow tropical waters.

Lake Sediments-these may exhibit seasonable variations (varving) in runoff sediment composition, which in turn are the result of summer temperature, rainfall, and winter snowfall.

Boreholes-the variation of temperature with depth has a detectable relationship to the history of temperature at the surface.

Speleotherms-these are stalactites, stalagmites and flowstones. Some provide annual resolution, as a result of visually detectable lamination, or a seasonal variation in trace elements. Layer thickness is related to surface rainfall and cave air temperature.

Historical accounts-these are most useful if they provide some kind of quantitative information.

There are technical problems with working with proxy data, but consideration of those problems is outside the scope of this article.

Climate Reconstructions: The North Atlantic Oscillation

In the mid-latitudes of the North Atlantic, the prevailing winds are from the west. These were convenient for mariners returning from the New World. However, those winds are also important because they bring moist air to Europe.

The direction and strength of the prevailing winds are controlled by the position and strength of a persistent low-pressure system over Iceland (the Icelandic Low), and a persistent high-pressure system over the Azores (the Azore High).

The atmosphere alternates between a state in which the pressure difference widens (positive phase, NAO+) and one in which it narrows (negative phase, NAO-). There are a number of ways the NAO may be quantified, but the simplest is as the normalized difference in pressure between a station in the Azores (or in Portugal) and one in Iceland. There is no significant periodicity in the switching between NAO+ and NAO-.

In NAO+, the westerlies are stronger, and more and stronger winter storms cross the north Atlantic, on a more northerly track. Temperatures are above average in the eastern United States and in northern Europe, and below average in northern Canada and Greenland and often in southern Europe, northern Africa and the Middle East. There is also above average precipitation in northern Europe, and below average in southern Europe. In NAO-, the effects are reversed.

The effects are strongest in winter. (NWS-CPC).

The North Atlantic Oscillation index has been reconstructed, on a seasonal basis, for 1500-1658 and monthly for 1659-2001 (LuterbacherNAO). Table 2-1shows its behavior for 1630-39. It can be seen that it was mostly in negative phase in that decade.

Climate Reconstructions: European Annual Average Temperatures

Looking first at reconstructed mean annual temperatures for Europe generally, Table 2-2A shows how the 1630s (with the years 1999-2000 for comparison) shape up.

^{LuterbacherTemp).}

If we consider just the temperature column, it's clear why the up-timers feel a chill in the air. However, the coldness ranks (30-362) provide some perspective. And it's worth comparing those temperature to the averages (Table 2-2B) for each century, for the Maunder Minimum (1645-1715), the whole LIA (1500-1850), and the modern period (1851-2004).

We can see that only three years were below the average (8.2^oC) for the LIA. The worst year of all (1635) was the 30^th coldest year for the period studied (1500-2004). It was not the coldest year in living memory; that was probably 1573 (7.0^oC, 2nd coldest), and down-timers will also remember 1587 (14^th), 1595 (10^th), 1600 (5^th), 1601 (8^th), 1608 (6^th), and perhaps also 1565 (13^th) and 1569 (9^th).

So, yes, we are in the LIA-but not in the worst decade, by any means.

Climate Reconstructions: European Seasonal Average Temperatures

There are several references to the severity of winter in 1632 universe canon. Watching TV in 1633, Joyce and Gary find that "the news was about broken armies, new business, and, of course, the weather and what the little ice age meant to their future." (Huff and Goodlett, "Wish Book" Grantville Gazette 12). In January 1634, Eric Krentz tells Thorsten Engler, "I always hated January even before an up-timer told me we're in the middle of what they call 'the Little Ice Age.' " (Flint, 1634: The Baltic War, Chapter 14). Later, in late March 1634, Admiral Simpson is "a bit surprised that the river [Elbe] hadn't frozen, although intellectually he'd understood that the past winter hadn't really been as cold as it had sometimes felt, Little Ice Age or not." (Chapter 31). In Flint and DeMarce, 1635: The Dreeson Incident, we are told that "Winter in Thuringia during the Little Ice Age encouraged the layered look." (Chap. 41).

So, how did LIA winters (and other seasons), compare to those the up-timers would have been acclimated to, and just how bad were the 1630s as compared to other parts of the LIA?

We define the seasons as DJF (winter, December-January-February, and I assume that winter for 1630 starts with Dec. 1629), MAM (spring), JJA (summer) and SON (fall). Table 2-3provides the reconstructions for each of 1630-1639, the actual values for 1999 and 2000, and averages of values for the decade 1630-39, the 30-year period 1620-1649, 1645-1715 (the Maunder sunspot minimum), 1500-1850 (LIA) and 1851-2004 (Post-LIA). The coldest (bold blue) and warmest (italic red) winter, spring, summer, fall and entire year are marked.

I have calculated, but not shown, the seasonal coldness ranks. Looking first at winter (DJF), 1635 was the 32^nd coldest in the study period. The next worst was 1637, ranking 129^th. The mildest winter of the decade was that of 1633, ranking 408^th. The LIA mean was -1.125C, so five years were better and five were worse, and the mean for our decade was a bit milder.

The springs (MAM) ranged in rank from 62^nd to 459^th coldest, the summers (JJA) from 92^nd to 424^th, and the falls (SON) from 60^th to 372^nd. For all three seasons, the mean for our decade was higher than the mean for the LIA.

Surprisingly, the mean for summer 1630-1639 was even higher than the mean for the post-LIA (1851-2004) period, although of course still cooler than the summers of 1999 and 2000.

We are lucky to have missed 1628, which was the thirteenth coldest summer (16.8^oC) of 1500-2004.

Climate Reconstructions: Central European Monthly Average Temperatures

Monthly temperatures have been reconstructed for central Europe in 1630s, based on documentary evidence (mostly from sites in the present Germany, Czech Republic, and Switzerland). Unfortunately, these are available just as anomalies, that is, the difference between the actual temperature and the average(s) for the base period 1961-1990 (Dobrovolny). I emailed Dr. Dobrovolny, asking him for the base temperatures, but he didn't reply. So I used the KNMI Climate Explorer to download the CPC GHCN/CAMS t2m analysis (land) data, gridded at 0.5° intervals, and calculated the 1961-1990 base for central Europe myself. I assumed that Dobrovolny defined central Europe the same as his coworkers did in LuterbacherSLP.

In Table 2-4, I show first my derived monthly temperatures for each year of 1630-39, and the average and standard deviation for the decade. Next, I provide my 1961-99 base numbers. There're no guarantees that Dobrovolny had exactly the same base averages; his region and his modern data could have differed from mine. But since I stated the bases I used, you can reconstruct Dobrovolny's anomalies by subtracting them out. Finally, I present the mean and standard deviation for the period 1766-1850, from Luterbacher's monthly gridded reconstructions.

Please note that with the exception of 1630 and the first four months of 1631, this monthly data is subject to perturbation by the RoF. Since it's time-averaged data, the impact won't be as severe as for daily weather, but there will be some effect.

Climate Reconstructions: Mapping Post-RoF European Seasonal Average Temperatures

Of course, pan-European averages are all well and good, but different parts of Europe would no doubt fare differently. Fortunately, Luterbacher's climate reconstruction provides reconstructed seasonal temperature for each point on a 0.5 degree by 0.5 degree grid, over the range 25W-40E longitude; and 35N-70N latitude.

It's said that a picture is worth a thousand words, and I have created some revealing images from Luterbacher's gridded temperature data. Using Climate Explorer, I have compared the decade 1630-39 with 1990-99. The figures compare the decades for (Fig. 1A) the entire year, (1B) winter, (1C) spring, (1D) summer and (1E) autumn.

And using the National Climatic Data Center's visualization tool, I have created comparisons of the coldest and warmest winters (2A), springs (2B), summers (2C) and autumns (2D) of the 1630s. Note that each season has a different temperature scale:

Winter (DJF): coldest 1635, warmest 1632, scale -20 to +10C;

Spring (MAM): coldest 1635, warmest 1636, scale -5 to +25C;

Summer (JJA): coldest 1630, warmest 1637, scale +5 to +35C;

Fall (SON): coldest 1635, warmest 1630, scale -5 to +25C.

Which parts of Europe are unusually hot and which are unusually cold is very strongly influenced by the position, areal extent and persistence of the high and low pressure areas (see North Atlantic Oscillation) and the position and strength of the jet stream. Stagnant (blocking) patterns lead to persistent weather conditions that influence monthly and even seasonal averages. On the west side of a stationary NH high, warm air is pushed north, and on the east side, cold air is dragged south. So you may be warmed or cooled depending on where you stand. Moreover, a slight shift in the location of the blocking pattern from one year to the next might mean that you face extreme cold in the first year and extreme heat in the second (LambWCHA 110).

Climate Reconstructions: Post-RoF Grantville Seasonal Average Temperatures

The place of greatest interest to the up-timers is, of course, the location in Thuringia where the RoF deposited Grantville. The center of the RoF was at approximately 11^o16' east longitude, 50^o40'12" north latitude. The closest Luterbacher grid point is 50.75N, 11.25E, and the reconstructed seasonal temperatures for this location are in Table 2-5A (with comparison to pre-RoF Grantville at the bottom of the table).

It can be seen that in OTL 1620-49, the growing season (April-September) was probably about 4-5^oC. colder than in 1971-2000 Grantville. If extremes moved downward the same amount, that probably wouldn't shift Grantville into a new plant hardiness zone (that would require an 18^oC change.)

Climate Reconstructions: Magdeburg Seasonal Average Temperatures, 1630-39

Magdeburg is at 52^o07'N, 11^o38'E, and the closest grid point is 52.25N, 11.25E. The data for that grid point are in Table 2-5B.

It is possible to extract the reconstructed temperatures for other locations in Europe, too, given their latitude and longitude. The necessary data set and format information are here:

http://www.cru.uea.ac.uk/cru/projects/soap/data/recon/#luter04 Please note I had to write a program to extract the data, because Excel can't import 18,000 columns of data. . . .

Climate Reconstruction: Plausible Grantville Monthly Average Temperatures

Unfortunately, I don't have gridded monthly temperature reconstructions covering the 1630s. Mark Twain once said, "there are three kinds of liars: liars, damn liars, and statisticians." We can make an educated guess as to what the monthly temperatures were, using statistics for other time periods. There are a number of ways that this can be done. I assumed that the relationship of monthly to seasonal temperatures for Grantville was the same as for Central Europe.

Or, in mathematical terms,

Grantville average for that month= Grantville average for that season (from LuterbacherTemp) + adjustment, where the adjustment was Dobrovolny's central Europe average for that month – central Europe average for that season.

Table 2-6A provides my reconstructed monthly temperatures for the location that Grantville was transported to. For convenience, I also repeat the climatological normals for Fairmont, West Virginia.

Bear in mind that these monthly numbers, even if accurately reconstructed, are the likeliest climate statistics to be corrupted by the "butterfly effect" of the RoF. So that's another good reason to view them as general indications rather than gospel truth.

What I thought most noteworthy about them was how fast temperatures dropped off during autumn and rose during spring.

Table 2-6B provides the average and standard deviation, over 1766-1850, of Luterbacher's reconstruction of monthly mean temperature at the same location. These, of course, reflect a different time period, but they save us the trouble of trying to convert temperature anomalies into absolute temperatures.

Grantville Growing Degree Days

We can estimate the number of growing degree days for a given location and year, for whatever base is appropriate to a particular crop. (Schenkler; Thom). Using the estimated monthly means and standard deviations from Table 2-6A, then by Thom's method we get the dramatic results shown in Table 2-7.

Grantville Extreme Temperatures

We also can make some educated guesses as to typical daily minimum (usually nighttime) and maximum (usually daytime) temperatures. The climatological norm of the monthly mean of the daily temperature range (maximum-minimum, DTR) varies from month to month, and is affected by latitude (which determines solar radiation variation), distance from the shore (affecting exposure to sea breezes and degree of low-level cloudiness), and precipitation. In the northern hemisphere, the DTR peaks at 20-40°N. In modern Europe, at latitude 50°N, the DTR is about 12°C in July and 7°C in January (Geerts Fig. 3). Moving inland more than 100 km increases the DTR by about 2°C. Those rules should apply to Grantville in Thuringia.

Unfortunately, there's a catch: the DTR can change as the climate changes. In particular, "the blocking action of greenhouse gases would be most effective where outward radiation was most important for cooling the Earth: warming would come especially at night" (Weart). So the DTR of the late-twentieth century is probably smaller than that of the seventeenth, when greenhouse gases were at lower concentrations and thus had less of an upward influence on nighttime temperatures.

****

The USDA plant hardiness zones are defined on the basis of the climatological norm of the annual minimum-the lowest daily minimum recorded during the course of the year. Unfortunately, to calculate that, by Monto Carlo methods, we need to know not only the monthly mean and standard deviation for (at least) January, but also the correlation of one day with the next.

Plant Hardiness Zone Maps have been created for modern Europe that use the same scale as the USDA maps (Heinze), and based on 1881-1930 data (although Lorek says that including 1931-1960 data would have an insignificant effect); Grantville post-RoF is in zone 6b (average January minimum of 20.5-17.8^oC, -5 to -10^oF) and Magdeburg in 7b (14.9-12.3^oC, 10 to 5^oF).

****

A change in climate may simply shift the mean temperature, and leave the variability intact. Or it can alter the variability, too. If for example, it was not only colder in the 1630s than in the 1990s, the variability increased, then the likelihood of frosts would be much greater than you would expect by just considering the mean. To complicate matters further, there's no guarantee that the "cold" and "warm" tails of the distribution will be affected by the same amount or even in the same direction.

Scientists have looked at both twentieth-century observational data (Kurbis, Moberg, Easterling, Karl, Michaels) and runs of global climate models, and about all I can conclude from this is that it's not safe to assume that the variability of temperature was the same in the early-17th century as it was in the modern period. Unfortunately, I have no easy way to predict how it was different and therefore I must just admit that this is something the authors may easily play around with.

Climate Reconstructions: European Seasonal Precipitation, 1630-39

Temperature, of course, is only one of the two principal dimensions of climate; the other is precipitation. Pauling reconstructed precipitation across Europe in 1500-1900, and his 1630-39 results are in Table 2-8. Fig. 3 compares the average for 1630-39 to that for 1990-99.

I provided the standard deviation, as well as the average, for 1630-39, and it is apparent that the annual variation from year to year for a given season was fairly small. However, because of the North Atlantic Oscillation, it's not unusual for northern Europe to be dry when southern Europe is wet, and vice versa.

Climate Reconstructions: European Seasonal Sea Level Pressure Patterns, 1630-39

Reconstructions are available of the average sea level and upper air pressure (in millibars) for each season in 1500-1658, and thereafter monthly (Luterbacher2002). For reasons I will explore in part III, this pressure history is more likely to get buffeted by the RoF than the temperature data, so don't put a lot of faith in it. Still, the patterns shown will remain plausible patterns. For 1630-4 and 1636-39, we had a winter high near the Azores and low near Iceland, with these highs and lows weaker in the other seasons. The Icelandic Low was distinctly weaker and displaced in the winter of 1635.

Radio Communications in the 1630s

Sunspot number normally varies according to a somewhat irregular 11-year cycle. However, there have been several periods of prolonged depression of sunspot number, notably the Sporer Minimum (1460-1550), the Maunder Minimum (1645-1715), and the Dalton Minimum (1790-1830), all of which correlate with cold temperatures. In the old time line, of course, no one had to worry about radio communications during these minima!

While it may sound as though we don't have to worry about the Maunder Minimum yet, that's not so. You see, the sunspot number is already on the decline. The total number of sunspots in the period 1630-1640 (eleven years) was 185.4. In contrast, in 1980-1990, the total was 956.1. The period 1645-1715 was simply worse, with no sunspots at all in most years.

So the decade of the 1630s may be considered the "slippery slope" down to the Maunder Minimum. And that means that (with the exception of 1638-9 and 1642) we will be facing progressively greater limitations on the range of radio communications.

The Arctic

The great circle route is the shortest distance between two points, but it can require you to sail at dangerously high latitudes. While the cold can cause frostbite and sap strength, the greater danger is from sea ice.

In the North Atlantic, the principal pathways by which ice can descend from the Arctic Circle are the Davis Strait and Baffin Bay between Newfoundland and Baffin Island to the west and Greenland to the east, the Denmark Strait (Greenland Sound) between Greenland and Iceland, and the Norwegian Sea between Iceland and Norway. Nowadays, Arctic sea ice reaches its maximum overall extent in March (Polyak), and I suspect this was likewise true in the 17^th century. However, note sea ice can expand in the Greenland sound while contracting in the Davis Strait, and vice versa. In a "normal" severe year, the ice could surround Spitsbergen and bisect Iceland. It only rarely reaches the south coast of Iceland. (Ogilvie).

Looking at the documentary evidence-based sea-ice index for Iceland, filtered through a 15-year low-pass filter, the 1630s and 1640s exhibited values under 2, while the filtered index climbed above 5 in the 1780s, 1810s, and 1830s. (Ogilvie). So the 1630s are not especially bad insofar as sea ice is concerned, although in one of the years (1632? 1633?) it jumped to level 6. An earlier (Koch 1945) study says that there was drift ice at the coast for 24 weeks in 1633, 26 in 1638 and 17 in 1639 (LambCPFF 583). Consistently, GroveLIAAM (22) states that "the 1630s . . . which were cold on land, saw little sea ice. . . ."

For the waters around Greenland, based on GISP2 ice core chemistry, the sea ice levels increased more or less steadily throughout the first half of the 17th century. However, the levels in the early- and mid-19^th century were higher (Dugmore Fig. 7).

Jabe McDougal's musings continued, "After the high school had been saved from the Croat raiders, there had been a wave of interest in Swedish and Scandinavian history. Jabe had learned about the Little Ice Age and its presumed role in the death of the Viking colonies in Greenland." (This role is now considered debatable, see e.g. Mann.)

While we aren't interested in colonizing Greenland, it does have resources of interest. In year 1633 of the new time line, the Dutch metal and armament magnate Louis de Geer sent an expedition to Ivigtut (61^o12'N/48^o10'W) in southwest Greenland, at the mouth of Arsuk Fjord, to search for cryolite (the flux needed for efficient electrolytic production of aluminum metal from aluminum oxide) (Mackey, Kim, "Land of Ice and Sun," Grantville Gazette 11). The most obvious objection to an expedition of this type would have been that the local climate, oppressively cold even today, would have been far worse during the Little Ice Age.

Well, maybe. But as Kim pointed out when the story was in slush, while it was certainly cold, there was evidence that in the 1630s, it was no colder than when cryolite mining began (1854). Production was 14,000 tons in 1857-67; 70,000 in 1867-77 (Johnson's).

While I don't have air temperatures for Ivigtut per se, ice core data for Site J (66^o51.9'N/46^o15.9'W, 2030m) in South Greenland, inland, was used to reconstruct June temperatures for Jakobshavn (69^o13'N,51^o6'W,30m) on the west coast. This was -0.11^oC in 1633, 0.08 in 1634, 0.30 in 1635, and remained above 0^oC for the rest of the 1630s. It was -0.17 in 1854 and was under 0^oC from 1857-1875 (Kameda). Ivigtut should have been warmer than Jakobshavn.

In the 1632 universe, we also have a Danish colony on Hudson Bay founded in 1634. We can glean a bit of climate information from the reports of the expeditions that visited Hudson Bay or its southward extension James Bay. Hudson entered Hudson Bay in early July and was frozen into James Bay on November 10, 1610. Luke Fox entered Hudson Bay in late May, 1631. Thomas James entered Hudson Bay on July 16 and James Bay in early September, 1632.

Otherwise, unfortunately, we must decide which part of the post-1700 (Guiot) or 1750 (Catchpole; Ball) data is most analogous to the 1630s and 1640s.

Russia

The wetness/dryness index (norm 10) for Russia (35^oE) in the high summer (July-August) is 11.5 for the 1630s and 7.5 for the 1640s. LambCPPF 562). The winter mildness/severity index ( norm zero) was -10 for the 1630s and -36 for the 1640s (the worst value over 1100-1969). (564). Brooks (249) says "In the 1640s . . . severe cold was reported for every month of winter, making this the coldest decade in Russian history since the twelfth century."

North America

For an overview, a good place to start is the North American Drought Atlas, which includes Palmer Drought Severity Index (PDSI) values, for summer 1634-1639, based on tree-ring data (Cook). You can see that the northeast suffered a drought in 1634, which deepened in 1635. California was wet in 1635-6, but it and indeed the entire Pacific Northwest dried up in 1637-39. Mexico was generally quite wet. Unfortunately, rainfall patterns are likely to be perturbed by the RoF. Hence, take Fig. 4, which shows the pattern for 1635-37, with a very large grain of salt.

Figure 4

There is also a tree-ring reconstruction of annual and seasonal temperature and precipitation anomalies for the USA from 1602 on. From this we can see, for example, that in the northeast, both winter and summer 1634 and 1638 were relatively cool, while 1635-37 were characterized by relatively warm summers and relatively cold winters (Fritts).

The 1630s were probably not as bad as 1608; Champlain found bearing ice on the edges of Lake Superior in June 1608 (LambCHMW 230).

Virginia. We don't know for sure why the Lost Colony of Roanoke Island disappeared, but it probably was at least partially attributable to 1587-1589 being the driest three years in eight centuries. The second, successful English attempt to colonize Virginia teetered on the edge of failure. The English colony at Jamestown was founded in 1607, and 1606-1612 was the driest seven years in a 770 year period (reaching a nadir of Palmer Hydrological Drought Index [PHDI] -2.323 in 1610). Despite its coastal position, Tidewater Virginia exhibited droughts in the future, too; there was a short one, for example, in the late 1630s (PHDI of -1.687 in 1637 and -2.67 in 1638) (Stahle).

Spring water temperatures have been reconstructed for Chesapeake Bay based on crustacea mineral ratios. Temperatures were high in the first quarter of the 17^th century (higher, in fact, than in the Medieval Warm Period), but then declined, reaching a low in the mid-18^th century. In our period, we have 16.6 (1638), 8.97 (1642) and 10.74 ^oC (1646). The most recent value was 12.5 ^oC (1995) (Cronin)

New England. In Eastern Massachusetts, the 1630s were cool and wet, while the 1640s were cool and damp. In southern New England, there were two dry growing seasons in each decade, but no years with floods. Note that the same year can be both; the 1780s had six dry years but eight with floods. (Baron).

Eastern Canada. Southwestern Ontario has been identified as having a cool dry climate from 1600 to 1750 (Buhay). At Quebec City, there has been a study of the ice bridge formation (IBF) rate on the Saint Lawrence River. The river at that point is one kilometer wide. Surprisingly, the IBF frequency in 1620-1800 was 16%, less than the 48% seen in 1801-1910. There were seven IBFs in 1620-1660, and none in 1661-1740. Contrast that with the 80% in 1866-1885. Thus, in our period of interest, southern Quebec is relatively warm! (Houle).

Tropical America

In tropical America, the seasons are wet or dry, not hot or cold. The seasonal variation in rainfall is correlated with the seasonal movement of the Inter-Tropical Convergence Zone (ITCZ), northward in the NH summer and southward in the NH winter. In NH summer, it's over northern Venezuela, and that's the rainy season.

In northwest Yucatan and in Venezuela, the general period 1500-1800 was marked by drier conditions, usually attributed to a "southward displacement of the ITCZ and hence reduced trade wind moisture supply to the Caribbean during the summer." However, at Lago Verde at the Isthmus of Mexico, a "particularly wet area," this change was apparently not enough to create a moisture deficiency. Indeed, 1600-1650 seems to have been a very good half-century for the tropical forest growth there, suggesting that the dry season was shorter than usual (Lozano-Garcia; Peterson).

On the other hand, in northeast Peru, the LIA was about 10-20% wetter than the 20^th century, with the late 16^th and the 17^th centuries being the wettest period (Reuter).

In the Venezuelan Andes, there were glacial advances in 1180-1350, 1450-1590, 1640-1730, and 1800-1820. (Polissar). However, in the Cariaco Basin (offshore Venezuela), sea surface temperatures were higher in the 17^th century than in the 20^th (Reuter).

In central Chile, the 1630s were a bit drier than normal (LambCPFF 638), which would have made rivers easier to ford, but also reduced crop yield.

Africa

Information on African conditions is pretty limited. Grove (38) says that southern Africa experienced "sudden warming from 1500 to 1675." In the Makapansgat Valley of South Africa, per speleotherm data, temperatures seem to have been slightly depressed (relative to 1961-1990 base) during the period ~1320-~1750 (Tyson fig. 3). As best I can tell, in the 1630s we were edging up from a low (about 0.5^oC below the base) reached around 1600.

In equatorial Africa, the 17^th century was marked by droughts in the west and center, and (at least after 1625) wet conditions from Lake Victoria east (Russell; Verschuren). It has been suggested that megadroughts in West Africa were associated with anomalously strong Atlantic trade winds (Overpeck), which would have facilitated colonization of the Americas. The area of Timbuktu was punished by famines due to drought (in 1617-1743) and by great floods (in 1640-1672 and 1703-1738), often in the same year (LambCHMW 226).

Monsoons

Monsoons are seasonal changes in prevailing wind direction. The Monsoon is essentially the Mother of All Sea Breezes (and Land Breezes). Water warms and cools more slowly than land. It is common for coasts to experience a sea breeze (wind blowing from the sea toward the land) during the morning, the air over the land warming first. Then, in the evening, there is a land breeze in the reverse direction, the air over the sea cooling last.

In a monsoon, this happens on a giant scale, and the "breeze" persists for several months. The summer monsoon, being a giant sea breeze, results in high humidity. And the winter monsoon, being a giant land breeze, brings dry conditions. (Unless the winds sweep over intervening water, such as the Bay of Bengal, before they reach you.)

In the Indian Ocean, there is a summer monsoon, with winds from the southwest, and a winter monsoon, with winds from the northeast. The exact dates of arrival and departure of the monsoons varies depending on exactly where you are located.

There is absolutely no doubt that there were monsoons in the Indian Ocean and the western Pacific Ocean before the Ring of Fire; in fact, trade and agriculture depended upon them.

The failure of the monsoon can result in a megadrought, with substantial loss of life.

A network of tree ring chronologies has been used to reconstruction monsoon conditions for Sino-Indian Asia; Figures 5A-5D show the "Palmer Drought Severity Index" (red dry, blue wet) for the region for the years 1630-1641 (NOAA/MADAgrid). Don't fret about the particular years, since the RoF will scramble that, but note the degree of variation from year to year.

Figures 5A-5D

El Nino/Southern Oscillation (ENSO)

In the Pacific, there is a alternation between two climate patterns, "El Nino" and "La Nina" over a period of three to seven years. These opposite states may persist for just a few months or for as much as two years.

In an "El Nino" state, there is (by definition) a warming of at least 0.5^oC of the surface temperature in the east-central tropical Pacific Ocean. This weakens the trade winds of the South Pacific, and causes drought in the western Pacific and rainfall in the eastern Pacific. Off the coast of Peru, the upwelling of cold water is inhibited, and this results in fish kills. Winters in western South America tend to be much warmer and wetter than usual. The same is true, to a lesser degree, on the Pacific Coast of Central America, Mexico, and southern and central California. However, in the northwestern United States and western Canada, winters are warmer and drier.

We know from documentary evidence (mostly from Peru) that there was a very strong event in 1578 (comparable in strength to the 1982-3 event), and since then, strong ones in 1607, 1614, 1618, 1619, and 1624 (comparable to the 1972-3 event). If climate follows the old time line path, there will be strong ones in 1634-35 and 1640-41, and a moderately strong one in 1647 (Arteaga; Quinn).

Interdecadal Pacific Oscillation (IPO)

There's also the IPO, which flips every 15-30 years. In a positive IPO, India experiences a weak monsoon and associated drought, and the American West Coast is wet.

India

A chronology prepared by Sindh historian M.H. Panwhar has some interesting climate-related entries for our period of interest:

"Famine in Gujarat and Deccan due to failure of monsoons. This famine was due to failure or rains in 1630 and excessive rain in 1631. People sold their children so that they may live. . . . Hides of catle [sic] and flesh of dogs were eaten, cremated bones of dead were sold with flour and cannibalism became common. . . . Three million people died between 1630-1633 in Gujarat.

"1636-1637. Punjab had famine. . . .

"1640. Heavy rain caused floods and destroyed crops in the Punjab and Kashmir, causing famine. . . .

"1640-44. Rains failed continuously in many parts of Northern India and famines occurred in Agra province. . . .

"1642. Famine occurred due to heavy rain and floods in the Punjab. . . .

"1646. Drought in Agra and Ahmedabad. . . .

"1647. Rains failed in Marwar. Famines, high mortality. . . .

"1648. Failure of rains in Agra area. . . ."

Southeast Asia

Newson (35) writes, "there is some evidence, notably from tree-ring data from Java, that during the seventeenth century some countries in Southeast Asia experienced unstable climatic conditions, perhaps linked to the 'Little Ice Age' in Europe, that included frequent dry periods that resulted in food shortages and famines. However, Peter Boomgaard suggests that climatic conditions were probably not so anomalous . . ."

China

China experienced severe cold in 1629-43, as well as severe drought in 1637-43 (Brooks 269). Not coincidentally, the Ming dynasty fell in 1644. Climate extremes led to famine (the first big one was in 1630), which led to peasant revolts.

Famine also meant greater vulnerability to disease, and migrations to flee affected areas aided disease transmission. There were significant epidemics in the northwest beginning in 1633, and in the Yangtze valley in 1639. (Brooks 250ff).

In the Yangtze Delta, historical records show that 1635-1644 was marred by four flood events (years?) and six drought events. This was part of a larger trend; there were many flood and drought events in the period 1540-1670. In contrast, in 1495-1504, there was one flood event and no droughts (Jiang). Qiang says in 1550-1850, calamities "occurred by turns and sometimes, both drought and flooding occurred in the same year." There was snowfall and frost on low ground in south China in 1635 and 1636, and the River Huai froze over in 1640 (LambCPFF 612).

Perhaps the most unique aspect of the Little Ice Age in China was the increase in reports of dragon sightings (Brooks 6ff); for example, "two dragons were spotted in autumn of 1643. . . ." (14). Dragons were associated with water, and thus with storms and, more generally, bad weather. But they were both symbols of the emperor and celestial messengers. If people were seeing dragons, then what they were really perceiving was climatic evidence that the emperor had lost the Mandate of Heaven. And of course these reports in turn made it more likely that the emperor would lose support.

Japan

In Japan, 17^th-century (and earlier) temperatures have been reconstructed on the basis of

– the dates of cherry blossom viewing parties in Kyoto

Overall, the average full-flowering date was day 105; the average for the 17th century was 106 (April 16), and for the 20-21c, 101 (April 11). The estimated March mean temperature for the 1630s was around 7^oC, and the LIA low was around 6^oC in late-17^th century and early 18^th century. A deeper low of ~5^oC was inferred for the early-14^th century)(Aono). In 1633, the cherry trees blossomed on April 8 (LambCPFF 607).

– the dates of freezing (December-January), buckling (Omiwatari, supposedly the footprints of a kami), and thawing of Lake Suwa in Nagano

Overall, the average freezing date was January 15, and the mean for the 1630s was about 12 days early, and that was actually one of the coldest decades recorded)(Lamb 256). By way of example, the dates were 1634: Jan. 9, 1635: Dec. 28, 1636: Jan. 2, 1637: Jan. 11, 1638: Dec. 31, 1639: Jan. 21 (LambCPFF 609).

There is a correlation between the mean winter temperature at Tokyo (Edo) and the Lake Suwa freezing date; the estimated temperature is 4.1^oC for the 1630s and 1640s (LambCPPF 610).

– the first snow cover in Tokyo

This was January 6 (1633), December 16 (1638), February 2 (1640), November 28 (1642), and January 10 (1648). (611).

– the proportion of a cold-adapted species in pine pollen from Ozegahara, a raised bog 150 km north of Tokyo

Most of the 17^th century appears to have been a bit on the warm side (Batten 18).

– tree ring data

That from Yaku Island in the south shows two sharp temperature drops in the 17^th century, and from central Honshu shows slow decline in temperature during 17^th century)(Batten 19, 21).

Generally speaking, the winters in central Japan were most severe in 1500-1520, 1700-10, and 1850-80, not in the period of interest to us now (LambCHMW 227).

While the Genroku (1695-6), Tenmei (1782-7) and Tempo (1833-39) famines all occurred during particularly cold periods, Japan's population still doubled from 1600 to 1721 (Batten, 57, 59).

Pacific Ocean

The Spanish take advantage of wind (midlatitude westerlies, subtropical northeast trades) and currents (the North Pacific gyre) in the Manila-Acapulco galleon trade. Spanish archives show that the average duration of the Acapulco-Manila passage (westing made mostly around 12^oN latitude) increased steadily from 80 days in 1600 to 100 in 1640 and a peak of a little over 120 days in 1655, then descended to gradually to a plateau of 90-100 days in 1690-1750. "Virtual voyage" calculations indicated that the slowing was most likely the result of a northeastward shift in the position of the "southwest monsoon trough" (the ICTZ) in June (Garcia-Herrera).

PART III: THE EFFECT OF THE RING OF FIRE

The fictional cosmic event we call the Ring of Fire replaced a six mile diameter of 1631 Thuringian air with one from 2000 West Virginia. What we will speculate about in this part is just how profound an effect this event would have had on weather (short-term) and climate (long-term), both locally and remotely.

Okay, folks, hold your hats. It's time for our intellectual roller coaster to plunge into the abyss of chaos theory. Just be thankful that I am sparing you the mathematics that I studied, and that I am concentrating on the implications.

Let's begin the descent gently by talking about the origin of the term "butterfly effect." It comes from the title of a presentation by the mathematical meteorologist Edward Lorenz: "Does the flap of a butterfly's wings in Brazil set off a tornado in Texas?"

This was a reference to his observation of chaotic behavior in his atmospheric convection model. Chaotic behavior means that a small perturbation in the initial conditions results, eventually, in a large and to some degree unpredictable divergence ("bifurcation") in the "final" state. This chaos was not the result of randomness; Lorenz' model was completely deterministic. However, the chaos had the appearance of randomness.

Chaotic behavior can be inherent in the actual physical system-and the existence of nonlinear relationships is necessary for chaotic behavior to emerge. It can also be an artifact of numeric evaluation of a mathematical model of a physical system. (The input data is for grid points, not spatially continuous; the evolution of the model is calculated in discrete time steps, not continuously, which means that we are working with finite differences not true derivatives; and there will be rounding errors inherent in how computers handle numbers.) Of course, it isn't necessarily easy to separate the two!

The nonlinear dynamics of the climate system include both positive and negative feedback loops. As an example of positive feedback, increasing the surface temperature of land or water just below the freezing point results in conversion of snow and ice (high albedo) to bare earth or liquid water (low albedo), which increases absorption of solar radiation, which increases global temperature. Also, warming the air allows it to hold more moisture, and since water is a greenhouse gas that results in more absorption of solar radiation and its partial re-radiation back into space. And warming water causes it to hold less carbon dioxide, so it releases carbon dioxide (another greenhouse gas) into the atmosphere. On the other hand, an increase in the temperature will cause an increase in black body emission of infrared radiation, i.e., a loss of heat energy. An increase in atmospheric carbon dioxide will result in an increase in dissolved carbon dioxide.

****

The Ring of Fire is essentially what a chaos theorist would call an "initial condition perturbation." Nonlinear dynamics has been intensely studied the last few decades, and there are several things you should know about perturbations.

First, when you perturb a nonlinear dynamic system, it initially evolves toward what the mathematicians call an "attractor." This is the particular subset of all the possible values of all the possible variables that the system, by virtue of its dynamics, prefers to be in, i.e., gravitates toward. There are point attractors (stable states), limit cycle attractors (periodic states), and "strange" or "chaotic" attractors (which obviously are the ones that exhibit chaotic behavior). (These terms are defined by reference to something called "phase space," but we don't need to talk about that. . . .)

Second, depending on what part of the "attractor" the system gravitates to after the perturbation, the perturbation may grow exponentially, grow slowly, remain static or even dissipate. This can be seen with the Lorenz 1963 climate model that led Lorenz to his discovery of chaos (Kalnay).

Third, in complex nonlinear dynamic systems, it is typical for the exponential growth to reach a saturation point and level out. That doesn't mean that the system becomes static, just that the "swings" stop getting larger and larger. One set of nonlinearities creates the exponential growth, then another set kicks in and curbs it (Toth 3298). Bear in mind, the system remains perturbed; the "weather" is still different.

Fourth, the mere size of the perturbation isn't necessarily important. It appears that small perturbations may have the same exponential growth rate and same saturation levels as large ones; being smaller they just take a little longer to reach that level (Lopez Fig. 1). However, there is some scholarship suggesting that small amplitude perturbations are more likely to grow at a constant, not exponential, rate (Noone 8).

Fifth, it does matter whether the perturbation is a random one. A random perturbation is more likely to be inconsistent with the flow regimes established by the underlying physics, and dampen out rapidly: "purely random perturbations yield unbalanced flow structures and lead to the perturbation energy being dissipated as gravity waves during the initial time steps." (Magnusson2002). Yes, I'll take his word for it.

That's relevant for the Ring of Fire, because let's face it, the RoF rather haphazardly dumped matter and energy into one small segment of the world. While the masses may be roughly equal, they aren't identical in toto, and certainly not in chemical composition. And the heat and pressure-based energies of the old and new hemispheres are certainly different. There is no real life physical process that could have caused the sudden change in temperature, pressure and atmospheric composition from what had been there an instant earlier.

But even "balanced" random perturbations will decay initially, until they reach the attractor (Toth 3300; Magnusson2008).

****

Annann and Connolley ran two runs of the 64 bit version of the HADAM3 model (this is the Hadley atmosphere model, with a horizontal resolution of 3.75x2.5^o in longitude x latitude, a vertical resolution of 19 altitudes, and a standard timestep of 30 minutes) (Wikipedia/HadCM3). The two runs differed in that the pressure in a single grid point (the authors think it was somewhere in the Arctic) was changed by just one part in 10¹⁵. They then calculated the root-mean-square of the differences in pressure between the two runs across the entire grid, i.e., globally.

The difference (in pascals) was below 50 up to day 10, then started climbing rapidly, flattening in the 800-1000 range at day 25. Standard weather charts only show differences of 400 pascals, so the difference was practically insignificant, on a global scale, up to around day 15.

They also plotted the location of the differences as of days 4, 15, and 31. On day 4, the differences were mostly in the tropics. By day 15, they were mostly outside the tropics, in both hemispheres. Come day 31, and the positive differences over the USA and Europe had become negative ones.

Note that these runs demonstrate both how a small perturbation can grow rapidly and how it can then reach a saturation point. The pressure perturbation in question is much smaller than what was likely caused by the RoF, but it's also worth noting that the spatial extent of the RoF is much smaller than than a single HADAM3 "grid box," and that pressure is more susceptible than temperature to chaotic fluctuation.

****

The way that weather and climate forecasters have coped with chaos is through "ensemble" forecasting. That means that they created a set (small enough to be computationally practical) of perturbed initial conditions and ran the same weather or climate model on each of them. They then based predictions on what the entire ensemble said would happen in the future, with the reliability of the prediction being considered an inverse function of the degree of divergence of the ensemble members.

It used to be that the ensemble members were simply random perturbations of the "observed" initial conditions, with the magnitude of the perturbation related to the assumed observational error. The meteorologists ran into that damping problem I mentioned, and therefore imposed dynamical constraints on the perturbations (a fancy way of saying, selecting perturbations that were more likely to have existed in the real world).

Also, in order to maximize the bang for the computational buck, they developed tricks for selecting just the perturbations that were likely to grow the fastest, and were therefore the best test of the reliability of the prediction.

The perturbations typically used by forecasters are much larger than the RoF perturbation.

Toth (3309) talks about global-scale perturbations in the range of 10-20% of the natural climate seasonal variability (rms variance). Zorita conducted two different runs (ERIK1, ERIK2) of the ECHO-G global climate model, each starting at 1000 A.D., with ERIK2 postulating colder conditions. I have not been able to ascertain the global difference in the initial condition, but in the Baltic area, at least, ERIK2 annual mean temperature was colder by 0.5^oC (Hunicke 21). If difference on the global scale is the same, that's a huge perturbation. In fact, that difference by itself adds up to a bigger perturbation energy than what could possibly be represented by the RoF. For that reason, I can't infer from the spread of ensemble member behavior how much the RoF will disrupt the OTL climate.

****

Also, as perturbations go, the RoF is small potatoes, both in size and extent. While it certainly has the potential to make the climate, not just the weather, quite different from that of the old time line, it has to compete with other external influences of much greater magnitude.

The climate evolves not just on the basis of the initial state of the atmosphere and ocean, but also as a result of external "forcings": solar radiation, volcanic eruptions, and human activity. In a "free" (unforced) simulation for 1000 "years," the Northern Hemisphere annual mean temperature fluctuated chaotically within a range of about one degree. This is mostly attributable to the internal variability created by the nonlinear dynamics, and is "smoke without fire." (There was actually a "base" forcing; continuously repeated annual cycles of solar radiation.)

In contrast, in a simulation forced with assumed historical variations in "effective solar constant," carbon dioxide and methane, the model behaved quite differently, with sharp temperature drops synchronized with downward spikes (attributable to sulfur dioxide from eruptions) in the effective solar constant, and there was an upward trend broadly mirroring the increases in greenhouse gases (Von Storch).

The level of chaos in the climate system is not sufficient to obscure the seasonal cycle of temperature, which is obviously forced by the seasonal variation in solar insolation (radiation hitting us). In almost every year of record, outside the tropics, the mean temperature for January is less than the mean temperature for July. And the occasions where the two have been close-the "years without a summer"-have been synchronized with volcanic eruptions, which are another kind of external forcing.

While it is more common for chaos to disrupt the daily cycle-while temperatures usually peak in mid-afternoon in response to daytime radiation, and reach their 24-hour nadir just before sunrise as a result of nighttime cooling, it's easy enough for a sunset warm front to upset the pattern-I suspect that there have been few months in which theaverage night-time temperature has been higher than the average daytime one.

A shorter averaging period will be needed to filter out chaotic fluctuations in temperature, which is a parameter directly driven by (non-chaotic) solar radiation, than that needed to address precipitation, sea level pressure and wind speed, which are heavily dependent on "turbulent atmospheric dynamics" (Zorita).

Climate is predictable because some of the major forcings (solar radiation) and components (the ocean, soil) are mostly of a slowly varying nature, and thus impart "memory."

"Seasonal anomalies and longer-term climate anomalies tend to be controlled by other processes whose predictability is not necessarily limited to 2 weeks." (Buontempo 41).

****

Now, let's talk about the size of the perturbation created by the RoF. The air mass may differ in temperature and pressure, and certainly in composition, from the air that it replaced.

Eric has acknowledged that the Ring of Fire took place, up-time, on April 2, 2000. We also know it occurred around noon; a few minutes after the event, Frank pointed out to Mike that the sun was in the wrong place, that it should be to the south (Flint, 1632, chapter 3).

Determining what those differences are isn't that easy. You would think that we could at least fix the characteristics of the year 2000 hemisphere. And you would be wrong. While the Mannington 8 WNW weather station was in business in 2000, the April 2000 records are not available from NCDC. March yes, May yes, April no.

According to the Farmers' Almanac, the closest available weather station, HARRISON MARION RGN, WV, reported on that day a high of 62.6^oF, a low of 48.2, an average of 55.7, a dewpoint of 45, a wind speed of 3.9 knots, and 0.01 inches precipitation (essentially, a drizzle). The mean temperature and dewpoint correspond to a relative humidity of 67%. Another nearby station, MORGANTOWN HART FIELD, WV, reported high 61, low 48.9, average 56.9, dewpoint 39.9, wind speed 4.7 knots, and precipitation 0.09 inches.

I took a look at the 24-hour graphs for the station KWVFAIRM17 in Fairmont for April 2 in 2007-2010. In 2010, noon temperature was almost 5^oC below the peak, reached at 6 pm. In 2009, the peak was at 3 pm and the noon temperature was only about 2.5°C less. In 2008, the noon-to-peak spread was similar but the peak was at 5 pm. And 2007 was similar.

So I am going to estimate that on the day of the RoF, the high was 62°F (16.7°C) and that at the time of the RoF, the temperature had only reached about 57.6°F (14.2°C). The saturation vapor density of water is 12.15 grams/cubic meter at 14.2°C. I am estimating a relative humidity of 60%, there's 7.3 grams/cubic meter of water in the air.

I have no idea what the air pressure was that day. There is no reference to rain on RoF day in the novel, so the pressure was probably average (29.92 inches mercury, 1013.25 mbar) or a little above.

We know even less about the conditions on May 25, 1631 near Rudolstadt, Germany. Presently, the average max and min temperatures are 13 and 4^oC for April and 18 and 8 for May (www.holidaycheck.com), i.e., a 9-10 degree spread. For 1766-1850, climate reconstructions yield an average of 12.10°C (standard deviation 1.51) for May, and 15.35^oC for June (s.d. 1.24). May 25 is one-third of the way from May 15 to June 15, so the mean temperature for May 25 was probably something like 13.18^oC (55.7°F).

The sun in the new timeline sky is in the east, so it's morning. Indeed, in the mid-latitudes, temperatures tending to be coolest just before sunrise and warmest at 4-6 pm. I think it reasonable to expect the mean to be hit around 9 am.

The principal atmospheric gases are nitrogen and oxygen. The trace gases that are significant from a climatic standpoint are water vapor, carbon dioxide, methane, and the nitrogen and sulfur oxides. Besides gases, the atmosphere also contains aerosols (airborne particles) , including desert dust, droplets of sulfuric acid produced by the reaction of volcanic sulfur dioxide with water, carbon from smoke, and sulfates from the combustion of fossil fuel.

My summary as to the likeliest size of the perturbation caused by the Ring of Fire, as measured by meteorological variables, is in Table 3-1.

*1631 and 1997 values (Robertson),2000, estimated from graph for Mauna Loa: http://www.esrl.noaa.gov/gmd/ccgg/trends/

**.2000 sulfur dioxide concentration for Marshall county (which is near Marion).(WVDEP).

Because the RoF occurred suddenly, it's probably most comparable to a volcanic eruption. There is no doubt that an eruption can have a profound effect on climate, as well as weather, for up to several years, at least if it injects material into the stratosphere.

So the question is, how does the RoF rate, compared to various eruptions, as a source of heat, carbon dioxide, and aerosols?

Since the diameter of the RoF hemisphere is six miles, its maximum height above the earth's surface is three miles. The stratosphere begins at about 6-31 miles above the ground in temperate latitudes, so the immediate meteorological effect of the RoF is limited to the troposphere.

There's something called the Volcanic Explosivity Index. It's based on plume height and volume. The three mile height of the RoF hemisphere corresponds to a plume height of just under five kilometers; VEI 2 ("explosive") is 1-5 km. However, the volume (236 km³) ranks as VEI 7 ("super-colossal"), 100-1000 km³.

However, that's quite misleading because the temperature difference between a volcanic plume and the "background air" is likely to be much higher than that between the Grantville and Thuringian hemispheres. And the volcanic plume is going to differ in composition from "background air" more than the two hemispheres do, too.

At the temperature of the Grantville hemisphere, the heat capacity of air is 1.005 kJ/kg-^oC, and the density is about 1.225 kg/m³. Since the temperature difference between the Grantville and Thuringian hemispheres is most likely one degree Celsius, that means that the heat energy introduced by the RoF is about 2.9*10¹¹ kJ. That's a bit less than the amount of energy released when the water in a typical thunderstorm condenses.

For a volcanic plume measured on March 19, 2002 at Miyake Island, the temperature initially was 34^oC, but the temperature dropped to 20 when the plume rose to 3 km and to 19 at 6 km. Such a plume would have been carrying at least an order of magnitude more heat energy than that attributable to the air temperature difference caused by RoF.

The RoF also resulted in an injection of greenhouse gases and aerosols, but it was small.

Even if there were no sulfate aerosol already in the Thuringian air that it replaced, the effective injection was only about ten tons sulfate, as a one-shot deal. In comparison, during the Miyake 2002 eruption, that volcano was emitting 10,000 tons SO₂per day, for months. Yet it had a VEI of only 2.

Thus, it seems fair to conclude that the effect of the RoF on climate is mostly likely to be smaller than even that of an eruption of VEI 2.

****

I consulted with climatologist James Annan (Senior Scientist, Research Institute for Global Change, Yokohama Institute for Earth Sciences) about the possible effect of the RoF (without providing the specifics of the size of the perturbation because I hadn't yet calculated it at the time of our email exchange). Here's his reply:

"Generally speaking, changing the initial conditions (atmosphere) will, as you say, scramble the weather. It will not affect the response to temporally-varying forcing such as solar output, or volcanoes, which probably drive a large part of the large-scale climate changes. However, it's not obvious to me (and perhaps anyone) to what extent the observed seasonal climate variation is simply due to internal variability, versus a forced response.

"On the assumption that the important external forcing factors are greenhouse gases and solar output you could probably consider swapping the climates around from roughly consecutive years-e.g. use the seasonal means from 1632, then 1631, then 1634 . . . and so on shuffling the years around a little. The daily weather would not match in any case. If there's a volcano (I haven't checked) then that would have to affect the particular year of course."

I have since checked the volcanic activity. While there was an active eruption somewhere in the world for every year of the 1630s, none of these was likely to be larger than VEI 5, and, more importantly, ice cores from Greenland and Antarctica reveal low levels of stratospheric (volcanic) aerosols (sulfates) for the 1630s (Gao).

Conclusion

While we know quite a bit about the changes in temperature and rainfall in the OTL 1630s and 1640s, especially in Europe, there are uncertainties as to what will happen in the NTL. Some of those uncertainties are attributable to the limitations of reconstructing climate data from historical or proxy records, and others to the effects of the RoF. Consequently, our authors do have some flexibility as to how they portray post-RoF climate, and of course, climate isn't weather; on any given day, there can be significant variation from the climatic norm.

In the course of researching this article, I came across the interesting tidbit that "in 1371/2 there were processions for rain at Florence in December, followed by processions praying for the rain to stop in May." (Grove 328). Hence, it is fair to say that what is certain about both climate and weather after the RoF is that people will complain about it.

****

Note: The bibliography for this article will be published at http://www.1632.org/gazetteextras/ in the Little Ice Age Addendum.

Geek Summer

Written by Kristine Kathryn Rusch

The July 22^ndEntertainment Weekly had a one-page article titled “2012: The Geekiest Year Yet?” The question caught my attention as I thumbed through the magazine, only I missed the “2012” part. I thought they meant 2011, and I nodded in agreement as I moved on.

Only later did I realize that I had misread the headline. Then I read the article and frowned. I’m not sure 2012 will be geekier than 2011.

Consider this:

The bestselling fiction book of the year is George R.R. Martin’s sixth book in the Song of Ice and Fire series, A Dance With Dragons. Not the bestselling fantasy book. The bestselling book. That hasn’t happened since the days of Harry Potter, and unlike our friend Harry, the New York Times can’t shuffle George’s books out of the adult fiction category.

The Times and other lists tried to deny how well the Harry Potter series sold by creating new lists for young adult and children’s books. Some analysts claimed this was because the books were aimed at children (as if that mattered: adults like me were gobbling them up like candy). Other analysts claimed the books got shuffled to the side because the books were fantasy. And considering how poorly conventional fiction lists have treated fantastic literature in the past, that analysis was at least as plausible as the children’s literature analysis.

So let’s talk about books and bestsellers for a minute. The hottest genre in romance? Paranormal. What does that mean? Mostly it means that there’s some supernatural element to the book, but not in the way of your mother’s Gothic novels. But more likely that the love interest is a vampire or a werewolf or a half-demon (apparently full demons are too scary). And if you don’t read romances, but you like a bit of sex in your fantasy novels, try urban fantasy, which is paranormal romance’s darker cousin. The difference between the genres-both of which are bestselling genres, btw-is pretty simple: One has a happily ever after (or happily for now) ending, and the other doesn’t. The HEA ending is, of course, the romance, but the journey to get to that HEA might be just as fraught as the journey in the urban fantasy, maybe even more so.

Of course traditional fantasy is still around, or George wouldn’t have hit the bestseller list, but fantasy’s subgenres are providing it with a lot of much-needed competition.

Speaking of George, Game of Thrones, the HBO series based on the first book in The Song of Ice and Fire series garnered 13 Emmy nominations-including one for Best Drama, also a rarity for programming with fantasy in it.

But, fantastic television shows-and by that I don’t just mean good television shows, but good television shows about the fantastic-have proliferated in the past five years. Some of that is the fact that the number of channels needing content have proliferated, but I’m sure we could do with another 50 detective/crime dramas (oh, God, please, no).

My magazine friend, Entertainment Weekly (which I started to read when it invited one of the best genre writers in the biz, Stephen King, to do a bi-monthly column), lamented in the July 29^th issue that two television shows got passed up for Emmy nods at all-and both shows were sf/f. The first was HBO’s True Blood, based on Charlaine Harris’s Sookie Stackhouse mystery novels, and the other was Fox’s Fringe, based on all those weird B-movies from decades past. (Okay, I don’t really know if that’s what Fringe was initially based on, but it seems like it to me).

I pay attention to the Emmys in this context only because the Emmys are given by the Establishment who, in the past, ignored any television show with a smidge of other-worldliness. Now, sf/f television shows get discussed by the snooty as if the genre shows are as important as the other shows-quite a mind-boggler for me.

Since we’re discussing Entertainment Weekly, let’s discuss one of their reasons for claiming 2012 will be geekier (more geeky?) than 2011: the upcoming Avengers movie, which will combine all the superheroes from the previous Marvel superhero movies into one big thrillfest.

Apparently EW ignores the fact that we had two Marvel superhero movies in 2011 to introduce us to some of those heroes-Thor and Captain America: The First Avenger. More importantly, both of those films were good. Then there was the X-Men: First Class film which is my favorite superhero movie of the summer by a smidge (and only because the characterization was so good that it made me cry), and Green Lantern, which I didn’t see but which all of my comic book fan friends say was a lot better than the word of mouth indicated.

Another movie based on comics which I plan to see Real Soon Now, Cowboys and Aliens, has been the film I’ve looked forward to since the ads began because of the Bond meets Indie tagline. Yes, I mean Daniel Craig and Harrison Ford in one film. Yes, that means girls need eye candy too. But more than that, (and honestly, Ford is getting a little too grizzled for eye candy; too bad he doesn’t have the benefit of a mellifluous voice like Sean Connery) the juxtaposition of the words “cowboy” and “alien” had me at hello.

I blew off Green Lantern so I could see Super-8, because I was beginning to feel a movie-crunch. Too many films, too little time. And Super-8 is a marvelous homage to the B-movies of the 1950s. Even better is the short film within a film, which you see during the credits, a gift to geeks everywhere.

And of course, the movie that broke box office opening day records, a movie I also haven’t seen yet, the last Harry Potter flick. If that’s not a major flick feast for geeks nothing is. Proof isn’t just in the record-breaking box office, it’s also in the fact that at every single theater showing the film, someone showed up in costume. That’s the mark of geekness everywhere.

More geeky stuff from the summer of 2011? Pirates of the Caribbean: On Stranger Tides, which uses many of the concepts from the Tim Powers novel to fuel the Johnny Depp extravaganza. And the Torchwood: Miracle Day mini-series which is, bar none, the best science fiction I’ve seen this year. I get creeped out by each episode, and I find myself thinking about it for days afterwards. The extrapolation of an sf future from one little change is frightening, and the risks the writers (and actors [yes, you, Bill Pullman]) are taking are spectacular.

Let’s not even discuss the fact that Comic-Con has become so important that it gets covered in The New York Times and on all of the major network news casts. Entertainment Weekly, no dummies there, do a special Comic-Con issue, as does every single comic book company, and many publishing companies. Cowboys and Aliens held its premiere at Comic-Con, which tells you just how important geek cred is. When George Lucas premiered his little film at Comic-Con in 1976, no one knew what Comic-Con was and everyone who knew what Lucas was doing wondered why the man bothered airing the unfinished film to a convention of a few hundred people. Now, he looks like a prescient genius. Then, he was a guy trying to get the right audience to see some little insignificant genre film called Star Wars.

I can’t even tell you what’s going on in the game industry because it has gotten so big that I can’t keep track. Every now and then, I see an ad for what I think is a movie, only to discover that it’s a game I can buy for my X-Box. And speaking of X-Box, in Cee Lo Green’s summer hit song, “Forget You,” Green says his former girlfriend is X-Box, while he’s Atari, and we’re all supposed to understand the comparison. The nifty thing is that we do.

None of this even pretends to examine the gadget wars. In the first year of its existence, the iPad penetrated 16% of American households, something that took both color television and the cell phone nine years to do. The iPad initiated a tablet war (I love that phrase) so half the commercials on television are about some flat-screened gadget you can hold in your hand and get information from quickly . . . like the devices Captain Picard used to have to glance at while doing his job on the Starship Enterprise.

Then there is the news itself, from the weird weather which makes every single newscast sound like the opening five minutes of a disaster movie to the scuttling of the space shuttle program, which has folks wringing their hands about supplying the International Space Station (three words I love to type), which actually makes it all sound like we are in the future.

And compared to the monochromatic world I grew up in forty-some years ago, we are. This is geek heaven.

2012 might outdo us on sheer geekness, but that upcoming year is going to have to work hard to beat this summer. In fact, if 2012 gets much geekier than 2011, then I’m going to have to give up sleep. Because I barely have enough time to maintain my geek cred right now.

In fact, if it weren’t for mainstream magazines like Entertainment Weekly, I might not have any geek cred at all.

****

Strategic Deployment

Thomas Allen Mays

The fragile jewel of the New Poland colony burned with the pinpoint flames of battle. Sleek, stealthy, teardrop-shaped Hornets dipped in and out of the atmosphere, streaking low to deliver their kinetic and energetic payloads and then soaring away to search eagerly for new targets. The hapless colonists, farmers, and factory workers who had dared to grasp for something as ephemeral as freedom, darted about on the ground, panicked and confused, desperate to find some form of shelter from the rain of destruction.

Nineteen light-years away, Peter Highsmith beheld the horrifying whole with his mind's eye, like some vindictive god laying out his retribution upon the unfaithful. But Peter was no god, and he could only look upon what he was doing with dismay, sickened by the way the Hornets' bloodthirsty whispers spoke to him, thrilled him. He was back, doing what he had sworn he would never do again, doing what had to be done despite his own misgivings. Peter was the Sweeper once more.

Worst of all, as terrible as the destruction he delivered was, there was yet more to be done. The greatest danger, both for himself and the colonists of New Poland, still lay ahead. Peter fought back the darkness of his encroaching memories and firmed up his resolve. With a thought, he reasserted primary control of the Hornets and gave them their final assignments, all the while aware of her presence near him, watching his every move, smiling at every new flare of combat.

Peter shook his head in disgust. I never should have said yes to this mess. This is exactly what I walked away from, and now I'm the only one who can do what needs to be done. . . .

****

The mess in question had begun earlier that day with a very unwelcome reunion. Peter sat, bristling with anger, in a mid-level bureaucrat's office within an immense imperial government tower, nestled in the heart of the overcrowded sprawl of the Dallas-Houston megalopolis. The object of his anger sat arrogantly behind the desk in front of him, gloating at his impotent, spiteful regard. He knew who had the power here and it wasn't him, the broken soldier who had lost himself in a factory for the last decade.

Sylvia Blake, former colonel in Her Majesty's Armed Forces and current Crisis Operations Director for the Ministry of Colonization, smiled back at him with smug contempt. "You never should have broken with the unit, Peter. If you'd stayed after the war, you might have earned yourself a ticket to success, like I did. As it is, I'm not sure you even work over the welfare threshold. Have you managed to rise above the dole, Major? I neglected to check."

Peter favored her with a tight smile. It was somehow comforting to know that nothing between them had changed. "I earn my ration credits honorably, Colonel, and a few luckies on top of that. How's the pay schedule here, lying on your back? Or are you more a 'bend over the desk' kind of girl?"

Her smile dropped and Peter's grew in response. She leaned forward, her eyes flashing in anger. "We don't really have time for playing catch-up. A situation has developed and I find myself in need of someone with your skills. How would you like to earn ten thousand Leisure and Luxury Credits for a single day's work?"

The number made his head swim. He felt vaguely guilty even discussing such an amount. "That's a whole lotta luckies. Who do I have to kill? You?"

She chuckled. "You'll never be that fortunate, but a degree of mayhem is involved."

"Hmph. Mayhem. I've been out of this business for a while. Surely there's some soldier you could task with this-and you don't even have to pay them any extra."

His old superior frowned. "That might be a preferred method, but my ministry is barred from using active troops in colonial situations without a full declaration of war. No, I need a contractor for one mission and one mission only, and I immediately thought of you."

"That's funny, Sylvia, because I seem to recall that you and I don't get along too well. In fact, I believe we parted on somewhat violent terms."

She shrugged. "Yes, you are an insufferable prick, but I need the best, so I go for the best. While not exactly the most obedient sort, in the end you've always done your duty and you always did it with style. That's what I want for my ten thousand luckies: duty to empire and a little of the old Sweeper flair."

He winced at his old title, but the thought of so much money kept him from stalking out immediately. "Okay, I'm listening. What do I have to do for this particular payoff?"

The colonel leaned forward. "It's simple, really. The administration would like you to inflict some . . . collateral damage upon the colony at New Poland."

Peter slumped, and all the half-formed ideas for how to spend his windfall suddenly fell apart. There would be no money because what she was asking was beyond ludicrous. It was patently impossible. "Well, the administration-and you-apparently need to have your collective heads examined. There's this great new thing called relativity. Heard of it? Seems it makes attacking another solar system pretty much impossible. Besides, my days of razing villages are far behind me. Find someone else to play with."

Her nasty smile returned. "Oh, that's unfortunate, Peter, because this job is simply perfect for you. It's got 'The Sweeper' written all over it, and though you might deny how you really feel, I know that has to count for something. You used to be a Combat Remote Operator-REMO for a whole company of Ripper AI's, and adjunct REMO for a squadron of Hornets. You used to make a difference. And what have you become? Some pathetic factory worker, driving an AI assembly line? Please! You must die a little bit each day. This, on the other hand, is real work, the work you were born for. Willing to give me a chance to explain?"

"Not particularly." He tried to reject what she was saying, but it was a hollow attempt.

"Tough." She tossed a slate in front of him. "Pay attention or walk home."

When he picked it up, a grainy, 2-D video began on its surface. The small datablock in the screen's corner identified the stately gentleman pictured as the governor of New Poland, an established farming colony a little over nineteen lightyears away, orbiting around Delta Pavonis.

The governor began to speak. "'When in the course of human events, it becomes necessary for one people to dissolve the political bands which have connected them with another, and to assume among the powers of the earth, the separate and equal station to which the Laws of Nature and of Nature's God entitle them, a decent respect to the opinions of mankind requires that they should declare the causes which impel them to the separation.'

"Those elegant words, written over six hundred years ago, have not lost their power, or their importance, even in these times when Man is spread throughout the galaxy in seeming harmony. It is with the strength of those words that we formally declare our independence from the Empire of the Unified Earth, and the dissolution of our ties to her Majesty, Empress Eleanora De Marquez. We have been driven to this act by the empire's continual disregard for our needs and by the unjust, externally imposed limitations on our growth as a self sustaining society."

Sylvia reached across her desk and tapped the slate to pause the video. "It goes on like that for a while. The smug bastard wrote himself quite the speech, almost like he expects his 'declaration' will have historical significance. The short version is they're tired of working their little fingers to the bone to feed our teeming billions, in exchange for low quality meds and surplus nano-forges. They want us to recognize their independence and renegotiate a more equitable trade deal. If we refuse, they'll stop all harvest loading and divert the courses of the longships en route to Earth, returning them to New Poland.

"They're apparently serious, too. All commands to the New Poland longships via ZPL connection have been shut out. We're currently locked out from our own supply lines, which could only be due to sabotage." She settled back in her seat. "So, what do you think?"

Peter looked back down at the slate. The old man in the screen did not look like a mass murderer-but then again, statesmen rarely did. The longships were Earth's lifelines and the sole reasons for the existence of the colonies. Despite all the orbital greenhouses and the immense arcologies and stack-farms covering nearly every inch of land, extending even into the oceans themselves, the belabored old planet could no longer support her one hundred eight billion inhabitants without some form of external support. The colony worlds were their breadbasket, their only defense against a staggering near-genocide from starvation. Any interruption in the decades-long supply chain could result in the death of billions.

"Sounds like you need to start renegotiating," Peter answered with a shrug.

She stood up, and walked around her chair, coyly tracing her finger along its top. "And why do you say that, Peter?"

"Because we don't really have another choice. The New Poland colony is thirty-two years away via DMT longship. That's a pretty long lead time for a punitive assault, not to mention that it's essentially a one way trip for the grunts, with no possibility of relief or re-supply. That's a poor mission. Communication with the colony via zero path length wormhole, however, is instantaneous-you can talk to them immediately. Face it, the colonists can starve us out, but we can't touch them." Or could we? What is she not saying? Why am I here?

Sylvia looked him in the eye. "But we can't honestly negotiate with them, either. Do you know what would happen if we granted New Poland their independence? Next year, New Wales would want it. The year after that, Morgan's Rock, perhaps. It wouldn't end until every planet was freed and Mother Earth was left as nothing more than a vassal state, bled dry for our tech resources. It's hard to be an empire without imperialism."

"We could adjust."

"I highly doubt that. There are almost one hundred eight billion people out there, some trying to eke out a living, but most just content to live off the dole. A lot of them spend their lives only one ration credit away from starvation. How do you think they would handle the government tightening its belt in order to pay our colonies their 'fair share'? They'd revolt! And there's no way around it, either. There's hardly enough work now for those who might want to earn more ration credits, and the population just keeps increasing. We can't ship them to the colonies or kill them off in wars fast enough. No, giving in to New Poland is signing the empire's death certificate."

He declined comment on whether or not that would be a bad thing. As much as he hated to admit it, she had a point. Even if he despised what the world had become-what he had helped to bring about-and though he respected what the New Polish were trying to achieve, the colonists' threats scared him to death. "What other choice is there?"

She came from behind her desk and walked behind his chair, to gently grip his shoulders and lean down to whisper in his ear.

He could smell the sourness of her breath.

"Hornets," she said. "We crush this little independence movement with the Hornets we've been secreting away in each of the colony systems for over a hundred years."

He stood up, as much in shock as to free himself from her touch. "But that's stupid. Why the hell would you bother putting Hornets in systems lightyears away, with no one to control them?"

"The empire wasn't built by fools, Peter. Independence has always been a possibility and prudence demanded it be planned for. History's proven that after a few generations have passed, once a colony's rulers no longer have strong personal ties to the government, they'll start to think they can run things better by themselves. The Ministry of Colonization had a contingency plan for this before they ever sent the first longships of settlers. I usually regard any plans other than my own with disdain, but I have to admit, this particular strategy was a beauty."

Peter shook his head. "What good does pre-deploying Hornets accomplish? Combat AIs can't fight effectively on their own, and if you expect me to go in stasis for over thirty years just so I can go there in person and operate your little death dealers, you've got another think coming,"

She sat back onto the edge of her desk. Now that most of her big secret had been revealed, she appeared somewhat deflated. "It would be easier to show you than to try to explain it. Follow me." She stood and walked out of her office, apparently expecting Peter to follow.

Nameless functionaries peeked out from their desks as she passed, some visibly quaking in her wake. They left the mundane normality of the ministry offices together and passed through a pair of security checkpoints, as her eyes and her codes proved to be the keys to the kingdom. Things began to look very familiar to Peter after they entered a large space on the other side of an immense, reinforced door.

The weapons of choice for the EUE and Her Majesty, the Empress Eleanora, were the combat AIs. Rippers for ground-combat or Hornets for aerospace and ground attack, the autonomous war machines had proven themselves to be the ultimate force multiplier, but the artificial intelligence driving them was flawed, incapable of creativity, ingenuity, or initiative. Without a human REMO as "man in the loop," Hornets and Rippers either underperformed and were overrun . . . or they committed atrocities so vile, they could never be revealed. They instead had to be "swept" under the rug by very bad, very dangerous people-people like Peter in his former life.

Inside the vast room Sylvia led him to, stood a full Ripper/Hornet control suite, complete with a connection chair for the REMO, and a set of flat panel displays and adjunct controls for the Remote Operator's supervisor. Surrounding it were banks upon banks of identical, stacked equipment enclosures, each fed by heavy duty cables and cooling lines. What their purpose was, and how they related to Hornets and New Poland, he had no idea.

Sylvia walked up to one of the enclosures and patted it fondly. "You're right, of course. There's no way for you to control the Hornets we hid in the New Poland system over such an impossible distance. And even if we waited the thirty-two years it would take to get you to the colony, there's no way you could coordinate the Hornets across the breadth of an entire solar system. The lightspeed lag would make any sort of meaningful integration impossible. By that sort of logic, you are absolutely correct and there is no way to prosecute an interstellar war."

"Yet we find ourselves here together, despite that." Peter waved a hand at the towering bulk of stacked modules. "What is all this?"

She smiled again, but it was a smile filled with malice. "Those are ZPL wormhole transceivers, thousands of them. More FTL comms than have ever been grouped together before, and linked in parallel to provide all the bandwidth you would ever need, enough to control an entire battalion of AIs, whether across town or across the galaxy, securely and instantaneously. This is our ace in the hole. This is how we are going to put down this revolt and save our empire."

Peter suddenly felt weak and sought a chair. He sat down heavily and shook his head. What had at first seemed to be an impossibility, a wild notion that the colonel and the ministry were bandying about for argument's sake, now became a crushing, nightmarish reality. He looked at her. "You replaced the Hornet's comm circuits with wormholes?"

"Among other things." She moved away from the wormhole transceiver modules and took her old spot as REMO supervisor. A few taps of her control board and the teardrop shaped schematic of a Hornet appeared on the main screen. "These Hornets are special. The fusion thrusters were replaced with differential momentum transfer drives. The armaments were upgraded to suit their new c-fractional flight profiles, and the best AIs available were installed. Add in the new interstellar control capability, and you can handle the whole sorry business today, from this very building. Our former colonists-who imagine themselves to be untouchable-will never suspect a thing."

Peter felt numb, and he couldn't think of what to say.

She left her console and brought him the slate again. "Every time we sent a longship to one of the colonies, we'd drop off one or two Hornets in a wide solar orbit while the settlers were still in suspension, slowly adding to the pool of Hornets on every subsequent journey. The century-long lead-time for this project has resulted in a lot of variation for the Hornets put on station." She grinned. "I figure that will complicate things, but if anyone can control such a complex assault force, you can . . . Sweeper." That last twist of the knife caused her grin to turn feral.

The slate displayed the specs for all the variants of the Hornet that had been sent to New Poland for the last century. There were twelve relatively limited models and thirty-one with which he could build a complete connection. Peter tried to imagine the expense it had taken to build forty-three such machines-each with an AI that gave it more intelligence than a chimp, and the bloodthirsty will of a rabid pit bull; each armed to bursting with lasers, particle beams, and kinetic missiles; each with a fabulously expensive DMT drive; all outfitted with the hundreds of parallel-processed wormhole circuits to provide the bandwidth he'd need for control-an exorbitant expense that entire planets could not afford. The numbers were staggering, and when he multiplied that by eleven different colonies, the number became too large for him to even conceptualize.

Peter stood up and looked around at the control suite and the surrounding modules of the transceiver nodes, an array of tens of thousands of communication wormhole termini. It was awe-inspiring, frightening, and so very, very sad-all the capability and resources devoted to fear and the suppression of freedom.

He refused to let the stupid, futile irony of the ministry's self-defeating plan pass without challenge. Peter turned on her. "Do you have any idea how much this has cost us? And not just in money or luckies, but in potential too? With the amount of trouble and expense it took to put this in place, you could have built three times the number of longships to carry away all those 'pitiful' folk on the dole. You could have better outfitted the colonies so they would have been happier as subjects of the empire! This all could have been avoided!"

She switched from calm and proud to livid insanity in the space of a heartbeat. Peter took a step back from her advance as she spat out, "You don't know that! The ministry and the empire did as it thought necessary! This only proves we were right to do it!"

At that moment, he realized he had always been wrong about her. She was something altogether more pitiful and frightening than the sadist he had always thought her to be. She was a zealot, a true believer. New Poland was endangering her empire and it had to be put down.

She had more to say, though. "And don't preach to me about waste and lost opportunities. I've seen your work! Your real work, not the shit you do now! I've seen the Rippers dance with you as their REMO, burning homes and shooting anyone who got in your way, man or woman, soldier or civilian. You're not clean. You're not pure. You weren't just a cog in the machine, doing what was required like a good little soldier. You did it because it was who you were. And it doesn't matter how many years you've denied your nature, or how many times you've lied to yourself, it's still who you are. It's what you are."

It disturbed him to feel her barbs strike with such accuracy. Years of shame and regret bubbled up. Peter told himself that what he had done had been done under her orders. He told himself that it was the fog of war, the confusion of combat. But her comment about his Rippers resonated too well with him. The people he worked with now made their AIs dance in the acts of creation and industry. What if they only danced for him in the act of destruction?

When he said nothing, she stood straight and smoothed non-existent wrinkles from her pants, using her momentary triumph to regain some equanimity. "Revolt was inevitable, no matter how much money we put into the colonies. It was just a matter of time. The only real question was who would be the first to muster the guts to do it. Now we have a responsibility to the Empress to quell this revolt and provide an object lesson to any other colony that thinks it has the safety of distance. Once a loyal subject, always a loyal subject."

"I need a minute to think."

"Down the hall from my office there's a balcony. Take all the time you need, Peter."

He walked back in a daze, his mind churning with memories and concerns over what she wanted him to do. Outside, a hot breeze blew around the tower, and he was soon dotted with beads of sweat. Peter was surprised the sun still shone through the churning clouds. It felt much later in the day than it seemed to be, emotional weariness supplemented by bodily fatigue. His gaze settled on the chaotic jumble of man-made structures that stretched past the horizon, with barely a swath of green to break up the monotony.

He hardly gave a thought to the money she was offering. The luckies meant a more comfortable life, but it was not as if he intended to retire and live on the dole. Anyway, the money was a lure, not the hook. The real draw was the job itself, a job which appealed to both logic and the baser instincts that he thought he had buried when he left the colonel's employ. Peter was unsure which was having more of an effect on him, though: the logic or his own rejected desires. Since he could do nothing about the demons of his past and their struggle to gain purchase on his future, he focused on her arguments instead. Peter wanted to distrust her. To him, she was the devil incarnate . . . but if the devil tells the truth, what then?

Walking away was not a realistic option. If he did, she would simply hire someone else, and that person might give into their inner darkness with abandon, turning a bad situation into an atrocity, an atrocity which Peter would be indirectly responsible for. It all came down to answering questions he had avoided even asking for years.

Where did honor and valor lie? Was it in rejecting what he truly was and either letting someone else commit an atrocity upon New Poland, or letting New Poland dictate terms to Earth, along with all the chaos and horrors that would entail? Or did it lie in doing the job, in releasing his hidden demons, in killing a bunch of farmers who just wanted a better life, in order to save an empire that might not be worth saving?

What would the Sweeper choose?

What should Peter Highsmith choose?

Was there truly a difference?

In the end, there was really no choice at all. He walked back into Hornet control room, wiping the sweat from his brow. "I want payment first," he said.

She half smiled, and he thought he could detect her first genuine emotion that day. "Forget it. You get half now, half when it's done. Feel lucky you're catching me on a trusting day."

One small transaction later and the miniscule sum of LLC's marked on the surface of his ration card had jumped by five thousand. Nodding, he asked, "What now?"

She waved a hand at the REMO connection chair and he sat, preparing the restraints and inductive pickups for maximum comfort. He would be in the hot-seat for quite a while.

Sylvia pointed to the largest of her displays. "You'll see the target list when you boot up, but I want to make sure there's no confusion."

He just nodded, his thoughts and memories swirling about too rapidly for him to formulate a response.

"First priority is to prevent them from redirecting the longships. You'll need to hit their wormhole comm sites repeatedly to ensure none of their ZPL termini survive. Miss one and we go hungry. Next in importance are their orbital facilities and satellites. That will prevent them from coordinating any response to the next wave of attack."

"Won't you need to keep some of their comms up so you can accept their surrender?"

She frowned and shook her head. "The empress isn't that interested in what they have to say. We can wait to talk to them when the next outbound longship arrives in about two years. Next target set is for all the major government buildings and the homes of the governing council. After the leaders and their families are dead, you hit their manufacturing centers, warehouses, and hospitals."

"Hospitals?"

"Yes. I want every single piece of imperial nanotech and every drop of imperial medicine destroyed. I want the next two years on New Poland to be hellish. We have to be overwhelming with our response so the other colonies will think twice before issuing us an ultimatum."

"Won't I kill a lot of innocents in strikes on hospitals and houses?"

She was quiet for a moment, as if she had forgotten there were people on the planet and not just rebels. Then she waved it away. "We didn't start this. It's unfortunate that the populace pays for the hubris of the government, but they brought this upon themselves."

"I don't know. It seems to me that I'm the one bringing it on them."

"Deal with your conscience later. You've been paid and you'll do your duty. Understood?"

He laid back in the chair and let it mold itself to him. "Understood, ma'am." Peter stared up at the ceiling of steel braces and bare conduits, high above him. With a tap of his finger, the cortical relay settled over his head like a skullcap. Its gentle fields engaged the microscopic filaments that had been nano-deposited within his brain and spinal cord. He began to feel a familiar pressure from within, as if his body was too small to contain his soul. The pressure rose until it was at the threshold of pain, and then he was through the interface.

His mind stretched out over nineteen light years in a fleeting moment of null time. Peter doubted that anyone had ever done this before, because he had no idea how they would have kept themselves quiet about it. He almost shouted out in delight. Engaging AI's as a REMO always felt strange, but this seemed downright bizarre!

Peter noted a moment of discontinuity, and then he found himself embedded within thirty-eight war machines, hungry for battle. The connection through the wormholes was stronger and faster than any he had ever experienced before. Even during the war, when all the Rippers and he were in the same general area, there had still been a slight delay between thought and sensation, action and reaction. Here there was nothing but the powerful, immediate sensation of being wrapped up in a twenty-ton, c-fractional spaceship, Armageddon at his fingertips, multiplied thirty-eight times over. It was a godlike sensation. Peter feared that he would lose all he had gained in his transition from the Sweeper to plain old factory worker.

He waited until the dangerous euphoria began to abate and then he took stock of his situation. Five of the Hornets had failed to come online. He tried a wake up call to the thirty-eight he did have. "Hello?"

HELOOOO hELLO hello hElLo Hola Hi Yo HOWDY Hello-Their eager voices camein a reverberating cacophony throughout the entire group. Then they began to greet one another, and then to greet him again.

He made an adjustment or two and tried again. "Hello?"

Hello, Peter. Thirty-eight voices in complete harmony. Better. Many new, inexperienced REMO's made the mistake of anthropomorphizing their AIs. Individuality required creativity, and the AI's lack of creativity and advanced judgment skills was why they needed REMO's in the first place. An AI was a very clever operating system and interface, which took away the need to worry about the small stuff, but it did not live. Peter had no need for individuals. He wanted soldiers who did what he told them to.

"Are you mission ready?"

A chorus of Yes, Peter followed by two slow, disappointed No, Peter's. He delved deeper into those two Hornets and data swam in his vision before him, mingling with his view of the ceiling. Peter closed his eyes and gave a quick scan of the info. They were two of the older model units to which he only had a slow, tenuous connection. Time had not been kind to the Hornets, stuck far out in the Kuiper Belt of the New Poland system. Numerous hits by micrometeorites and cometary dust over the years had rendered them unusable. He guessed that was what had happened to the five units that had failed to check in, but he had neither the time nor the need to find out for certain. Peter dismissed the damaged units and then spent a few minutes discussing the target list with the Hornets, adjusting his plans as the AIs informed him of the differences in their individual capabilities.

Soon enough, he had completed all the planning and prep work. Their drives and weapons were all warmed up from decades of dormancy, and the eager Hornets seemed to chafe against their orbits like attack dogs held at bay on a leash. He gave one final instruction. "Your highest priority is accuracy. When you are done, I want the colonists to have no doubts about what the empire is capable of."

No problem, boss. You point us and we'll hit it. No problem. Their voices were in exact sync, and had even been modulated to sound more like him. They were Peter-and he was on the prowl.

The unsuspecting colonists of New Poland never stood a chance. Hornets streaked inward from points all around the solar system, using their DMT drives to trade momentum with any convenient body along their line of flight, accelerating at the equivalent of hundreds of gravities in order to all reach the planet at the same time. The New Polish colony floated in Peter's mind's eye, a blue and green sphere for which peace was about to become a memory.

Before the first wave of Hornets hit the atmosphere, they launched their kinetic missiles. Self-guided spikes of ceramic and tungsten pierced the skies around the globe and struck the locations of every single wormhole transceiver on record, plus a few that had been secreted away in a futile attempt to fool imperial sensors. The first indication the colonists had that they were not in fact beyond the reach of Mother Earth, that they were not safe from harm, was the fiery destruction of their comm centers, as the spikes converted their orbital speed to massive plumes of heat and explosive force. With that, the immediate threat the colonists posed had been removed, but his work was not done.

The second wave of Hornets made short work of the satellites in orbit, and then joined their brethren to shriek across the skies of the terrified planet, raining down destruction and ruin upon every city and community the New Polish had carved out of the alien forests. The kinetic missiles ran out long before he was through half the target list, but it mattered little. The lasers and particle beams would suffice for what remained to be done.

He had his mission, his responsibilities. Peter made continual minute adjustments to the Hornets' attacks, holding back where one seemed overzealous and wasteful, admonishing and redirecting when one missed a target of opportunity. As the platoon sergeant was to his grunts and the commander to his squadron, he was to his Hornets. It was the very essence of being a combat REMO, but this was far more complex, far more difficult than any op he'd ever engaged in before. It was hard work being everywhere at once, but it all came together for him.

Soon, the images of key homesteads, hospitals, warehouses, and factories on their screens were replaced by the stark video of fire, smoke, and settling dust. Ironically, after rejecting his past for so long in search of solace, for the first time in many years he was totally at peace. He realized, while making the Hornets dance around the planet, that perhaps being the Sweeper was not such a bad thing.

Peter felt almost serene, at least until the battle damage assessments started rolling in.

Moments after the smoke and dust cleared from the target areas, he felt someone strike him, pummeling his chest and arms while he lay in the connection chair. Dimly, he could hear Sylvia's cries of outrage and he knew his time was up. He gave final instructions to all of the Hornets. All but one flew out of the atmosphere and then made a suicidal reentry straight into the ocean, their shattered power cells and violent kinetic energy combining to produce a giant mushroom cloud and shockwave. He hoped it would dissipate before it reached shore.

The last remaining Hornet flew to Warsaw, the colony's capitol, and landed upon the steps, just in front of the shattered remains of the government house, ready for the next step.

With a tap of his hand, the cortical interface lifted off his head and he was free. Peter caught Sylvia's striking hands and gave her a spin that sent her sprawling on the floor. She rose to her knees and appeared ready to charge at him again, but a look of defeat began to supplant the apoplectic rage that had turned her face into a mask. She stayed on the floor and leaned against the supervisor's console as she tried to regain both her breath and her composure. He was glad for it. He had been in the chair for too many hours and could barely move to stop her.

She looked to the large display at the frozen images of the secondary target areas. The sites for the wormhole transceivers were completely destroyed, as were the main government buildings on the night side of the colony planet. However, on the daylight side, when they would still have been manned, the buildings stood completely undamaged. Instead, around those buildings and around every single imperial warehouse, factory, hospital, and leadership home, he had used the Hornets' weapons to excavate a deep trench surrounding each structure. It was a degree of precision for which he felt a certain pride, for himself and the Hornet AI's.

She turned away from the unexpected lack of destruction and toward Peter, her face twisted in both confusion and disgust. "Why?"

"You said it yourself. I've never been very obedient, but I always do my duty."

"You call that doing your duty? You've wasted our one best opportunity to regain control!"

Shaking his head, he began to extricate himself from the chair. "I've given you the opportunity to do the right thing. I've given you time." Peter gestured to the images. The precision of the violently unearthed trenches would send an unmistakable message to the New Polish: it would have been far easier to simply destroy these sites.

"You wanted me to show them they shouldn't screw around with the empress, that their distance doesn't accord them automatic safety. I've done that. I've also removed the immediate threat they posed to the empire. You now have a thirty-two year buffer where you can't touch them and they can't starve you. That's thirty-two years to figure out the right way to resolve things, thirty-two years to figure out if you want allies or enemies, colonists or partisans."

She said nothing, so he went on. "You said you wanted me to destroy them, to stave off any further thoughts of independence, but you also said that revolution was inevitable. You were right on both counts, but destroying them won't take away the threat of revolution. It'll just tell all eleven colonies and all the hundred-plus billion people on Earth that the empire is without reason. You would have had me turn the New Polish into martyrs that would inspire the next revolution. What I've done instead is shown them what we're capable of, and sent the clear message that it could have been much worse. I've reopened the door to diplomacy. I kept one Hornet alive so you would have a way to contact them. I think they're probably waiting for your call.

She rose to her feet, her hatred of him palpable. "I should have you executed for what you've done," she sneered.

Peter smiled. "If you try to put this on me and have me killed as some rogue actor, your handlers are going to wonder about you and why you hired me. You may end up putting the noose around your own neck. Better to pretend it was your plan all along, I believe."

She said nothing in response. Instead, she swung her fists, knocking her display to the floor. The images of her plan gone awry blanked out in a shower of sparks. "Get out, Sweeper. We're done."

Peter shrugged. Five thousand luckies and a clear conscience were more than enough compensation. He abandoned Sylvia to her machinations and her fate, only slightly worried about getting a knife in the back. Peter Highsmith had focused on what lay behind him for too long as it was, but now his demons were quiet, swept away by a side of himself he had suppressed for years. He walked away, looking ever forward.