"Grantville Gazette.Volume VII" - читать интересную книгу автора (Flint Eric)

Mule 'Round The World
By Virginia DeMarce

November, 1633, Wednesday morning before Thanksgiving

"It was well done of you, Henry. It really was." Enoch Wiley looked rather doubtfully at a pile of yellowish mush on the cracker in his hand. "What is this stuff?"

"Cora makes it out of mashed chickpeas. Some kind of a substitute for chip dip. Not bad-there's onion in it, I think. Anyhow, it has some zip." Henry Dreeson took a bite. He always felt a bit embarrassed when Enoch commended him for something so solemnly. He was eight years older. Not a lot, between old men. A generation, for children. He'd been an eighth grader the year that Enoch started school. It had felt a bit odd, at first, when Enoch became the minister at his church. That was what-forty years ago, now?

"I didn't really need it, anyway. I'd just gotten used to having it in my pocket. When Jeff Adams told me that the girl Benny adopted really was going to lose that eye-well, it just seemed the thing to do. The color's not too bad a match. Jim McNally said that he could re-grind it to fit her socket; it's easy enough, most of the time, to make something that's too big smaller. The trick is to make something that's too small stretch."

Henry's mind briefly contemplated Grantville's latest budget projections; then turned back to the reception. Several teachers and quite a few students from the remedial English for Speakers of Other Languages (ESOL) and special education programs located at the middle school were milling around. He had just presented Minnie Hugelmair with a framed certificate of valor for her defense of Benny at the riot in Jena last spring, along with his good luck piece. "Maybe it will make Minnie feel more like she really belongs in Grantville, having Uncle Jim's glass eye to wear."

Both men looked up toward the temporary platform at one end of the city council meeting room. Minnie certainly sounded like she belonged to Grantville. She was up there, singing "Bury Me Beneath the Willow," to Benny Pierce's accompaniment in a voice that could have come out of any one of the hollows that ran off of Buffalo Creek.

Henry had heard that she hadn't sounded so nice the day that Benny, coming back to winter in Grantville toward the end of October, told her she'd have to go to school.

Minnie was about fourteen or fifteen, they figured. More or less. Most likely more than less, since Doc Adams guessed that she had been badly undernourished when she was little. She was a foundling. Somehow, every master to whom her home village had ever bound her out had managed to avoid the obligation to send her to school. How many men wanted to pay school fees for a foundling not yet old enough to earn her keep? Henry realized that you couldn't work up a general answer from one example, but it was clear that in this case, the answer was none. Minnie had a seventeenth century small town's equivalent of street smarts, but she did not have any education.

She didn't want any, either.

Benny hadn't had much luck taking her to school.

Eventually Benny and his sister Betty, Betty's daughter Louise, Betty's daughter-in-law Doreen, Simon and Mary Ellen Jones who were the ministers from the Methodist church, Enoch and his wife Inez, Henry's wife Ronnie, and Henry himself had taken Minnie to school. Fussin' and fightin' it all the way.

Benny switched the tune to "John Brown's Body." Minnie really got into the spirit of it.

That girl is going to make some man a real obstreperous wife, one day, Henry thought.

Joe Pallavicino, director of Grantville's ESOL program, still wasn't sure what to do with Minnie Hugelmair. Yeah, she had to go to school. But the intake program and classes had been set up to teach English, first to refugees and then to other immigrants, who already had at least some experience with going to school in German, then to funnel the kids into regular classes. The Germans had spoken fifteen or twenty nearly incompatible dialects, but least three-fourths of the refugee kids who came into Grantville the first year already had basic literacy and numeracy under their belts when they showed up at the schools. Most of those who didn't, had not been German. So he hadn't felt the least embarrassment about resolutely tabling all suggestions about bilingual education programs. The illiterate ones had been from six dozen different places on the map of Europe, attached some way to the mercenaries, and there wasn't anyone in Grantville who could educate them bilingually, even if the Emergency Committee had been so inclined. Which it wasn't. Almost all of the immigrants who had come since then, since Thuringia and central Germany settled down, were looking for jobs. Both the adults and their kids just needed to learn English, just as the Grantvillers who showed up needed to learn some kind of standardized, homogenized basic German that the speakers of fifteen or twenty different dialects would have a shot at understanding.

Whatever else Minnie might need, she didn't need to learn English. During her months of wandering around Thuringia with Benny Pierce, she had learned English thoroughly. With a fine West Virginia twang. A little archaic, perhaps, since a lot of it came from folk songs, but perfectly functional English. It actually helped her talk to some of the down-time English people who came through town now and then, translating into modern American for them.

Temporarily, he had set her to spending her mornings with Ceci Jones and afternoons with Tina Sebastian. Not because their sections were better suited to her needs than any of the others, but because their families were both important in the Methodist church that Benny Pierce attended, so they felt obliged to put up with her.

Minnie needed to learn to read and write. She needed to learn to add, subtract, multiply, and divide. It didn't matter much to Joe whether she learned them in English or German; at the moment, she didn't know how in either language.

Minnie was not about to go to first grade. Joe sighed. Unfortunately, he could see her point. On the other hand, Minnie certainly didn't belong in special education.

Benny's fiddle switched again, to "The Mule 'Round the World."

"I was born about four thousand years ago; there is nothing in this world I do not know." Minnie grinned impudently, looking down at the teachers in the audience, and made her way to the verse about Adam, Eve, and the apple, "I can prove that I'm the man who ate the core."

She isn't a man, Joe thought, but that's a good song for her. Whatever else, Minnie has attitude.

What bothered Benny most about the whole deal was that he was eighty-two years old. Not that he didn't intend to live to see Minnie grown up, now that he'd taken her on, but it was always possible that he'd get to the point where he was beyond making the markets and fairs, even in the summer months. Then where would the money to keep them come from? Renting out part of the house brought in some, but not really enough. For that matter, what would become of her when he couldn't busk any more? She was the best fiddler he had ever taught, but a girl really couldn't go out doing that on her own. It was too dangerous. He couldn't see her settling down, though.

For all that they'd finally gotten her here, Minnie really didn't want to keep on coming to the school. She had only agreed to attend the reception in her own honor on condition that she could sing instead of socialize after the speeches. They had compromised. First, she would sing. Then she would go around the room, with Doreen next to her, and say one single polite thing to every person there. Something like, "Thank you for coming."

The compromise was possible because he'd figured out one thing that worked. Weeks that she didn't make too much trouble in school, Wynne Nisbet would give her a hammer dulcimer lesson on Saturday morning. Defining "too much trouble" could be a bit touchy, sometimes. There was always at least some trouble. Trouble followed Minnie around. But you had to grant that she picked her targets.

Benny grinned and shifted over to Mother Maybelle. No matter what else he played in a set, he tried to finish up with a Mother Maybelle Carter piece. This reception was really for Minnie and the other kids, though, for all that Henry and Enoch and Reverend Jones, Benny's family, and several of the teachers were here. Kids weren't crazy about ballads. They liked something livelier.

He rolled into "Worried Man Blues."

The steps up to the temporary platform didn't have a rail. Minnie didn't jump and run-she stayed right there, carefully handing Benny down. Joe Pallavicino, watching, thought that one thing was sure in life. Anybody who offered, or even seemed to offer, a threat to Benny Pierce would have to deal with Minnie.

Anybody who offered, or even seemed to offer, a threat to anyone whom Benny cared about would have to deal with Minnie.

Joe would put his money on Minnie, any day.

Benny went over and sat down next to Louise on one of the metal folding chairs. She had a plate of crackers and a root beer for him. Minnie and Doreen started to circulate. Out of the corner of his eye, Joe spotted someone who shouldn't be here, given that she wasn't in the ESOL program and the noon bell dismissing the kids for Thanksgiving hadn't rung yet. He started across the room, drawing in his breath, prepared to start a sentence with, "Denise." Behind him, a voice said, "Cool it, Joe. Princess Baby was determined to come, so I wrote her an excuse and took her out of class. Her and Minnie have gotten to be best friends."

Here came Minnie and Doreen; time to be polite. Henry Dreeson fished his cane out from under his chair; he and Enoch heaved themselves to their feet. Minnie and Doreen and-the two girls with their arms thrown casually around one another's shoulders-Denise Beasley.

You learned a lot of things, being mayor. Henry knew that, contrary to the general assumption, Denise's parents were married to each other. Had been for fifteen years. He looked around. Yep, there was Buster Beasley, all right, keeping an eye on his Princess Baby.

Now Buster-he was the one who ought to sing, "there's nothing in this world I do not know." He'd ridden with one of the big motorcycle gangs for years before he came back to Grantville and settled down. Part of the self-storage lot's business had been perfectly legitimate, with local people, but both Henry and Dan Frost had always suspected that part of it was an entrepot for-other things. None of it had ever come out into the community, though, and the last dozen years of Buster's tax returns before the Ring of Fire were impeccable. Dan knew. After it, well, Buster had called the Emergency Committee and opened a few of those down at the far end, where the lot fronted on the old dirt road. They knew that all those counterfeit-brand car and truck parts would come in real handy, so they hadn't asked what was in the others, right then. The 250 Club had cigarettes for sale long after everyone else in town had run out. What else? Who knew? Buster owned the lot free and clear.

All of which probably answered the question of where Buster had gotten the money that he plunked down to buy the lot in the first place, when he and Christin came back. He'd had backers.

But Buster wasn't a nasty guy, not the way his uncle Ken was. Standing there, leaning against the wall, his reddish hair balding and graying, his thumbs stuck into his belt below his beer belly, tattoos showing on his arms below the short sleeves of his tee shirt, he looked like he would be. Or worse. But Buster was good to his grandparents. And, boy, did he look out for Christin and Denise. Henry felt sorry for the boys who might try to date Denise. Buster really had been 'round the world, and he didn't intend for his Princess Baby to go there. He'd made sure that Denise could take care of herself, if he wasn't around to protect her.

Buster had been watching across the room. Denise and Minnie, tossing their hair back and giggling. Minnie and Denise, doing a little tap dance step in front of Ceci Jones and Paige Clinter, with Tina Sebastian clapping a rhythm for them. He was glad that Princess Baby finally had a best friend. She hadn't had a best friend since she got so sick in fifth grade and had to repeat a year. When she went back the next fall, a new class had moved up to be the first-year middle school kids and she didn't know them that well. And she was a bit fierce for the taste of most of the families around Grantville. He'd brought her up by his rules. First, do what needs doing; second, don't agonize about it.

The door opened. Chris had locked up the lot for lunch hour and come over. They'd take the girls and the Pierces out for lunch. Not at the 250 Club. She came over and leaned against him, saying, "I picked up Johnnie Ray and Julia and dropped them off at Cora's. She's put in some cushioned booths. They'll be nice and comfy, with people to talk to till we get there."

Chris stood there, watching Minnie and Denise. She was real glad that Denise finally had a best friend. Her mind wandered.

After a truly spectacular blow-up with her parents, she rode off with Buster on his motorcycle in September 1986. They covered most of the country the next year, Arizona, California, Montana, all sorts of places that she'd never expected to see, until her pregnancy advanced to the point that it got uncomfortable for her to ride and they stopped for the winter in Colorado Springs. They had a pretty nice motel room, on the outskirts. Somewhere, she'd heard that natural childbirth was good for the kid, so she did it. There had to be better ideas. Buster came to the hospital for the delivery; it was just a couple of weeks before Christmas. When the nurse put Denise into his arms, all wrapped in pink flannelette and trimmed with a sprig of holly, he got a strange, helpless, sort of look on his face and muttered, "Y'know, Chris, I kinda think we oughta get married."

The nurse, who considered this to be a good idea under the circumstances, arranged everything with the hospital chaplain before Christin was discharged. The guy had a whole set of forms for pulling it off in two days-must not have been the first case of acute fatherhood that the hospital had treated.

Buster also got a vasectomy while he was at it, saying that he didn't want to see Chris go through that again, ever, no way. It was close enough to the delivery that she hadn't argued a bit. They stayed in Colorado Springs for a year and a half, Buster handling the local end of a bunch of things for his pards, until Denise was old enough to ride comfortably in the sidecar and needed more space than a motel room to run around in. Then they came back to Grantville.

Buster had accumulated enough money, what with one thing and another, to open the storage business. He said that old Coleman Walker's chin had dropped right below desktop level when he'd handed over the receipts from the Colorado Springs bank and asked to have the accounts transferred.

She'd had another spectacular blow-up with her parents. They hadn't even asked if she was married to Buster, so she hadn't told them. She didn't intend to, either. Ever. Let them stew. She still went by Christin George, which really got their goat. The marriage certificate was in the safe deposit box, along with their wills and other business papers.

Chuck Riddle's jaw would have dropped, too, when they went to get the wills drawn, if they'd gone into detail. Instead, they just asked for plain mirrors-everything to each other and then to Denise. KISS. They'd just needed a lawyer to make sure all the formalities were right. That was one thing that Buster had learned from his pards; keep your paperwork in order.

Buster kissed Julia and shook hands with Johnnie Ray, then backed out of the booth. He loved his grandparents. He hadn't invited his Uncle Ken to lunch, but his cousin Everett was here. As many of them as could scrunched into the booth; the waitress pulled over a table and some chairs to extend it for eleven. Cora's was a nice place for a family-type party. While everybody else was sitting down, Buster went over and shook hands with Doc Adams. They'd been through a lot together. He'd never been so stinkin' sick in his life as he got that first winter after the Ring of Fire.

Jeff Adams was having lunch with old Doc McDonnell. H.M. had retired from practicing medicine nearly ten years before the Ring of Fire hit, but he'd come back to do what he could-he took the rounds at the extended care center and the assisted living homes-even dropped in on some of the old people who found it hard to get around. Even old Doc Sims, the dentist's father, from whom Jeff had bought the practice, and his wife, who were older than McDonnell, did well baby clinics at the Red Cross twice a week. Every bit helped.

McDonnell also doubled as coroner, at least for the obvious cases. Down-time, they hadn't had many exotic cases. It was mostly pretty obvious what people died from. The Beasleys, though-nobody knew yet what the Beasleys caught and died from, living out in that old farm house together. Johnnie Ray's brothers and sister, Ev, Hank, Dewey and his wife, Wilbur, and Dorothy-Sugar, everybody called her. Ev and Wilbur were widowers; Hank was an old bachelor; Sugar was a widow. Clinging together. Dewey's kids had all been left up-time; Wilbur and Sugar never had any.

It had been February, in 1632. Johnnie Ray and Julia got worried when none of them came in for groceries that week. It was cold, but not bad under foot and the telephone lines weren't down. When they didn't get an answer after two days, they sent Buster out to check. He found them all frozen solid. It looked like Sugar went last and had laid the others out all neat, turned the heat off, then lay down next to them to wait-no sign of foul play or poison.

The phone was working-Buster used it to call Dan Frost to send someone out-so it must have come on them fast. Or else, they caught on that it was something real bad, and contagious, and deliberately decided not to call. They'd found another body in the barn-a hobo, from the look of his clothes, with a plate of biscuits next to him. The house door was locked. Buster opened it with his key. He'd put the locks on himself, after the Ring of Fire; said that he and Everett, Ev's son, had split the cost. There wasn't anything missing or ransacked.

Dan had sent Fred Jordan out, since it was in the country. Town and country didn't make any real difference after the Ring of Fire, since the county government was gone, but Fred still did a lot of the stuff outside the town limits. He knew the people better.

Jordan had called his office; Leslie had taken the call and sent him out. The three of them had looked around. He'd suggested, pretty strongly, that it would be better just to bury them out there-not bring the bodies into town for an autopsy. Fred had agreed, and said that they should keep everybody else out of the house and barn, too.

Then Buster asked for a bit of privacy. They gave it to him, so they didn't know just what he'd said to Everett when he called the video store. But he came back and said not to bother digging graves in the frozen ground; if they left the house and barn standing, his Uncle Ken would rent it out the minute that Fred took the guards off it, or some refugees would just move in. No telling how long the germs for whatever it was would hang around.

He put the torch to it himself. Laughed and said, "This way, if Ken sues, at least it will be all in the family."

They'd quarantined everybody who had been out there. He, Buster and Fred got pretty sick, but they got over it, with fluids and more of the town's precious antibiotics than they had probably deserved and stuff to bring the fever down. Hell, tell the truth. He'd never been so sick in his life. If that, whatever it was, had reached Grantville without any advance warning, half of the town would have been gone in a month.

Over at the party table, Buster Beasley laughed uproariously at something Minnie had said. His gruff voice filled the whole cafe, "Oh, no, Minnie, girl, there damn well is something you don't know."

Minnie looked defiant. "What? Nothing that I need to know."

"Something I betcha' that you want to know. That would make the rest of it worth your while. You may not believe it right now, but it's important to know how to keep your paperwork in order. I had a time believing that, too, at first, but it's true."

"What?" Minnie persisted.

"You don't know how to ride a 'hog.' If you'll settle down and learn the grade school stuff as fast as you can, I'll teach you to ride, along with Princess Baby."

Minnie and Denise squealed with delight.

Benny Pierce beamed.

"And if you go on and learn the middle school stuff, there's something interesting in one of those triple locked sheds on the lot."

Three wide eyes and a piratical black patch stared at him-Doc Adams hadn't inserted Jim Dreeson's glass eye for Minnie yet.

"Two brand new 'hogs.' Never uncrated. For the day the two of you get your diplomas."

Jeff Adams and H.M. McDonnell flinched.

Von Grantville

By Russ Rittgers

Chad sat on the front porch swing staring blankly ahead. He held a tumbler of Kentucky's smoothest bourbon and water. It was like a cruel joke. I have some good news and some bad news. The good news is, those thirty-five new cars you have on your lot? You won't have to pay for them. The bad news? They're going to sit there and rot until you take them apart and sell them piece by piece. Or, you can sell them to the government for pennies on the dollar because nobody's got gasoline or money for cars except the government. Funny, yeah, Mr. Big Time Auto Dealer.

He'd never intended to live out his life in Grantville. When he studied marketing at West Virginia University, Chad wanted to go into international business. Then Dad had his stroke the day after Thanksgiving in Chad's senior year. He lived, but with the left side of his body partially paralyzed. Mom couldn't handle it mentally or physically at that time. Wes, his older brother, had a full-time job in Charleston working for the government. So rather than taking a few easy courses his final semester to pump up his GPA, Chad petitioned to graduate early because he had all his required courses completed. He received his diploma through the mail. Didn't even go to commencement. Three years later he bought the car dealership for a pittance. Lou Prickett had grown too fond of booze and was about to lose the franchise anyway.

Now, here he was. A businessman without a business. In Germany. Strange world we live in.

Debbie came over to the porch swing and sat next to him. "Penny for your thoughts, dear."

Chad smiled wryly and put his arm around his wife's small shoulders. "Just thinking. Never thought, heck, never imagined I'd ever get to Europe after I came back to Grantville. Much less live in Germany with you and the kids."

Debbie pulled his arm a bit tighter by tugging his hand. "Have you thought about what you're going to do? Some of the Methodist Women have set up an assistance committee for those German people who've been wandering into town."

"Don't know." Chad took another sip of bourbon. "All the cars and trucks I don't sell to the government, I'm going to have to disassemble for parts. I'll get Bob Szymanski and my other mechanics to do it. Added to my current parts inventory, it'll be worth a fair amount eventually. Trouble is, in the short run, we're going to be hurting for money because I'll have all the costs of tearing those apart but damn little income. We'll probably have to sell some land just to buy groceries."

Debbie pulled away from him. "Don't you dare!" she snapped. "Don't you even think about selling a single lot!"

Chad stared wide-eyed at his wife. She never…

"I had an interesting talk with that nice Scottish cavalry captain after he brought over one of his troopers to interpret for us today. He asked who was the laird who owned the land outside town. When I told him that most of it was owned by individuals and coal companies, he looked at me like I was crazy. Then I told him Dad owned 160 acres and you had, here and there, over seventeen hundred acres with houses on some of them. He said you must be a laird to own so much and live in a huge mansion in town. After that, he started treating me as if I was some kind of nobility. He must have said something to his trooper because the next thing I knew, the Germans we'd taken in started bowing their heads to me when I approached them."

Chad grunted a laugh. "Oh, yeah, that's me, Charles Hudson Jenkins von Grantville. Senior."

"I'm not kidding, Chad. In that captain's mind, we're nobility."

Chad still laughed. "Oh, yeah. I suppose I'll have to fight duels to protect the honor of our noble family name, too. Uh-huh, right."

This time Debbie joined him in laughter and leaned back against him again. "Okay, okay it's silly but… Do you know how many houses and trailers we have dotted around the countryside?"

"What… forty? You're the one taking care of those books. Do we really have that much land?"

Debbie's smile was smug. "Forty-one rentals according to our last tax return. Got back a nice depreciation-based refund a month ago. Deposited it in the bank here in Grantville. Seventeen hundred acres, sure. Some of it is just hillside, of course, since you and your dad bought anything that came on the market cheap enough. We've got the creeks flowing through some of them but it's ours. We may have lost three parcels outside the Ring of Fire but we didn't lose any rentals.

"But what I'm thinking is that we don't have a mortgage on a single one of them any more. We always went through the Bank of Grantville but last year I refinanced them through a New York bank. Our trailer loans were all run through the Farmington bank. Do you realize we have absolutely no debt? None! Honey, we've got rent money coming in from thirty-one active rentals. Ten are empty right now, but that won't last long. Yeah, we've got taxes and maintenance expense. Some of those places are pretty old. But with Chip and Missy not going off to college, we could finance our own construction."

Chad considered for a moment. "Well, that's almost right. Most of our tenants were working in Fairmont, Morgantown or somewhere other than Grantville. In other words, where are they going to get the money to pay their rent?" He sipped his whiskey.

Debbie snorted. "That's a temporary situation and you know it, Chad. They'll have to buy their own food, too. They'll pay their rent or they can move."

Chad knew his smile was a bit twisted. Debbie might have gotten her degree in Elementary Education and taught until Missy was born, but running their rentals for the past several years had given her the same set of hard-headed business rules he had.

"Well, it's a cinch real estate's going to be just a bit more difficult to come by. Building materials are going to be just a bit more expensive as well. You planning on providing materials for the construction boom once it gets going?"

"We've got plenty of trees-maple, oak, ash, pine and other timber. We've never had any of those hillsides cut. I never liked the looks of the timber-cutters who came around. After the first one visited us, I checked out recommended timber-cutting best practices on the Internet. Then I started asking questions. Not a single one ever heard of a contract. So I said no thanks. Now we're going to have a lot of scrub trees and tree limbs for fireplace wood as well as logs for construction."

Chad took a sip from his glass. "Sounds good, I suppose. Doesn't get my blood pumping any more than selling auto parts does."

"Oh, I didn't figure it would." Debbie stood and stretched. "We can hire someone to oversee the day to day operation but you should be there to watch. To see everything is done to conserve the land. They won't pay attention to me. Anyway, there's no way I'm going to hike into the woods to supervise a timber crew. You, well, you ran the dealership garage as well as the sales room."

Chad nodded. It was a plan, at least. "Okay. Damn! I just had a thought. Where are they going to get the gas for the chain saws? Come to that, how are they going to haul the wood out of the woods?"

"The old fashioned way, I suppose. There's bound to be a few of those big two-man saws and buck saws rusting in barns and garages.. . not to mention axes. You can probably hire some of our unemployed tenants to do the work."

"Horses." Chad frowned. "Might be able to get tractors but we'll probably have to buy or rent draft horses or oxen to haul out wagons filled with firewood and the logs. Think your dad has any old horse collars lying about the barn? He's bound to have some saws from your grandfather's day. We can find farm wagons easily enough. Heck, just a few built-up wheeled axles with a tongue welded on. Won't even need to have tires, just the rims. Next question is, does Denny's Lumber still have its own sawmill?"

Debbie shook her head. "No. But I'm certain all the parts are there somewhere. Nathan never threw away anything. Thank God we got the electricity back. That'll power the sawmills."

"Well, looks like I've got something to keep me busy for a while. You can do the rentals and help the refugees with the other gals."

Debbie glanced over at him. "Um… it's a bit more than just helping. I got elected chairwoman."

Chad sighed. Every time she became a chairwoman, it cost him money.

The dealership had to pay its mechanics to take apart the cars and trucks so Chad joined in to save on labor costs. He received strange looks the day he came into work wearing coveralls. He shrugged and gave a twisted smile. "Times are hard and money's tight." They all nodded with rueful grins. They'd been there.

Two days later, after completely disassembling three cars, Bob Szymanski, Chad's lead mechanic stood up and put down his wrench with deliberation. "This is stupid."

"Huh?" Chad asked.

"Why are we taking these cars apart?"

"Because we don't have any gas."

Bob put his tongue to the side of his cheek and shook his head with a teasing smile. "Uh-uh. We don't have gasoline. We do have gas."

Chad stood slowly. For minutes his face contorted as he thought. "Using barbecue grill gas tanks?" he asked with wry smile.

"I made a couple of gas-powered cars using kits when I was still in high school. We can compress the local gas. You ready to assume the position?"

Chad nodded and Bob gave a shrill whistle. All the other mechanics gleefully surrounded the two men. Chad stood for the traditional reward for Jenkins management stupidity, a practice started by his father. Whack! Bob delivered the dope slap to the back of Chad's head.

"Okay, guys. New orders. Bob, you're in charge of engine conversions. We'll work together on the pricing. Automobile or power units. I want each of you guys to do your own cars and then drive around town. Wait. Buy a lot of pressure tanks and their connections first. That's what's going to limit production. Cars are everywhere but not pressure tanks. When they're gone, we're out of that business. Okay?"

"What are we going to use for money to buy them, Chad?"

He grimaced. "I hope you guys like eating beans more than I do. We're going to have a couple tough months before things turn around."

"I'm telling you, Denny, there just ain't enough logs coming in right now to keep that many guys hanging around." Donnie Lee Swiger was arguing with Denny Reilly who was in the midst of setting up a sawmill for his lumber yard. Donnie Lee stopped talking when he saw Chad walk into the pole barn. "Oh, hi, Chad."

"Hi, Donnie Lee, hi, Denny. How's it going?" Chad had only a nodding acquaintance with Denny, who'd bought his last car from Trumble and was originally from Bluefield.

"Fine, fine." A dozen years older than Chad, Denny spoke with confidence. "Getting the sawmill set up. I figure we're going to need it. Found a couple torn up blades and one good one from back before the lumber company started buying dimensional lumber. We'll be ready for business in a week. You planning on some new construction?"

"Not just yet. What with my stock in trade being rendered useless for the time being, I figured I might cut a little of my timber. Just me and a couple of my tenants. I figure a log or two a day, maybe less." Chad leaned back against a steel beam, vaguely wishing he'd taken up tobacco chewing. The good old boys always had a chaw or a whittling knife when they started talking business. Gave them something to do while thinking. The one with the most patience usually got the better deal.

He didn't bother to look at the avaricious gleam in Denny's eyes. Donnie Lee was behind Denny, grinning like a cat watching a mouse approaching a piece of tempting cheese. Chad had been selling cars to Donnie Lee since he got out of the Army. While Denny might know a lot about the lumber business, Donnie Lee knew he had a lot to learn about mano-a-mano dealing with Chad.

"Now that's interesting," Denny countered. "I reckon we could buy anything you cut. In fact, we could probably throw in kiln-drying any lumber you want to keep for yourself. Good, stable wood, won't split on you."

"Sounds good." Chad shrugged. "I figure I'd just cut enough to cover expenses until my rentals start producing a decent cash flow again. Most of them gotta get new jobs. Those who were inside the Ring of Fire. It was a nice day so some of my tenants were out of town."

"Sorry to hear that. Sort of. I guess they're happy that they're back in their time rather than disappearing like us. You know, you might have to do timber-cutting longer than you think, what with all your empty or non-paying rentals. Here's what I was thinking…"

It took four hours of hard negotiating but Denny finally "persuaded" Chad to go into the timber-cutting business in a big way, even financing two weeks pay for the lumber crew, just until they got their first payment for the logs from Denny. As was his custom, Chad deliberately left some money on the table for Denny, knowing that pigs get fat and hogs get butchered. Just like the car business, this wasn't a one-time deal.

Late February, 1632

The trouble at the Refugee Center erupted quickly. Two women were flailing at each other, pulling hair, kicking and using their fists. Fights between women cooped up in the old high school gym during winter weather were nothing new to Debbie. She and two of her assistants ran over to break it up.

One woman was far more vicious than the other. Debbie grabbed her from behind. The woman pulled back her arm and her elbow collided with Debbie's right eye socket. Debbie hung onto the woman as she tried to twist and squirm away from Debbie's assistants to attack her opponent again.

"Excuse me. Is this the fishmonger's shop?" Debbie's mother-in-law, Eleanor Jenkins' voice pierced through the clamor. The question was so inappropriate that the struggling woman stopped fighting. Then she almost collapsed and started crying.

Debbie was so disoriented by the blow she lost the train of events for the next several minutes. By the time she understood what was going on, Eleanor had taken charge. She was sitting behind a long table on the announcement stage in her best imperial manner with two long-time friends, Nancy Reardon and Sandra Kip.

Eleanor tapped on the table with a small wooden mallet. "If you will all come to order, we'll get on with the hearing." Her tone was mild but firm. "There have been some strong accusations between the two combatants. Frau Maria Deschler, please step forward."

Maria was a sturdy dark-haired woman in her mid-thirties with a torn blouse and bruised face. Three children who looked to be between ten and two were standing around her, holding onto her apron.

"Frau Deschler, please make your statement before us and your peers," Eleanor pronounced in precise German.

"I don't know what happened, Honorable Frau Jenkins." The woman's chin shook. "I was about to wring out my washed clothing when this other woman came up to me, called me a thief and began hitting me. Naturally I fought back."

"What did she accuse you of stealing?"

"A wringer I bought from an up-timer a week ago."

"Liar!" the other woman screamed. She would have attacked Maria Deschler again except the men next to her held her back.

"Enough of that." Eleanor pounded her makeshift gavel on the table. "You may step back, Frau Deschler. Ursula Mitdorff, please step forward."

The brunette in her late twenties, her hair loose from her kerchief stepped in front of the stage. Anger was visible on her blotchy face and in every step.

"Frau Mitdorff, would you explain your actions and accusation?"

" It is Fraulein Mitdorff, Honorable Frau Jenkins. I am a laundress. She stole my wringer sometime last night. There are no other wringers here at the Refugee Center. I looked for it all morning and found her with it." The younger woman pointed at the other woman. "She is a thief!"

Nancy Reardon leaned over and whispered something to Eleanor. "Yes. Fraulein Mitdorff, we have the wringer in question. Can you identify it?"

The wringer was inside a box next to Sandra Kip and not visible to the young woman. "It is a Maytag. The cover is white. It has been modified so that it has a large wooden handle." Sandra looked down and nodded.

Eleanor's face was neutral and she breathed deeply, filling her lungs. "Thank you, Fraulein. Please step back. Frau Deschler, forward. Do you have anything to add to her description?"

"No, Honorable Frau." The woman was on the verge of tears. "But I bought it."

"From whom and how much did you pay?"

"I don't know his name. It was at the market. An up-timer. He wore a brown jacket and jeans. I paid… ten dollars."

"She is a liar!" The younger woman surged forward to the "witness position." She pointed at the mother. "I looked for weeks to find a wringer. None for sale! Anywhere!"

The older woman retreated. This time Sandra Kip asked the question. "If there were none for sale, exactly how did you acquire this wringer, Fraulein Mitdorff?" Her voice was ice in the cool and now silent gym.

The younger woman's face was pinched and white showed around her tight mouth. Then she lifted her head. "I paid for it with my body. An up-timer saw me wringing out laundry. For two weeks I visited him at night. Two weeks in which he…" Tears came to her eyes and she wiped them away after clearing her throat. "I did anything he wanted. He was at least honorable enough to keep his bargain."

The faces of the three women at the table were harsh. "Frau Deschler? What have you to say?" asked Nancy Reardon. One glance at the mother and it was obvious to everyone that she'd stolen and then lied about it. She shook her head in terror.

"I only wanted to dry my children's clothes quickly. I'd seen how well her wringer worked and knew it came from an up-timer. I didn't know how she'd…" The woman buried her face in her hands, sobbing.

Eleanor nodded to Sandra who handed the object to the young woman. "Fraulein Mitdorff, please take your wringer with our apologies. Apologies for this incident and for the way you had to pay for it." The laundress gathered it to her chest and, head down, quickly left the area.

Eleanor folded her hands together on the table and shook her head. "Frau Deschler. I shall not ask your peers what German law says should be your punishment. This is Grantville." Sandra and Nancy leaned over, hands concealing their words as they spoke to Eleanor. She gave a quick nod. "Frau Deschler. For your error you will first sincerely apologize to Fraulein Mitdorff. Then you will do community service for a month. Frau Deborah Jenkins will give you your work assignments. For the rest of you, do not attempt to bother either of these women about this incident. This hearing is finished."

Frau Deschler would have left but Debbie blocked her departure until Eleanor and the others joined them. Eleanor looked her in the eye. "Frau Deschler, I hope you understand that this hearing was not a legal court. Community service assigned by Frau Jenkins is not enforceable. But if Fraulein Mitdorff and the others here see you doing it, they will not want it to go further."

Frau Deschler was trembling as she nodded. "I hope so."

Debbie gently put her hand on the woman's arm. "Why don't you introduce me to your children?"

Camping during winter in Germany is damn cold, Chad told himself. One of Dad's old mechanics had told him about being constantly exhausted while slogging through France during the winter of '44-45 but it never sunk in until now. He could have walked the two miles each way to and from home every day but the days were short. If he wanted to make sure the land didn't get trashed, he had to be on site. Besides, the weather took it out of him. An extra hour or more each way, climbing over snow-covered hills and walking on icy roads was exhausting.

Money had been tight, damn tight even without the loan and mortgage payments because over half of their renters were looking for new jobs. Chad and Debbie talked it through and told their unemployed renters that they had a one month's rent moratorium. During those months the Jenkins family's only expenditures were for food because the utility and phone billings were in shambles. Chad's biggest source of pride during those months was that he hadn't missed a dealership payroll in spite of buying gas tanks. He hadn't failed his people.

Their tax refund and the few paying rentals barely covered expenses until the rental, engine conversion and timber money began to kick in. Once all his previous renters found jobs and he filled the open rentals, he finally had net income rather than losses. Then his stomach unknotted.

In October his timber crew built two bunkhouses that could be transported to each new site. They'd also found two potbellied stoves somewhere, so the bunkhouses stayed warm at night and during winter storms.

Once the logs had been trimmed and cut to proper length, they were hauled out of the forest down to the edge of the road. From there the logs went to the sawmill.

It was a late February Friday afternoon when the crew rode the wagon filled with firewood into town. Estes Frost, the experienced logger Chad had hired as his timber-cutting boss, would pay the crew its wages after the firewood wagon was emptied at the lumberyard.

"I'm home!" Chad unwrapped his woolen scarf before taking off his now-roomy insulated jacket. He had spent the past five days at the logging camp near the edge of the Ring of Fire. Not all of the extra forty pounds had come off his six-foot frame but he had a lot more muscle. Chad always had been the type of boss who didn't mind getting his hands dirty or in this case, wielding an axe. In the woods over the past several months, his rounded salesman's face had transformed into one with chiseled features, accentuated by a neatly trimmed full beard.

After hanging up his coat, Chad turned to see his short, fair-haired wife enter the hallway. His mouth fell open in shock. "What in the world happened to you?"

A huge black and blue bruise covered Debbie's right cheek and around her eye. She gave a crooked smile. "Tried to break up a fight at the Center yesterday. Caught an elbow. Doesn't hurt. Much." She gave a short chuckle and then started laughing. "Then your mom was there and oh, my God, took charge. She, Nancy Reardon and Aunt Sandra held a mock trial right there for the two women." Debbie shook her head as if in disbelief and then grimaced.

"Had to do with a converted Maytag wringer. One woman stole it. The other woman, a laundress, had paid for it by prostituting herself for two weeks. Imagine how much fun that must have been." Debbie's lips tightened and then she spoke again. "Apparently there are absolutely no wringers for sale at any price."

Chad sighed and shook his head. "What we take for granted." Then he gave a snort of laughter. "My wife, the five-foot, hundred ten pound bouncer." He lightly stroked around her bruised cheek. "Better give your mom and sister a call before they see you at church and jump to conclusions."

Debbie's lips tightened into a pucker and went to the side of her mouth. "Yeah. Aura Lee would love to believe it. I'll tell them to check with Aunt Sandra."

"Where are the girls?"

"Missy's in her room studying and Gertrude's at a dress rehearsal for a school play. The first showing is today but we've got tickets for tomorrow. Missy's got a date tonight. Make you think of anything, big fella?" Her mouth was slightly open in a smile and she ran her tongue across her upper lip.

"Hmm. I think after a long soak in the bath and supper, I'd like nothing more than a good night's sleep. It's hard sleeping in those stacked bunks." He answered with a bland face and slightly arched eyebrows.

"Why you!" Debbie laughed and pushed the much larger Chad against the wall. "If you think for one minute that I'm going to let you get away with that, you've got another think coming."

Chad covered her shoulders with his hands, his fingertips extending to massage her upper back. He gave her a teasing smile. "How soon is dinner? If I take a nice bath but not too long, do you think Missy would notice if we just happen to be in Chip's bedroom for oh, an hour or three?"

Debbie giggled. "Oh, really? You have some of those little blue pills squirreled away? I've heard about you lumberjacks and your long straight logs. We're having beef stew and it's in the slow cooker. I was already thinking along those lines."

Before dinner and again in the evening didn't quite catch them up but there was always tomorrow, Chad thought as Debbie snuggled under his arm. An idle thought came to him. "Honey, when were wringers invented?"

Debbie opened her eyes. "What? Well, not yet. Might be in the encyclopedia. Why?"

"It occurs to me that if one laundress in Grantville is willing to

… you know… for one, then there must be one hell of a potential demand out there."

"What are you talking about, Chad Jenkins?" Debbie propped her head on one hand and looked at him in the dim light.

"We've pretty well logged out the valleys that are going to be flooded over the next few years. I'll bet I could start a company to make wringers. There have to be some in Grantville I can base one on. Sheds, barns, like that."

"I think Mom still has one back in a corner of the barn."

"Great. Now all I have to do is convince her to let me borrow it."

Debbie's mouth made a tight O. "Ooh, yeah. And she likes you so much…"

"Like hell you will, Charles Jenkins!" Vera Hudson snarled. She never used foul or abusive language but for Chad, she'd make an exception.

"Aw, come on, Vera! All I need to do is take it apart, get the measurements and tolerances. Then I'll put it back together. One of my old mechanics will do it, not me, I promise. I'll even make certain it's working properly before I bring it back." Chad looked at his diminutive mother-in-law, then back at the dust-covered wringer and washing machine in the barn. It had been built sometime in the twenties or thirties, he figured because it had a gasoline engine attached. The electric lines had come out here in… He couldn't remember, but it was well before he'd been born.

"I said no and that's final. Don't think you can get around me by talking to Willie Ray, either." While her daughter Debbie might have forgiven Chad for his affair years ago, Vera never had. Or would, Chad thought. Willie Ray was smart enough to stay out of it.

"Tell you what, I'll give you a share of all the profits. Just like you owned the patent." Chad thought desperately. Vera was being so unreasonable! It wasn't like he'd sold her a lemon at any time. Come to think of it, they'd bought from Trumble ever since the episode with Noreen.

"Do I have to go inside the house and get the twelve gauge?" Vera set her jaw.

"No, I guess not." Chad sighed. He turned away from the barn. "Tell Willie Ray I said hi." Chad started walking down the driveway to the main road. Well, as Rev. Jones said in his sermon the other day, when God closes one door, he opens another. There has to be another operable wringer somewhere in town. They couldn't have junked all of the old washers! It seemed like all the really old ones had been scrapped in metal drives during WWII.

Then he brightened. Mom would know who still had one!

Two days later he received a call. "I hear you're lookin' for an old wringer washer," the old woman's voice said. "I got one in my shed iffin' you'd come out to look at it."

An hour later, covered with cobwebs and dust, Chad finally got the wringer-washer out. It was heavy but the weight was almost all from the oak wood. It was like moving a barrel on a wooden stand with a raised arm sticking out. Not enough metal to scrap.

Carmela Matheny had to be in her eighties, he estimated. Face wrinkled, body bent over and dependent on a cane to keep from falling over. "It's exactly what I was looking for, Mrs. Matheny. How much do I owe you?" Chad reached to pull out his wallet.

"Fifty percent," she croaked. "Fifty percent of all your sales and I want it on the first of every month."

Chad grinned and put away his wallet. "Well then, ma'am. I figure this is going to take a while. If you've got tea inside the house, I'll brew some for both of us."

"No, you ain't." Carmela's response was acerbic. "Anybody makes tea, it'll be me. This way." She gestured with the tip of her cane towards the screened-in back porch. "Don't you try helping me up the steps, neither. Wouldn't let my kids do it and I ain't about to let you." She gripped the galvanized steel pipe handrail with her free hand. "I may be old but I'm still spry enough to get around. Folks think that just because you're old and crippled up with arthritis, you ought to be living in a nursing home. Humpf! My mind ain't that far gone yet."

Once in the kitchen, Carmela put some water on to boil. "Ain't seen you up close since, must be 1960. Your mama brought you to the Kennedy rally."

"Sorry, I don't remember." Sales were all about patience. And knowing when to close. "How do you know her?"

"She didn't tell you? Well, I reckon not. We're cousins. Our mamas were sisters, two of the Williams girls." The water began boiling. Carmela turned off the burner and dropped two teabags into the pan. She brought it over to the table and set it on a hot pad. "You like sugar?"

"No thanks, Mrs. Matheny. Learned to drink it without."

"Hmm. Reckon I'll have to get by with honey when this runs out." She stirred in a scant teaspoon of sugar from the pink plastic container. "Bet you never heard of the Williams girls neither, have you? Thought not. There was five girls. Anna, Bethany, Charity, Deborah and Esther. No brothers, so that was the last of that line. There's some Williams around but they ain't no relation. The Williams girls are why you're related to 'most everybody in town."

"Anna now, she was the oldest. She married Harold Stearns, that's Mike Stearns' great-grandpa. My mama was Bethany and she married an Atkins. Charity married Joshua Reardon, Phil Reardon's pa, but she died before they had any kids so he married Nina Curtis, as I recall. Deborah married William Hudson, Willie Ray's uncle and Esther, the baby, married Joe Newton, your grandpa. They're all gone now. Folks always joke about how West Virginians always marry kinfolk. In your case, it was hard not to."

"That's interesting." Chad set his cup down. "Mom probably has it all down in her genealogy records but I never took much of an interest."

"Well, you should. Talking about your mama, she used to be the wild one. Took after her fiddlin' papa, I expect. My little brother, Tommy, and her used to run around together." She stopped, coughed and dabbed at her eyes with a dish towel. "Tommy never got off Omaha Beach." She sniffed and wiped her eyes again. A moment later she cleared her throat and resumed. "She always swore she'd never get tied down by any man. I figured some boy would change her mind after the war. Course, your ma went from being a wild girl to as straight-backed and upright a woman as you can find after she married your pa. Reckon having a kid right off the bat can make some real changes in you." There was a knowing look in her pale blue eyes. Yeah, she'd counted the months.

"Oh, just to give you fair warning, Grandpa Williams was a horse-trader. I used to go around with him when I was a girl. I ain't going to be as easy a touch as that lumber yard boy, even if you are kin."

"You gave her how much?" Debbie's eyes were wide with amazement.

"Twenty percent of the profits," Chad answered glumly. "How she got me to agree to that number is beyond me. It was like she could read my mind every time I made a counter-offer. At the end, I thought I was doing well to hold her down to that number. Her husband probably never had a chance against her in an argument."

"What did she give you other than the wringer-washer?"

"Well, she said she thought she might have an older one her mom used around somewhere. That and some other things she brought in from the farm after her mom died. She said she'd look a bit and I should come out to help her do it. I think she just wants me to clean out the shed behind her house."

"Wouldn't surprise me." Then Debbie gave him a crooked smile. "Bet you could have gotten a better deal from Ursula Mitdorff."

Chad smacked his forehead. "Arrgh! Totally forgot about her. Damn!" He shook his head. "But I did learn you and I are kissing cousins. And we're related to the Stearns and the Mathenys as well. Almost to the Reardons. Huh! Mike Stearns and me. Who woulda thunk?"

"Well, it does explain why neither you or Mike gets the better of the other in making a deal. So how long do you have to pay that royalty?"

Chad sighed. "To her, until she dies. After that, I pay it into a trust that gives half to help support her daughter-in-law until she dies. Sylvia's got M.S. From then on it's split between her grandkids. The other half will go to support war orphans during their education. It stops twenty years after the war's over. She says she'll have it written up by tomorrow and I'll take it to a lawyer. I can live with it."

Two wooden rollers. Six gears. Spacers. All on the workbench in the service garage. Along with four bearings, several pieces of wood, housings for each side to hold the gears and bearings, a bent iron bar used as a spring and a long iron arm with a wooden handle.

"What do you think?" Chad asked his former lead mechanic. Bob Szymanski now had a nice little nest egg from the natural gas conversions and was gainfully employed by the Mechanical Support group.

"No problem to assemble them," Bob answered. "In fact, it's dead easy. Your problem's going to be getting the gears, spacers and the iron bar. Forget bearings, they're impossible for years. The rollers, distance separation and handle can all be made of hickory or another tough wood but the gears? For that you're going to need some machining. You might be able to make cast gears out of iron, one by one. Then cut the cogs with a file and match them up with the other cogs on the other gears." Bob rubbed his forehead with his palm. "I sure wouldn't want to, though. The down-time blacksmiths are supposed to be pretty good. You might give them a try."

"Thanks, Bob. Could we, I don't know, stamp them out?"

"Me? Nope. Anything I could stamp would bend every which way. But I'll bet a down-time blacksmith could hot stamp your gears out of cast iron. He'd finish them with a file until they're just right. If it was a master blacksmith, all he'd really need is to see how the thing works and he'd be ready to go to town."

"That's what I'm afraid of." Chad gloomily chewed on the corner of his lower lip. "I want him to be making them for me, not himself."

"Aw, come on, Chad, lighten up." Bob grinned. "You never made cars, did you? Your job's always been to sell the product, not make or fix it. Give him a share of the biz and that'd get you past all the guild problems at the same time."

Chad smiled as what Bob said sunk in. A broad grin spread across his face. "By George, I think you've got it! Now what I need to do is get some well-seasoned hickory and oak. Then find a good blacksmith. I don't really want to get him from Rudolstadt. The Count's just a little too sharp as far as I'm concerned and might start asking questions. I'll check with the refugee center to see if there's a blacksmith who hasn't gotten gobbled up by USE Steel and isn't already too busy. If not, Chip will know if there's a master or journeyman blacksmith in Jena who lost his forge because his town got destroyed. All he'll need is metal. I think we can scrounge some from USE Steel. They're talking tons. We won't need much, at least not in the beginning. Probably never."

"Dad, I've got the perfect guy for you. I asked a blacksmith here in town who would be willing to relocate. He suggested Ulrich Dauer. The guy's an absolute genius. I watched him do things with iron you wouldn't believe. Trouble is, he knows it. Absolutely zero people skills and is an insufferable ass, which is why he hasn't been accepted by the local guild. Lost his wife and later his forge when his town was destroyed. He's got an apprentice he abuses and travels to work in nearby small towns like Cosberg or for minor nobility. They won't let him set up a forge in Jena.

"One thing you should know. This guy's an absolute suck-up to nobility. Worse than some Americans I could mention. Joachim talked with him. Told him you had even more money and land than his father, which may even be true. Anyway, he talked to me like I was the Emperor's son.

"Let me know if you want me to discuss a deal with him. Regards, Chip"

Chad refolded the letter and smiled. Not only an insufferable ass but was also desperate to associate with nobility? Piece of cake.

"Honey, I'm going to be hiring a blacksmith for the wringer business and I want to impress him, like we were nobility. A 'von Grantville' evening. So the best china along with the kind of meal only you can prepare. I want Mom, Missy and Gertrude to dine with us as well."

Debbie looked at him warily. "Do you want us to go formal, too? The dress I wore to the national sales awards dinner fits better than it did then. I'll talk with your mom."

"Great. The girls, well, as good as we can get them. Can't have you seen in the kitchen, so we'll…"

"Let me handle it, dear. You just worry about where to put him up."

"Herr Dauer?" The short, strongly-built older man with a mustache looked towards the speaker. Chad had gotten Veit Kruger, one of Gertrude's teenage German admirers to meet the smith. At the look from Dauer, Veit went on. "Herr Jenkins has arranged for you to stay in a private house with your apprentice." The sturdy adolescent apprentice was struggling with the smith's heavy work chest.

"If you will follow me? It is a short walk." Veit gestured to a small house two blocks away. "Herr Jenkins has provided what is called a 'dolly' to transport your chest." Veit pushed the dolly toward the apprentice. "Your apprentice can follow us."

Once inside the small two-bedroom house, Veit demonstrated how to turn the lights on and off as well as the toilet, sink and shower. "There is a kitchen here but no cook or maid. This was the home of a widow who died recently. Do not insert anything inside or allow water to enter these small double slots you see here." Veit pointed at the electrical outlet. "They can be most dangerous if not understood. If you accept Herr Jenkins offer, they will be explained at a time convenient to you."

"When will I meet Herr Jenkins?" Dauer's voice was stiff.

"I will come for you an hour after sundown. You will be dining with the family of Herr Jenkins, a great honor." Veit had been coached to answer that way.

"Good evening, Herr Dauer. So good to meet you." Chad welcomed him broadly. He'd decided to wear a navy pin-striped suit, brilliant red silk tie and an oxford blue buttoned-down shirt.

"I am happy to meet you, Herr von Grantville." Dauer began formally but stopped when he saw Chad lift his hand.

"There is no 'von Grantville.' Just Herr Jenkins. It is not our custom," Chad said mildly. "Will you join me for a sherry?"

"Thank you, Herr… Jenkins." Dauer took a small glass of sherry.

" Prost. " Chad toasted Dauer. One sip down, he continued, "Every now and then I insist my entire family dine together formally. I hope you don't mind."

"Oh, no, sir." Dauer was intimidated by Chad's easy familiarity and was uncomfortable wearing his best clothing. Dauer usually wore a heavy leather apron, leather trousers and a sleeveless linen shirt when he worked. Even so, he would never be willing to forego this opportunity.

"My son says you are a genius in iron, which is why I asked you to come to Grantville. I have a need for some iron to be cast and worked, really something I think would be elementary for someone of your skills. We will discuss it further after dinner." Chad ended his comments when Debbie came toward them.

Debbie was wearing a scalloped-neck, electric blue gown which fell to just above her shoes. "Good evening, dear." She took Chad's hand. "Will you introduce us?"

"Herr Ulrich Dauer, this is my wife, Frau Deborah Jenkins. Deborah, this is Herr Dauer, the master smith I told you about. A glass of sherry?"

Debbie smiled. "Thank you. I believe I will."

Ten minutes after Chad been expecting them, the girls came downstairs. "This is my daughter, Fraulein Melissa Jenkins and our houseguest, Fraulein Gertrude Wiegert who is continuing her studies in Grantville. She's originally from the Palatinate but the war… well, you understand. Her younger brother and older sister are currently living in Jena. I believe you've met her sister's favored suitor, Joachim von Thierbach."

Both girls were graceful in their dresses. Missy's was patterned on her mother's dress. Gertrude's was based on one worn by the daughter of Duke Johann Philipp of Saxe-Altenburg. Sewing machines and the proper materials in the hands of some of the older women in town could work wonders.

A few minutes later, Chad's mother, in a fashionable dark green suit, came into the room. "Sorry I'm late. I hope you'll accept my apologies." She smiled at Dauer and took her seat.

Debbie selected a Vivaldi CD for their dinner music. It would be followed by Pachebel and Bach. Dinner itself began with a white wine and green salad with shredded carrots in a vinaigrette dressing. Afterwards a bottle of merlot, some of the last in their cellar, was brought in. Chad poured the wine shortly before the sliced roast beef, baked potatoes and steamed green beans with the last of their slivered almonds were put on the table. Debbie had been in the kitchen all afternoon, much to the dismay of the German cook they'd hired for the evening. Then Debbie had gotten another woman from the refugee center to help their maid, Christina, serve the food.

Dauer, of course knew none of this. He watched as Chad and Debbie left their salad forks on the salad plate. Then how they used the dinner fork and knife for the rest of the meal. He knew of the potato but had never imagined that it would be eaten by humans at any time, unless in extremity. Upon tasting it, he found it to be, well, edible but rather bland, even with butter, salt and pepper.

All the while, Chad, Debbie and Chad's mother kept up a spirited conversation about the current political situation, business and music. They frequently asked Dauer his opinions based on his being native to these times. Also about his experiences traveling around the region. He easily recognized the primacy Herr Jenkins' mother had over the family, quite unlike his own grandmother. What threw him off the most was the easy familiarity Missy and Gertrude had, conversing with everyone including the grandmother. In all, Dauer was amazed by the high level of discussion and the total absence of gossip.

Then Missy asked, "How does your apprentice feel about coming to Grantville?"

"I don't discuss such matters with him, Fraulein Jenkins," Dauer responded. He was about to go farther but saw Chad's stillness and direct look. Not to Missy's question but to his answer.

A moment later, the creme brulee was brought in. Smiles burst on Missy and Gertrude's faces as the bowls were placed before them. The creamy custard topped with a thin layer of sugar caramelized under the broiler was a rare treat.

"One of my favorite desserts but harder to make now that sugar is more expensive than I care to pay," Chad commented. His spoon cracked through the thin crust into the custard.

"It's exquisite," Dauer burst out. "Cream I've had, even flavored creams but never prepared in such a fashion. I've had sugar, of course, but I've never seen it melted and used as a crust."

"Our standard dessert at supper would have been ice cream, possibly with some fruit." Debbie smiled. "The fruit was often shipped in from thousands of miles away during the winter. We would get both the fruit and the flavored ice cream from a local market. We stored it chilled or frozen here in our home. All too soon the machine we use to keep it cold could break. We'll have to reinvent a method to keep things frozen some time in the future."

"Amazing." Dauer's mind circled. "To be able to put inventions on a time schedule. I used to make regular experiments but I lost my notebooks when my home was destroyed by raiders. I lost all my wealth at the same time. I… haven't experimented since my wife died in childbirth."

The entire Jenkins clan looked at him with sympathy. Chad spoke first. "I don't know that experimentation will be necessary for what I want. But it seems to me you might want to start replicating your experiments."

Dauer nodded.

After dinner Dauer accepted the chair Chad offered in his home office. "An amazing family you have, Herr Jenkins. I never imagined women could be so intelligent."

"They're gifted with as many brains as men are, perhaps even more." Chad gave a faint smile. "The difference you've seen is that the women in my family are allowed to grow in knowledge. Kinder, Kirche und Kueche are all very well, but not overriding. My wife and mother attended universities. One theory is that more educated mothers have more intelligent daughters. Personally, I don't think it's in the blood. If the child sees her mother doing intelligent things, she is encouraged to do intelligent things herself. If you had the opportunity to observe my son with women, I think you saw he does not dismiss them as mindless idiots.

"Likewise, I make the blanket assumption that everyone can learn. Some actually cannot learn due to limitations of their minds, some are only able to reason to a certain extent, but the rest try to live up to my expectations. I've been disappointed but not all that often. The reason I bring this up is because of your attitude towards your apprentice."

"What about him, Herr Jenkins?" Dauer looked stubborn. "His parents paid me money to train him and I'm training him. He is learning, even if I have to use the stick on him regularly."

"That's just the problem." Chad gestured widely. "Long before my time we found that while you can make a donkey go forward with a stick, once you stop hitting him, he stops moving or moves slowly. On the other hand, if you encourage him, praise him when he actually accomplishes something, he will want to keep moving faster and faster. Those are the classic carrot and stick approaches to education."

"Herr Jenkins! I have tried and tried to do that but he is like your donkey. I have to get his attention. My master beat me regularly until I spotted him making a mistake one day. I didn't tell him and the iron was ruined. I kept the pleasure of that knowledge in my heart. I then began to find out how much more I could learn that my master did not know or was doing wrong. Unknown to him, I began my experiments. I became a journeyman easily and then a master. Unfortunately, I found that I was still working with fools like my old master."

"I understand, Herr Dauer. It is difficult, so difficult, not to have excessive pride in your greater knowledge, isn't it? Life was good when you were in your own town where the people recognized your worth. But then in Jena? You only irritated them. Of course they knew your skills but if someone continually berates you as a fool, do you allow him into your own house?"

"I suppose I wouldn't, Herr Jenkins. But still…"

"No buts. Fortunately you're here in Grantville where the local blacksmiths cannot reject you. On the other hand, if you are to work with my people, I insist that you treat them with as much respect as they give you. They will not know as much as you do about iron but I guarantee the American workers will know scientific facts you never imagined. You know something, they know something. I also insist that you treat all German workers with respect, including your apprentice."

"You can't make me do that." Dauer's chin was lifted in bitter refusal and he glared at Chad. "He's my apprentice and I'll treat him as I see fit!"

"All right then, so be it." Chad shrugged and flipped his hand sideways. "The coach leaves for Jena tomorrow morning at ten. Be on it." He couldn't enforce it but Dauer didn't know that. He did know nobles who could and would.

"You would throw me out of Grantville because I will not relinquish control over my apprentice?" Dauer gasped in shock.

"No. Because you are refusing to change!" Chad slapped his desktop. "You're refusing to even try! That's why! I have no use for someone who will not try. If Galileo Galilei was in my employ, I would dismiss him for the same reason. He may be a great scientist but I would not use him."

Dauer was aghast. Herr Jenkins would dismiss Galileo? How much brighter a star was Galileo than Dauer himself? It never occurred to him that… "It is that important?"

"My son and I have at least one thing in common." Chad spoke in earnest, his eyes boring directly into Dauer's. "The true worth of an individual is not based on his wealth or position. It is based on his heart and a willing mind. Of course there will be those who will attempt to deceive you. There will be those who cannot or refuse to learn. Let someone else worry about them. But most, most will try to learn.

"Explain in an orderly fashion to your apprentice why certain things happen. USE Steel can help with the chemistry aspect. I personally know very little about iron but let me show you something."

Chad lifted an old technical manual from the shelf behind him and put it on the desk in front of Dauer. He opened it to a page showing an exploded view of a carburetor. "See that?" Chad tapped the picture. "My father trained me how to take apart and put together that type of machine when I was younger than Albert. I had no idea how to make any of the parts but I knew how to put them together properly because he taught me their order."

Dauer was fascinated by the incredibly detailed drawing. "So many individual parts."

"That's nothing." Chad flipped the pages to one showing an automobile engine. "There are hundreds of parts in that, all made to a precision measured in hundredths of an inch. Thousands of people shared their knowledge and experience over less than a hundred years in order to build this. For one type of machine which had ten or more competitors. Do you understand?"

"I will have to think about this, Herr Jenkins." Dauer was apologetic. "I am willing to learn. I always have been. It's just that it's hard to change."

Chad closed the front door behind Dauer and gave a huge sigh of relief. He cupped his hand over his mouth to sound like a PA system. "His Most Serene, Glorious and Puissant von Grantville has left the building." Chad draped his suit jacket over the back of a chair, unbuttoned his collar and whipped off his tie.

Missy laughed as Chad sat down on the living room couch. "Dad, I knew it was going to be a 'von Grantville evening' but I hardly expected you to give him the whole 'von Grantville treatment.' I mean, we could hear you pounding your desk."

"Was all that necessary?" his mother asked.

Chad grimaced and rubbed his palm across his right cheek. "Unfortunately, yes. I hate being that forceful. Chip wrote that he was abusive to his apprentice. I had to shut down that kind of behavior immediately. Might be allowable in any other part of Germany but I don't need anyone I'm doing business with getting arrested for assault and battery. The smiths in town probably wouldn't think of mentioning it."

"It occurs to me you were as arrogant as him," observed Eleanor.

"Yeah. But I have to psych myself up for it. I figure he's been working on it since he was an undersized kid in grade school. I'll bet he was apprenticed to a smith because the smith was the strongest man in his town. Might be a hell of a scrapper."

"Have some coffee." Debbie brought him a steaming mug. Cream and honey, the way he begun drinking it after the new coffee began arriving. She sat down next to him after he took his first sip. He put his arm over her shoulder. "So how did it go?"

"Good. Good. I've got him thinking along the lines I wanted. I'll close the sale tomorrow. Have to make it quick or he'll find just how much work he can get without me, even not having his own forge. Right now he's willing to change because he wants this job so bad he can taste it. He'll be unhappy once he finds how I conned him but he's smart enough to get over it fast. If nothing else, all his fellow smiths are doubling up or more in rooms while he has a whole up-time house to himself and his apprentice. That's genuine prestige these days."

"This is a sale?" Gertrude asked. Since Gretchen brought the attractive teen to Grantville from Jena last October, she'd become a member of the Jenkins family.

"Sale, agreement, contract. Whatever. In the car business, ninety percent of the time I only had one shot to make the sale. So I initially showed Dauer respect in front of all of you and the comforts available here. I'll bet he noticed every single one, from the music to the silverware. By the way, wonderful, just the perfect dinner, dear." Chad gave her small shoulder a squeeze and kissed the top of her head. "Then in private I had to get certain issues blasted through his arrogance."

Missy nodded emphatically. "Yeah, that bit about 'Oh, I never ask my apprentice for his opinion' got to me. I couldn't believe it. I mean, Mom would never teach kids like that. Right, Mom?"

Debbie started chuckling and then burst out laughing, joined by Chad. "No," she finally admitted, wiping tears from her eyes. "But there have been times. Oh, there have been times when I wished I could. Including you and Chip."

"Excuse me, but I don't see what was unusual in Dad's treatment of Herr Dauer," confessed Gertrude. "Dad's far more lenient and generous than any freiherr would have been towards even a master smith coming to work for him. I doubt Herr Dauer has eaten with any freiherr's family. He is a craftsman, they are noble. It just doesn't happen. Like you had Veit tell him, it's a great honor."

"True," Eleanor said. "But remember we're not like the rest of Germany. Chad, how many times have you had your salespeople or mechanics over for dinner?"

Chad wrinkled his brow in thought for a moment. "Here? Maybe a dozen times, mostly Christmas parties when times were lean. Normally we had them at Toothman's Restaurant in Farmington. We did have that party for Bob Szymanski so he could propose to Darlene." Chad snickered. "Then she almost swallowed the engagement ring he planted in her piece of cake. Most of our parties are for people from the church or the Lions."

Debbie looked at the mantle clock. "It's almost eight, girls. If you've got your homework done, you can watch TV. After you've changed out of those clothes."

Eleanor was frowning.

"What's the matter, Mom?" Chad asked.

"Just thinking. Perhaps you're taking this 'von Grantville' thing too far."

Chad gave a slight shake of his head. "I don't think so. I spent months in the woods with the timber cutters. While Estes Frost and the other up-timers all called me Chad, most of the down-timers still called me Herr Jenkins. This is after I was swinging an axe, eating the same food, sleeping in the same bunkhouse and going to town only a little more often than they did. I think the down-timer loggers thought I was like one of those eccentric English gentlemen and had a screw loose.

"Dauer's one of the few who ever called me 'von Grantville' and I stopped that right away. Once this contract is in place, I'm going to insist on Chad and Ulrich. Saying Herr all the time is boring. I admit I'm not as egalitarian as some people would like but as long as I've got you and Debbie standing next to me with sledgehammers, I don't think it's going to be a problem."

"Sledgehammers, huh!" Debbie snorted. "That's not at all lady-like. We ladies use hat-pins. Three inches long. You still have some around, don't you, Mom?"

Ulrich Dauer didn't get much sleep that night. Early the next morning he knocked on Chad's door. "Herr Jenkins, I will do as you wish on one condition. That I be allowed to learn what those men at USE Steel know."

Dauer and his apprentice, Albert, watched as Chad demonstrated the wringer later that morning. Then as he disassembled it onto the workbench. Dauer looked at the few parts and his forehead twisted, mystified. "I can hardly believe you brought me here to make these parts. They're child's play."

"I know. But I'm going to need hundreds of them. I think it's journeyman or senior apprentice work except for this." He picked up a bearing and holding the center, spun the outer portion. "The machine has four of these. See the tiny shiny parts in there? Each one is a metal ball called a bearing. They make the entire assembly roll smoothly."

"How are they made?"

"Frankly, I don't know. There were a number of them used in automobiles and they were not made around here. Don't even try. What I need you to do is to figure a way to duplicate their function in the machine. Or not. But it has to roll smoothly."

"Ahh," Dauer breathed with a smile. "A challenge." Then he gave an assured shrug. "It shouldn't take long. What will take much longer will be to set up my forge. First of all, I will need a building, one safe from prying eyes. I will also need additional tools. Given time, I can create most of them. The only tools I have are what are in my chest. It's too unsafe and expensive for me to keep a horse and wagon."

"Hmm, let's look at what's here in the service garage's back room." Chad unlocked the door. "I let the Mechanical Support group have all the highly technical stuff but I've still got a lot of my father's tools. There's something I'll bet you don't have in your chest," he muttered, pointing out a large anvil. "I've got a lot of old measuring stuff. Calipers and the like. They're covered with grease and grime but will still work. You'll probably need a big vise as well. Take anything you find here. My father used all this stuff at one time."

Dauer was disturbed. "Herr Jenkins, you mean, he actually worked with his hands? But how…?"

Chad looked over at him with a gentle smile. "Herr Dauer, you will find that all the Americans in this town either worked with their hands or had a job that required daily activity. We had no idle elite. My father repaired engines, like the ones I showed you last night. He required that I learn how to repair them as well. I wasn't very good, mostly because I didn't want to be. My skills were those of a tradesman, selling the completed self-propelled carriages, like those pictures I showed you before you left last night. With my profits, I purchased land."

"But I thought you were a…"

"A noble? In our time, we had no one who could be considered the equivalent of a noble, at least not living around here. I just happen to own more land and houses than anyone in Grantville. There were definitely none in our country who combined the land ownership and political power the nobles have here. Huh! Think about it, Herr Dauer. Would you rather have a noble who behaves like a criminal or a tradesman who behaves nobly? Now let's see what else we have."

Dauer couldn't believe it. He'd just had dinner with Herr Jenkins' family last night in an atmosphere of nobility, at least his ideal of nobility, the type he'd always wished to be accepted by. Music, good food, intelligent conversation and most of all, people who were interested in what he had to say.

"Herr Dauer? The drill press? I know it's old but it's electric powered and I have the metal cutting drill bits, taps and dies. You're welcome to use them."

"Uh, Herr Jenkins," Dauer gave an embarrassed chuckle, "I think I can figure out the drill press does but what are taps and dies? Are they something for a farrier?"

"Farrier?"

"Yes, the smith for horses, to shoe them." Dauer mimed bending over and tacking in a horseshoe.

Chad laughed. "Oh, no. No farrier work was ever done here. But now that you mention it, Grandpa Jenkins may have done some. Dad just never threw tools away. I moved everything that he had to this location when I bought the self-propelled carriage shop. The taps and dies are to, well, I'll show you later. We'll have to find a location for your forge, this place won't do at all." Chad paused to think a moment. "I've got it! There's an old brick building just outside town, built at least a century ago. It's where my Grandpa Jenkins had his first garage. Who knows, it might have originally been a stable or farrier shop."

Dauer reread the contract he and Chad had signed. The final paragraph required that his apprentice, one Albert Gunther Steinmetz, age thirteen, further his education by attending school in Grantville. That paragraph floored Ulrich when he first read it.

"But his education is complete except for his apprenticeship! I will need him in the shop to assist me."

"Complete?" Chad was sarcastic. "How much does he know about chemistry? Biology? General Sciences? Mathematics? Geometry? Physics? Can he speak, read and write fluent English? While you might not need these, I assure you, he will. There will be no charge to you for his education. He will be getting out of school every afternoon and will assist you then. In the evenings he can do his studies. Besides, he's required to go to school until he turns sixteen. That's the law here."

"Well, why didn't you say so to begin with?" Dauer was explosive then checked it when he saw Chad's silent glare.

Chad waited, deliberately staring at Dauer until he saw his eyes look away thirty seconds later. His voice was soft as he tapped his finger on the line in the document. "I do not want Albert thinking that the only reason he is attending school is because the government requires it. I want him to believe you insisted on it and I agreed. Do you understand why?"

Dauer glared at him. He could always get another apprentice but a position like this, working for Herr Jenkins in Grantville? Unlikely. In fact, unique. Having accepted that fact, he nodded. "All right. I agree." He surrendered grudgingly. "No wonder you made enough money to buy as much land as you have," he grumbled. Then his lips lifted in a smile.

Chad grinned. "There's only one man in Grantville I could never better in a trade. Fortunately, he's not a tradesman. Now let's go see Chuck Riddle and make this all legal."

Chad watched fascinated as Dauer hammered another piece of iron into shape and quenched it. He could see how it was done but damned if he would ever have the desire to do it himself. Of course, there were people who hated selling.

It'd been a month since Dauer arrived in Grantville. It took only a week before he was using most of the metal-working tools that were in the service center on a daily basis. When Dauer visited USE Steel and walked around town, he ran into a few smiths he'd known. To his surprise all were willing to tell him anything he needed to know about iron and steel. Especially after he mentioned he was working primarily for Herr Jenkins and wouldn't be much competition. A couple of journeymen smiths even hinted that when he needed some additional help, they were looking for opportunities.

Chad already had dozens of rollers and frames ready for assembly but hadn't thought of a proper name to put onto the top frame of the wringer. Dauer looked over at him, his face protected by a clear heavy plastic face shield. "Oh, hello, Chad. What brings you over here?"

Much to the relief of both, they'd dropped formality the day after they'd signed the contract. Ulrich and Albert had supper with Chad's family one day a week at Chad's heavy suggestion, usually Sunday dinner, to "accustom themselves to American ways." In Chad's opinion it also kept the girls civilized. Bringing Albert out of his shell around girls was another benefit.

"Ulrich, what would be a good German name for the wringer assembly?"

Dauer shrugged, sweat dripping on his shoulders. "Doesn't matter to me. Name it whatever you think best. Maybe the Cheerful Maid or the Laughing Laundress."

"The Laughing Laundress it is. How soon will Albert be back from school?"

"About an hour. I need him for the bellows on the charcoal to make it just right. It's much easier to work iron when he's here."

"Hadn't thought of that," Chad admitted. "Would you like to join me for dinner with the Lions Club tomorrow evening?"

"What's a Lions Club?"

"It's an organization, active all over the world, well, was. It's committed to solving health and social problems by accomplishing more as a group than as individuals. I'm a past president of this chapter. It's also the reason I put that clause about eye protection in the contract. Our biggest programs have to do with sight, including eyeglasses and testing for vision problems. We meet two evenings a month, have dinner and usually a speaker. This week it's Len Trout, the principal of the high school. I thought you might be interested because Albert will be attending school there."

"Why does he speak to you rather than you visiting him?"

"It's good business to get out and meet people he usually wouldn't come into contact with. Most of our speakers enjoy spreading their point of view to groups of people in the community. It's one way of gathering support for whatever their position is. A lot of our members are also members of the Chamber of Commerce but a lot aren't.

"Since the Ring of Fire we've had Mike Stearns, John Simpson, Rebecca Abrabanel, Frank Jackson and Greg Ferrera speak. We're planning on waiting until our German gets much better to invite the Count of Schwarzburg-Rudolstadt and King Gustavus Adolphus." Chad kept his face straight.

Dauer's eyes goggled. "The king? He would come to talk to you?"

Chad burst into a laugh. "Probably not, now that you mention it. Well, unless he makes a visit to Grantville which seems unlikely."

A moment later, Dauer assembled the pieces of the new wringer together once again. He clamped it to the standing frame and turned the crank. It turned smoothly. "Not bad, eh?" Dauer grinned. "You just have to lubricate the gears before you use it every day."

"Ulrich," Chad declared, "You're a miracle worker."

"Chad, can I talk with you for a minute?" Clarence Dobbs, a wiry, intense man was nervous. Ulrich Dauer stood behind him, clearly interested.

Chad was inventorying the load of completed wringers while they were being loaded onto the wagon. "Sure." Clarence did all the plumbing, heating, ventilation and air conditioning repairs for Chad's rentals as well as his own home. "What can I do for you?"

"Well, uh, I talked with Ulrich Dauer here and, uh, he said to talk with you. Well, what I want to do is branch out. The old HVAC business is going to go bye-bye in the next few years. Real air conditioning repair's about gone. Now it's mostly maintenance and well, I want to start making old-fashioned cast-iron stoves. Ulrich says that he can easily cast the parts. Even make the molds. What I really need is money. I'd druther borrow it from you than the bank or the Abrabanels."

Clarence was normally self-assured and knowledgeable about every aspect of his business. His nervousness bothered Chad. "If you don't mind my asking, why me rather than the bank?"

Clarence looked apprehensive and rubbed the side of his jaw. "Well, it's just that I, uh, had some credit problems recently, what with it being a family business. Not being able to, you know, work like before. But I'm good for the money. It's just that uh, well, I'm damn near broke, what with not being able to get parts and refrigerant."

Chad eyed the man he'd known for years. "I'll have to think about it. What kind of accounting system do you use?"

"Bonnie, my wife, handles all that." Clarence seemed uneasy about that fact. "She suggested the whole idea to me. Said she remembered her grandparents' old cook stove with the water reservoir on the side."

"Uh-huh. Are you computerized or do you do account books?"

"Well, Bonnie tried using a computer but she and it didn't get along. So she went back to the tried-and-true pencil and paper along with a calculator."

"Okay." Chad sighed. "I'll need to look at your books before I loan you any money. Right now I've got a lot tied up in these wringers. Tomorrow I'm going to run up to Jena to sell the first batch. I'll look at your books when I come back. That all right with you, Clarence?"

"Oh, yeah, sure." A relieved smile came to Clarence's face, reverting to his normal behavior. "That'd be great!"

"All right, I'll talk with you then." Chad smiled and shook Clarence's hand.

A moment later Clarence was gone but Ulrich stayed. "What do you think, Ulrich?" Chad cocked his head towards his partner.

Ulrich shrugged. "I saw some pictures. Herr Dobbs says he can get me a stove to use as my model. I can cast the iron. The stovepipe will be more difficult but can replaced with round brick tile, like a very narrow chimney. Any tile maker can do it, I think."

He hesitated. "Herr Jenkins, could I… put money with you to loan, maybe invest for things like this?"

That puzzled Chad. Ulrich only had a few talers when he came to town. As far as Chad knew, he was spending almost as much as he brought in. "How much were you thinking about investing?"

Ulrich licked lips that were still close together. "It's a lot. But not right here. I'd have to go get it. It's in my home town. I hid it. After the town was raided. I couldn't bring it with me."

Chad's mind was on his cargo. "Sure. No problem. More money now means more money in the future. I'll go with you and we can pick it up after I get back."

Ulrich gave a relieved sigh. "Thanks, Chad. You won't be sorry."

The half-day trip to Jena in the hired wagon gave Chad plenty of time to outline the sales pitch. Chip had arranged for a pitch woman and assured him that there would be plenty of women who'd like to see the wringer demonstrated today. All of them had admired an early version of the wringer located in the Committee of Correspondence laundry or had other reasons to be contacted.

"Herr Jenkins, I don't know if I could stand up in front of people and sell anything." Maria Schreiber, the stocky laundress was almost trembling. Mathilde Wiegert, Gertrude's sister, had suggested Maria to demonstrate the ease of the new wringer.

Chad gave her a gentle smile. She wasn't the first salesperson he'd broken in. "First of all, Maria, each and every person you'll be showing the product to will be there because they know about the wringer at the laundry. They want to know if it's as easy as they've heard. Second, you've been using the wringer. You've experienced how much easier this one is. In fact, I'm giving this one to the laundry for your assistance."

"B, but…"

"Relax. We've gone over what you're supposed to say a few times already. Mathilde and I will be watching so if you have any problems, we can suggest things as part of the audience. Does that sound better? You'll be much better at this than I could ever be because you're someone like them." Chad wasn't certain Maria would work out, but Mathilde insisted she was normally outgoing, so this could work. He was fairly certain that her lack of confidence originated from a previous occupation. Now she'd be up in front of several "good" women. But he wasn't going to bring up the subject.

"Come in, please. Have a seat on the bench." Maria was nervously rubbing her hands together at the front of the room. Chad and Mathilde were in the rear of the room Chip had arranged near the bathhouse and laundry. All the women in the room were laundresses or maids in town.

"Good afternoon. My name is Maria Schreiber. I am here to demonstrate the Laughing Laundress wringer." Chad winced. She'd blurted it out in one breath. "I, I have two shirts in the water bucket here." She nervously pulled a linen shirt out with each shaking hand. "Uh, who is exceptionally good at wringing shirts?" There was no response. The thirty or so women looked impassively at her.

"Uh, all right, uh, well, I'll wring the first shirt over this empty bucket." Maria dropped both shirts back into the water. She drew out one shirt and began to wring it by hand. A cascade of water poured out of the shirt into the bucket. The longer she twisted it, water still came out. It gradually became less and less the more she twisted. Finally she stopped. "Is there anyone who thinks she can get more water out of this?" Again no response.

She put the shirt on the table. Then she moved over to where the wringer was on a stand above an empty bucket. "I will now demonstrate the Laughing Laundress wringer." She saw Chad making notes on a piece of paper and became even more nervous. Would he simply stop the demonstration before she messed it up too badly? But Chad looked up, smiled and nodded so she went on.

"Again, I'll take a shirt directly from the bucket. Then folding it so that any buttons are flat on the inside, I will insert the collar between the rollers." She was more confident now. "I'll hold it there until it is caught by the rollers." She gave the handle a partial turn and remembering, abruptly faced her audience. "Watch how the water pours into the bucket." She began turning the handle. Water poured out of the shirt, onto the bottom wringer, onto a thin downward-slanting board and into the bucket.

"Now how many of you think this is dry enough to hang on the line?" Maria walked over to the first bench. She handed the shirt to first woman in the row, an older woman whose grim look and reddened hands indicated she was a laundress rather than a maid. The woman expertly flipped it out, felt it for moisture. "I've hung up some that were not as dry." Then she handed it to the next woman.

"So this would be dry enough for any of you?" The women silently nodded.

"Well, I don't think it's dry enough. I've been using an early version of the wringer at the laundry next door since the last fever. I always got my clothes drier than this. Now watch." Maria took the shirt back and made an adjustment to the rollers. She put in the collar of the shirt again and began turning the handle. It was no cascade but a steady thin stream of water fell into the bucket.

Maria gripped the shirt by the collar. She flapped it, opening the entire shirt and smiled. "Now see how dry it is? How much is it worth to you to have a shirt, dress or apron almost dry without wearing yourself out before you hang it to dry? Not only that but putting it through the wringer does not twist apart the fabric. I warn you, the Laughing Laundress wringer is not cheap but you will be able to double, triple the amount of laundry you do. How? First, your arms don't get nearly as tired. Second, the clothing will dry much faster. Your customers or the mistress of the house will appreciate how clothing lasts longer because you won't be twisting it, breaking its threads bit by bit. Well?"

From the back of the room Mathilde called, "Hanna, try it for yourself."

Hanna, the woman to whom Maria had first given the shirt stood up slowly and walked over to the wringer. She took a shirt from the bucket and leaned forward. As she began to crank she ignored her hair on as it came unpinned. Until suddenly she cried out. "Awk! My hair's caught! I don't want my hair chopped off!" She began struggling, squawking as her hair pulled, caught in the wringer. Chad stepped forward and then stopped. He stepped back, leaned against the wall again and made another note.

"Stop. Don't move." Maria gently put her hand on the top of Hanna's head before turning the handle in the opposite direction. "It's not the first time hair has wound itself around a wringer, including mine. All you have to do is turn the handle the opposite direction. There, see? Just something to watch out for, just as when you stand in front of the fireplace, you keep your skirts away from the fire."

Once Hanna was released she stood well back and looked at the wringer with a deeply suspicious frown on her mature face, her arms crossing her chest. "Now you all know how to get yourself out of this problem." Maria looked over to the audience and smiled. "As you can see, I do cover my hair. I also keep it well away from the wringer works." She looked at Chad and he nodded. Time for the close.

Glancing at the notes on the paper before her, she began. "Today only, all of you are invited to purchase one of these new Laughing Laundress wringers at a very fair fixed price of two talers. We have a limited number, far less that we could sell here in Jena but you're getting to an opportunity to purchase one today, right now, because a Committee member specifically invited each one of you or someone in your household. If you want to purchase one tomorrow, you may have to bargain for it. It is highly unlikely that you will obtain a lower price. In fact, I can guarantee you will pay more because there is going to be so much demand once the word gets out. Possibly a lot more because these are the last wringers that will be in Jena for a while. The ironwork is by a master blacksmith and you can see the quality.

"You can pay in cash right now and take it home with you. Or you can place your order with a deposit and come back soon with the rest of the money. Or if you really, really want it but won't have enough money available soon, the Committee's credit bank is standing by to loan the amount at the incredibly low interest rate of ten percent. Please, try it now. Assure yourself of the ease of this wringer before it's too late and all the wringers are sold."

Another older laundress, skepticism written across her face, walked over to the wringer, pulled out a shirt from the bucket. After a couple of false starts, she began to crank the shirt through it. After she finished the laundress frowned severely, her hands on her hips. "Well, I will admit, for as much as it costs, it does seem to work. My hands and arms ache as the day goes on. It's not magic but it's easier to turn the handle rather than wring by hand. Yes, I'll buy one."

Soon all the laundresses were standing in front of Maria and a couple other Committee women while they wrote sales contracts and took deposits. Meanwhile the maids were running home to get deposit money from the mistress of the house or the housekeeper. According to Mathilde, all the city council members, including the burgermeister had a senior maid in attendance. Sebastian Moser from the Committee Credit Bank was joyfully smiling while he took applications for loans, the type of small business loans the credit bank had been set up to make.

Three days later, Chad left the city with a box full of talers and an empty wagon. Empty, that is of wringers, the carter having picked up a wagonload of merchandise for sale in Grantville. Chad had extended the "sale" until the last wringer was sold. The market having been flooded for the moment, there would be no one to buy any wringers that anyone in Jena fabricated. Which was exactly what Chad wanted. He had nothing against a wringer monopoly as long as he was the man with the monopoly. Larger cities such as Leipzig would require a lot more preliminary work. He'd get Chip to arrange his introduction to the head of the Leipzig Committee of Correspondence well before he brought a wagon-full of wringers. The next batches were going to Rudolstadt, then Weimar and Erfurt, then the whole NUS.

Naturally, Chad left a few talers behind. The city government wanted a few just to let him sell in the city. Maria was delighted to receive two for her three days of work. Chad also made a significant contribution to the Jena CoC for its assistance and donated a wringer to their laundry. The first laundress to announce she'd buy a wringer purchased hers significantly below cost once her previously agreed "rebate" was figured in. Hanna, the woman who'd gotten her hair caught, also received a discount for her suffering. Chad hadn't taken many chances. He left Jena with orders for thirty more wringers.

He named Maria the local Laughing Laundress agent. The finished wringers would be sent up to her for distribution and collection of the balance of the purchase price. He was undecided if he wanted her to demonstrate in Rudolstadt as well. Perhaps Fraulein Mitdorff might be interested. He'd definitely arrange for a laundress to get her hair "accidentally" caught. Good, useful theater.

He considered the involvement of the Jena CoC and smiled. Just to buy a wringer, you had to come into contact with a member. Since most wealthy and middle class households had their clothes washed by a maid or a laundress, the Committee had access to, at least indirectly, everyone in the city. The poor came into contact with the Committee in so many other ways.

"East of Halle?" Chad gasped in shock. Ulrich had finally told him where he'd hidden his money. "I know what I said, Ulrich, but no way can we go that far right now. Even the NUS government couldn't send out a party without serious questions being asked by whoever's currently in charge of those lands. If someone else doesn't find them first."

Ulrich was enormously disappointed and it showed. "But I thought. .."

"I know. I'm sorry. You wanted to have your money right now to start investing and become rich. Right? We'll do it. I promise." He slapped Ulrich's back affectionately. "In the meantime, let's get rich the old-fashioned way, making and selling a lot more wringers. I brought back orders for thirty more and our next city will be Rudolstadt."

May, 1632

"Honey, I hate to ask you about your business," Debbie began one evening at dinner a month later. "I mean, our washer and dryer are still working."

"Go on." Chad put down his knife and fork. He rested his forearms on the arms of his chair and looked at his wife.

"I was just thinking. Now that you have the wringer, did you ever think about making washboards? I mean, wringers are fine but you can watch German women who can't afford to go to the laundromat down on the banks of the Buffalo doing their laundry on the rocks. I've seen a few makeshifts around town. I think there were at least two companies who tried to make them and went broke. There's even been a few old washboards hauled out from wherever but nobody's really making any right now. Like the men can't be bothered to make a product only women use. Make washboards at a reasonable price and I guarantee you won't be able to keep up with the demand once the word gets out."

"Hmm." Chad picked up his silverware again. Leaning forward, his mind worked quickly while he ate. "Hardest part will have to be getting the tin rolled. Well, that and getting enough tin to begin with," he thought aloud, his eyes unfocused. "Don't have the zinc to galvanize at a reasonable price. Ceramics, glass, brass. Could even make them with grooved wood, I guess. Might have a problem with splinters which would tear up the fabric, not to mention fingers. If it's tin, Ulrich can soften the tin and then it's only a question of rolling it to the proper thickness. Crimp the sheet tin between two star-shaped rollers to corrugate it. We'll have to get iron billets from USE Steel, then use either Nat Davis or Dave Marcantonio's shops to make the rollers. The wood is easy. Have to set up a new assembly line."

Tin was possible and impossible. It'd work but was both expensive and needed wood to back it. Glass was possible but in general too fragile. So it was back to easily worked wood, Chad thought reluctantly. It was too damned easy to copy so he'd have to go for saturation marketing and stress quality. But once he could hot dip galvanize…

Four days after Chad and Denny Reilly finished working out the kinks of washboard assembly, Chad began hiring.

"Easy work." Bernhard Kosberger, the supervisor for the wringer operation looked at the four German men standing around the table. In front of him were five narrow ribbed boards, a thin rectangular board and several sturdy lengths of wood.

"Watch closely or I'll be done before you know it." Bernhard grabbed one of the two long pieces, fixed it into the bottom of a jig, then in succession began fitting in the other pieces of wood, lightly tapping them together into the groove of the long piece. He next fitted the matching long piece of wood on the opposite side then clamped the entire assembly together, leaving one short length of wood on the table. He flipped the assembly onto its bottom and fitted the short length across the top.

Bernhard smiled. "Right now, I could take the whole thing apart." He took two short thin nails and lightly tapped each into the top immediately over each leg piece. He flipped the assembly on one side. Taking two short dowels, he dipped them in glue then tapped them into the holes above and below the pieces of ribbed wood. He flipped the assembly over and repeated the process.

"That's it." He unclamped the finished assembly. "Except for stenciling the name 'Laughing Laundress' on the top panel. Took, what, two minutes? Easy, right?"

"What's it do?" The man asking wore a slight frown, his arms folded across his chest.

"It's a washboard. Take a shirt, put it in a bucket with soapy water, rub it against the ribbed wood to loosen dirt and remove any stains. Rinse it and run it through the wringer before hanging it up to finish drying. Much easier than rubbing the cloth between your hands, beating it with a stick or hitting it against a rock. Understood?"

Another man scowled and looked at the man next to him. "Doesn't seem to be real work to make these. I mean, man's work. Where's the skill, the need for strength? There's no craftsmanship, no pride in your work, just mindless assembly. Well, except for cutting and grooving all the pieces of wood precisely. Now that takes skill."

Bernhard looked at the two men impassively. "We buy the pieces of wood already cut and grooved. Using a hydraulic press to put the ribs into damp wood is the only woodworking we do here. No reason you have to do assembly if you don't want to. We're not paying for highly skilled work. So if you want to find other work, it won't bother me."

Ten minutes later, Bernhard walked into Chad's office. " Mein Gott ! This is so stupid. Easy work and all of them say it's too easy, like it's unmanly. The wringers they do because it's at least mechanical and has moving parts."

Chad leaned back in his chair with a bitter smile. "Would it be better if we hired only women to do the assembly? After all, it's a product made for women." Bernhard's face showed how uncomfortable he was with the idea.

"I'll have someone else, a woman, as their supervisor. You know, the more I think about women doing the assembly, the better I like it." Chad saw Bernhard relax. Then he gave a quick grunt of laughter. "We'll have word of mouth working for us even before the first washboard is sold."

Finding women to do the assembly proved to be remarkably easy. In no time the number of washboards sold was twice that of wringers.

August, 1633

Chad wished he could go back to bed. After all, being shot in the lower back, even by an almost spent ball from a wheel-lock does not heal in a day or two, no matter how fast it appeared in the old westerns. Chad made a trip to Magdeburg a week after the Croat raid and came back with a lead souvenir. Doc Adams removed it with appropriate derisive comments.

No sooner was he home from that procedure than Debbie came to him. "There's trouble down at the shop. I received calls yesterday afternoon from Bernhard and Dorothea that the men and the women were yelling at each other. At least that's all they were admitting. Frankly, I think there was some minor pushing and shoving as well." Her lips were tightly pressed. "I thought it was over but Dorothea called here while you were gone, saying nothing had changed."

Chad gritted his teeth and looked at his watch. "Call up Bernhard and Dorothea. Tell them I want to see them here at eleven o'clock. They're also to tell their crews that I'm shutting down production until we get whatever the problem is resolved. A day or two without pay ought to cool down the hotheads."

"Okay, what's the problem?" Chad looked at his two supervisors, Bernhard for the wringer operation and Dorothea Bischoff for the washboard operation. "Dorothea, tell me your side of the argument first."

Dorothea was a stocky mature woman with a ruddy face whose auburn hair was held in place by a colorful headscarf. "Chad, it's these men. It's bad enough that we women have to work in the same shop with them without them trying to put their hands on us or make suggestive comments all day long. Besides, there's nothing that they do that we women couldn't do at least as quickly." She would have expanded on the theme but Chad held up his palm to stop her comments.

"Okay, Bernhard, what's the argument that the men have against the women?" Chad was rapidly tiring even if his head was propped up with pillows and the footrest of the recliner was up.

"It's like this, Chad. Those women, they don't understand mechanics, how things are supposed to go together. But they are always coming over to our end of the shop, making comments about how they could do the entire operation more efficiently. Besides, they refuse to sweep the floor in our area, even though that's part of the written procedure even if we crate the finished washboards."

"We wouldn't mind doing it if you men would do a decent job of crating the washboards and didn't just throw all your scrap onto the floor rather than in the waste barrels!" Dorothea interjected.

"Yeah? You women just want us to do the work that you're supposed to be doing!"

"Stop, stop, stop." Chad held up his hands wearily. "It's clear that the swapping of sweeping and crating duties isn't working. So from now on, the men will sweep their own shop and the women will crate their own washboards."

Both supervisors looked slightly mollified but Dorothea was still angry. "Tell him that we're decent women, not floozies for their convenience. If they want that kind of women, they can be found elsewhere. Keep your damn hands off us. Understood?"

Bernhard looked rebellious. "You just keep to your side of the shop," he spat back. "Nobody asked you to come over to our side and tell us you could do just as good a job as we do! Those women who come over to our side are just looking for attention from my guys and then complain because they get it."

"That doesn't explain your men coming over to where we're working, saying what baby work it is!" Dorothea snarled.

"Enough!" Chad could barely keep his eyes open. "Debbie! Get me the phone."

A moment later, Denny Reilly of Denny's Lumber was on the other end. "Denny, this is Chad. Yeah, it is a real pain but better than getting shot in the butt. Reason I called was that I need a wall built right across the middle of the shop, about eight feet high. I need it done as soon as possible. How much will that cost? Uh-huh. Okay, who does that kind of work? Johann Muelpfort's the master carpenter you recommend? Thanks. Could you contact him and tell him I want to see him as soon as possible? I'll be at home for at least a couple more days. Thanks."

"Okay, here's the deal." Chad was breathing heavily, his face slightly pale. "First of all, Debbie will meet you back at the shop. She'll draw a chalk line across the middle of the concrete floor dividing it equally. You two discipline your own people, keeping them on their own side of the shop until the wall is finished. Or all of you can spend your time at home without pay until it's done. Clear? Anyone who can't manage to stay on their side of the line will suddenly be switched to that work unit. One of that group will become a member of the other work unit. Also as of today, the men sweep their own shop and the women crate their own washboards.

"I'm also going to split up the lunch breaks. Bernhard, you've got a taler on you, right? You flip the coin and Dorothea will call it. Winner picks which lunch hour they want this week. Then the following week, the lunch hour will switch between groups. I'm going to keep both crews apart as much as possible until you learn to play together."

Dorothea won the toss and chose the later time because the week was almost over. Then the following week, her team would go to lunch earlier.

"Oh, and by the way, if you can't discipline your own people, I'll find someone who can, even if I have to fire you and hire someone else. Is that clear?" Chad fixed his eye on each in turn.

Both left, each distinctly happier at the other's comeuppance but not unhappy with the result to themselves. The heart of successful diplomacy is schadenfreude, Chad thought.

"I should have handled the affair, Chad." Debbie assisted him upstairs to bed. "Like boys and girls in the fourth grade, each determined the other has cooties." She smoothed the bed linen over his body and under his arms. "You just get your rest while I go over to the shop. I'll have Christina answer the door when the master carpenter arrives. She'll bring him to you."

After she left, the middle fingertip of one hand touched its counterpart across Chad's chest. Perhaps I ought to put my hands together in prayer like all the funereal statues of the nobility do. Chad's eyes were closed as his mind drifted.

He could almost hear the echo of the nasal guide's voice. "And here, ladies and gentlemen, is the crypt and depiction of Charles Hudson Jenkins, Senior, the first von Grantville." Yeah, right. Over my dead body, he snickered before falling asleep.

Burgers, Fries, And Beer

By John and Patti Friend

Julio sat with Odetta and Fenton. The Club was empty. None of the regulars were in and, as usual, Fenton was opening. It was early yet-just past two in the afternoon-and the three had nothing to do.

Julio Sanabria looked at his two co-workers. "For two bits, I'd get rid of everything and move away from here! Lousy daughter and her kids, stinking mortgage… I should just leave them, and all the rest of this crap."

Fenton Mase nodded. "Grantville just ain't worth hanging around anymore. Hell, everyone except the regulars either won't talk to me or figures I'm just as big a racist as most of the crowd around here."

Odetta Thorpe spat tobacco juice into a coffee cup. "Look. It could be worse; you could be like me. Half the down-timers think I'm sick and the other half think I'm a whore. I sure ain't going to try to compete with the likes of Hot Pants Cooper or Angie for the few single men who come in here."

Julio growled something that nearly made Odetta swallow her wad of tobacco. "Sorry, Julio. I forgot!"

"Come on, Julio. You have to admit it. Angie has earned her reputation." Fenton snorted. "She has the twins and she has another bun or two in the oven right now. Besides, she was in here last night with Hot Pants before she took off."

Julio felt like he'd been kicked. It had been busy and he'd been stuck in the back. The regulars had been hollering about how it wasn't right, having all those Krauts on the police force. Then there had been an altercation between Ronnie Murray and someone else-it didn't matter who. Ronnie had been given the old heave ho.

Somewhere between the fight, his sixth burger and fries order, and washing the skillets again to make more fries, Angie and Hot Pants had left. Connie had, once again, been a no-show, leaving him to pull double duty.

Being chief cook and bottle washer in the Club 250 was no joke. He'd been stuck watching the fries so they wouldn't burn in the lard. Making French fries was a lot more work now that the cooking oil had either run out or been taken for some other use. Actually, Julio thought the fries had a better flavor, but to hear the regulars bellyache, you'd think they were being forced to eat shit.

Julio snapped back to reality when he heard the voices of Ape and Monkey Hart. It was time to get into the kitchen. The two jerks would want their standard burgers, fries and beer.

"Well, that's it." Fenton tapped out his pipe. "Time to earn our dollar."

Odetta spat her tobacco wad into the cup and handed it to Julio. "Damn it, Odetta! You could at least dump the thing out and rinse it."

"Got customers, Julio. You wouldn't want Ken to fire me, would you?" Odetta smirked.

"Forget it, Julio," Fenton said. "The way Ken has been losing waitresses-and I've had to do their work, too-I don't want Odetta fired."

Julio marched into the kitchen. Damn Fenton and Odetta! Like Fenton busted butt behind the bar. And Odetta sure didn't hustle. She spent more time leaning against the bar shooting the breeze with Fenton than serving customers.

"Hey! Git over here and take a payin' customer's order." Ape Hart yelled across the room.

It was just another day at the Club. Tonight, he'd have to go home, let the babysitter leave, and supposedly watch Angie's twins, Julie and Juanita. Hell, he was usually so tired he just collapsed. But the poor kids only had the babysitter and him most of the time.

Damn Angie! Why couldn't she be like her sister, Amy? Now that girl had a future. Angie was pregnant again and didn't even know who this father was. What a surprise.

Julio checked the temperature of the deep pan of lard. At any moment, Odetta would yell for burgers and fries. He would be glad when Connie started her shift. Then he'd just have to wash the dishes and prep cook if it got busy. Things just kept getting worse at the 250. Since that crap with young Tommy, her brother-in-law, Connie just didn't work as many hours.

Julio scraped the charred tobacco from the clay bowl of his pipe. He'd broken two of them since he'd started smoking a pipe. He couldn't buy cigarettes anymore, something about not having decent paper for them. Besides, no one wanted to make them anyway.

He wouldn't mind if someone did, but he had the feeling that wouldn't happen any time soon. Besides, tobacco wasn't all that cheap and there was only one tobacco shop in Grantville. It was owned by a Dutchman and Spaniard.

It was break time. Connie Cooper had finally shown up. She watched the kitchen while Fenton had the bar and Odetta worked the tables.

The more Julio thought about it, the more he realized that he really had to get out of Grantville. It wasn't just Angie, the twins, or even the job. His life had gone to downhill when Juanita had had her accident back in ninety-two. It had been all he could do to cope with her injuries, much less try to raise three kids.

If his cousin, Sergio, and his wife hadn't helped out, the whole lot probably would have turned out like Angie. But John and Amy were good kids. That was Sergio and Janie's doing more than his.

The best thing he could do for everyone was to just sell out and leave. Go off somewhere and start over again.

It would serve Angie right if he dumped her and she had to fend totally for herself. Maybe someone would take the twins and give them a decent home. John and Amy could fend for themselves. They were both pretty self-sufficient as it was. They certainly didn't need him. He didn't have much of a relationship with either of them, anyway.

"Julio, your break is up! Get back in here!" Odetta yelled. Ken must have come in and she was warning him before the boss decided he was loafing.

Hell, he hadn't even started his smoke. He pocketed the pipe and headed back to the kitchen. He saw the back of Odetta's bean-pole shape, skinny butt, and chicken legs as she made for the main floor. Connie was flipping a couple of burgers and a pan of grease was spitting. He was going to have to peel some more potatoes and have them ready and soaking in a bowl for Connie.

He didn't have any dishes in the sink right now, so he was supposed to make sure she had things on hand for the burgers and fries. That meant slicing the bread, preparing the potatoes and onion slices. All that kind of crap had to be done between washing dishes. There was no lettuce or tomatoes this time of year, which made his job easier.

Tonight, when he got home, he'd have some of the shine he'd stashed in the pantry-if Angie hadn't found where he'd hidden it. He would give some serious thought about where to go and what to do while he sat back with a big tumbler of hooch.

Julio dragged in from the Club. Three thirty-seven in the morning and his house was a pig sty. Angie's babysitter was still here, crashed on the couch with the old crib next to her. The twins were asleep, which was good. If they would only stay that way until he got a few hours of shuteye himself. They were nearly into their terrible twos. He could still remember Angie at that age. She had been the worst of his three kids, but the twins were putting her to shame.

He felt like kicking Angie right out the door. Damn her staying out all night. If he didn't help pay for the babysitter he didn't know who would take care of her kids. He was too busy working and John and Amy had their own lives. He wouldn't expect either of his two younger kids to help him, and certainly not Angie. It was a good thing Juanita hadn't been able to see what her daughter had become.

Julio shuddered, headed for his room, and nearly slipped on part of a newspaper the babysitter had let fall near the couch. He picked it up, intending to wad it and throw the thing against the wall. His eye caught a bold headline about the rapid growth and opportunities in Magdeburg, the capitol of the CPE or whatever.

Hadn't Magdeburg been burnt to the ground? Well, damn! Julio headed for the kitchen to read the paper. Let the babysitter sleep. He looked around for the bottle of shine, which Angie hadn't found. He pulled the cork and took a swig.

He looked at the paper and, for the first time since the Ring Of Fire, saw news that wasn't filtered through people like the Coopers and Harts.

Maybe life would be better in a place like Magdeburg. It mentioned the planned navy base in the article. Julio thought about all the new service businesses that would be springing up around the base. Magdeburg might just be the place for him to go.

Julio laid the paper down on the cluttered table, took one more pull on the bottle, and hid it again. He walked past the babysitter and the twins. He'd sleep on the idea about getting away from here. Maybe things would be clearer in the morning.

It was absolutely dead in the Club. Fenton Mase and Odetta Thorpe wandered into the kitchen. Julio was kicked back, looking at a paper. "Horse shit! Julio, you know better than to bring anything German into the Club. Ken or one of the regulars see that, and all hell will bust loose."

"Look at this, Fenton." Julio held the paper up for him to see.

"You know I can't read that crap!" growled Fenton. "What's it say that's worth knowing about?

Julio translated as he read Fenton the article about Magdeburg's growth. "You know, the more I look at this, the more I think I'll just pack up and go."

"You have to be crazy to even consider it!" Fenton's voice was sarcastic.

"No. Think about it. I looked it up. Magdeburg is far enough away that I ain't goin' to have a bunch of people remembering me as one of the Club 250 trash; but it isn't that far away. At least it will be better than here."

Fenton snorted. "Hell! Julio, that place isn't America! It's full of foreigners and the US Navy Base there isn't American-even if that is what the paper says. They don't even got 'lectric or flush shitters there. Magdeburg ain't civilized yet."

"Well, I'm seriously thinking of going. What do I have here? A job washing dishes and flipping burgers for a bunch of shitheads nobody likes. They don't even like each other."

Julio stopped Fenton before he could say anything. "Don't give me any crap about the good old boys. You know as well as I do, the Club has been going downhill since that first election. And how many waitresses has this place gone through? Brandy quit; Marlene quit; and Angie isn't worth a hill of beans even when she does show. All the good ol' boys do is complain about how everything would be better if it weren't for all the Germans-or Mike Stearns, or the sky isn't blue today. I don't need this no more."

Fenton started to rebut Julio but thought again. "Read that to me again. But get the paper out of here before Ken sees it."

"Yeah, read it again, Julio," Odetta added, a look of wanderlust in her eyes.

Julio started reading the article once more. Two people seemed to think he had stumbled onto something.

A few days later, Julio had made up his mind and headed down to Grantville Homes and Land. He saw Huddy Colburn himself. He wanted to sell his home and fast. It wasn't a case of going for the best price. When Juanita had been injured in ninety-two, he'd pretty much given up on life. Since the accident, his rock and confidante couldn't give him the support he had come to rely on. It had almost been a blessing when she had finally passed away in 1632.

He hadn't been much of a father after Juanita's accident. His cousin and his wife were more parents to his youngest two children than he'd been. Maybe that was why they had turned out better than Angie. She'd been sixteen at the time and had just gone wild-too wild. Her life had been spiraling downhill ever since.

Huddy made an offer of his own for the lot and house. Some major work was going to have to be done to bring the place up to standards. Julio had allowed the house to fall apart bit by bit. Huddy had made sure he understood that he was going below market value on the place; but it was going to cost him to have the place repaired for later sale.

Well, it wasn't like Julio wanted to wait around for Huddy to put the place on the market and wait around for a bite. He'd decided to leave, and that was final.

"Two weeks enough time to vacate the place?" Huddy had asked.

Two weeks was more than enough time. The next day, Huddy had the contract and the check for the place ready. Julio had two weeks to pack up and go. Magdeburg or bust. So long, Grantville.

Julio had just finished telling his oldest daughter that he was leaving. And that she would have to find someplace else to live. It had taken two days to catch her and she now had less than two weeks to find a new place.

Angie Sanabria glared at her father. "What do you mean, you've sold the house and I'll have to find somewhere else to live? This is my home, too, you know!"

Julio looked at his daughter and smiled. "It was my home. You just live here. How much have you contributed to maintenance and food? Now it belongs to Grantville Homes and Land. I could have sold it for more, but I just want out of here. So I dumped it for the first offer. After the bank grabbed their share to pay back the mortgage, there isn't all that much left. Finally, if you'd ever been around, you'd have known what I was going to do."

"You can't do this, Papa! Where will me and the twins live now? And where are you going to live?"

"I don't know where you'll be living, to tell you the truth. You have your partying friends and can probably live with one of them." Julio pointed to himself. "Me? I'm moving to Magdeburg. So you'll just have to grow up and take care of your own life."

"You can't do this!"

He looked at her. "That's where you're wrong, Angie. I can do it and I'm going to. You have to learn there's more to life than just one big party."

Odetta listened while her two co-workers talked about moving to Magdeburg. They even had a plan for starting a business there. Both had something to put in, though most of the money and other things would be coming from Julio Sanabria.

"I can sell the trailer, even if I don't own the lot it sits on. That will give me some money. And I should be able to get something for the Bronco." Fenton had joined in the plan to move.

"How about letting me come along? I can wait tables." Odetta watched the sour looks invade both men's faces. "Okay, I can do fast foods, too. I've done the short order cook routine in Norfolk, Baltimore, and Akron. I can be of use and I want to leave, too."

Julio studied her like she was a dog with two heads. Granted, she didn't really get along with most people, except Estil Congden. But hell. She hadn't planned on making Grantville her home. It had been one of those stopovers before she moved on to greener pastures.

"Why the hell not?" Julio looked at Fenton. "Let's all tell Ken we're quitting at the same time. I really want to see the look on his face."

Odetta and Fenton both laughed, but it was short lived. The first of the regulars arrived. It was time to go to work.

Fenton counted the money he'd received for the rundown trailer he'd owned for the last umpteen years and smiled. For now, he was staying in the same flophouse the new Krauts stayed in. He'd stayed in worse, though not by much.

The Krauts weren't too bad. No worse than Freddie Congden or the Hart brothers. Fenton wasn't going to think about that scum bucket, Ronnie Murray. Actually, the Germans were better. At least they were polite and not ordering him around all the time. He had moved what he wanted to keep into the storage unit he had rented and sold the rest. For now, the money was going into the bank until he needed it. There was no use tempting fate and ending up blowing it on something stupid. Well, maybe he could tie one on and celebrate, but not at the Club 250. Crappola! He could start out at the Gardens and then move on to Tips.

Fenton was tired of being treated lower than dirt by most of the up- and down-timers. He figured Julio was right. There was no future in staying with the Club 250. Boy, had he enjoyed watching Ken howl when the three of them quit together. Let Ken do his own bartending. Damn! He'd thought Ken was going to have a heart attack right there on the spot! Oh, well. It wasn't his problem anymore.

He was going to go with Julio and Odetta. Maybe they could, finally, find someplace they could live where their pasts wouldn't haunt them. Grantville sure wasn't his cup of tea anymore. It was time to move on.

Angie had checked with her so-called friends. Papa was right. There was nothing here worth staying around for. Everyone thought she was a trashy whore and with Papa gone she would have nobody. She had alienated her brother and sister. Even her cousins had no use for her. She was going to take the twins and go with Papa, whether he knew it or not. Besides, she was pregnant again and she wasn't sure who the hell the father was. Just one problem after another.

Her so-called friend, Tiffany, said she could stay with her and her folks for a few days, but she would have to take care of her own daughters. No one at the Cooper place would baby-sit for her. Papa would be leaving in just over a week with Fenton Mase and Odetta Thorpe. For now she would just have to impose on the Coopers for a while longer than her welcome was for. Well, it wasn't like she would be around to have to mend any fences after she left Grantville with Papa.

She wondered what the people in Magdeburg did for fun. There was going to be a Navy base there and she'd heard sailors were really great for having a good time. She'd find out after they got settled there.

Grantville, January, 1634

Julio went through the things he wanted crated. There was a nearly thirty-year-old set of Encyclopedia Britannica; all of Angie's old Golden Books; his Louis L'amour books, all eight of them; and the home improvement book set Juanita had signed him up for.

They'd received almost half of the large card-like page inserts before they stopped the monthly installments to the book. Most of it was just not going to be of much use. How to apply vinyl flooring was just not going to be a big thing. Forget the special glue, where would he get rolls of vinyl flooring to start with? He flipped through the book and laughed. Here was a good one. How to apply wallpaper. Well, it might be useful. Didn't his grandfather use paper sacks to cover his walls and then paint them? He threw the home improvement book into the crate. Hadn't his grandfather made wheat paste to put the paper up? How had he made it? The answer might be in the encyclopedia.

He placed all his power tools to one side. The circular saw and jig saw were going to do him no good without electricity. Those, he would pass on to Amy. John was off with the military somewhere, he thought. He'd lost track of him.

The bow saw and rip saw he packed. All four hammers went into the box. He thought he'd lost three of them. He had bought new ones to replace the lost ones. The old single jack went into a case along with three wood chisels. The tool box containing four combo wrenches, two pliers, a handful of screw drivers, and a socket set with a broken ratchet and half the sockets missing would also go to Amy. He hadn't realized that so much of his stuff was junk, but maybe she would have a use for it.

There was a camping hatchet he'd never used and an old Coleman lantern. The hatchet he pitched into the crate and he placed the lantern with the power tools. Two boxes of 30-06 shells from twenty years ago appeared among the junk. Into the crate they went.

Juanita's wedding dress took a moment for him to make a decision about. He didn't remember putting it out here. Hadn't he thrown it away with her other things? He folded it and placed it into the crate. Damn! He had to dig out one of the hammers he'd packed to nail the lid down and start a new crate.

Three coffee cans of screws and nails went into the next crate. Clothing came next. These clothes were made from synthetics and were still in good shape. Regrettably, the pants and shirts didn't fit him anymore, but they might again. Additional clothing went into another crate. If he couldn't use them, he might be able to trade them. The clothes filled the second crate. Juanita would have donated the stuff to the church long ago. He'd just tossed them into the garage like so many other things.

Juanita's sewing machine appeared once the clothing was moved. It was just one more thing he thought he'd gotten rid of. How much more of these reminders remained? The small Singer needed electricity to work. He would sell it because Amy probably wouldn't want it.

Julio found the trowel and masonry tools he'd invested in when he thought he'd be a bricklayer. The job had never panned out. He put the masonry tools into the third crate on top of the extra clothes. They could still be of use; though where he would get cement, fire clay, and lime, he had no idea. Sand wasn't a problem. It was everywhere.

He finally found their old hand cranked meat grinders. He carefully packed them away. They would be needed, along with the spatulas, and two old barbeques. Charcoal would be no problem. Everything needed to be taken apart, cleaned, and oiled.

By the time he'd packed five crates, he'd weeded through the entire contents of his home and garage. Julio took the discarded materials he didn't think Amy could use out into the drive after he shoveled the snow clear and laid out a blue plastic tarp to protect everything from the dampness. He hammered a sign to the black walnut tree in front of the house and sat back in his lawn chair. It was colder than a witch's tit; but with a beer and the heavy mackinaw coat, he waited as passersby stopped to buy those items useless to him. One man's trash was another's treasure-or something like that.

It didn't take long for people to wander up and start asking how much for this or that. His answer was always the same. "Make me an offer."

His yard sale quickly turned into an auction. Things like the toaster went for more than he thought it cost new. That was figuring for the value of the dollar now as compared to before the Ring of Fire. The sewing machine went for a king's ransom, or so it seemed to him. He'd planned to spend the day sitting outside while bored neighbors went through his junk. Instead, it seemed like half of Grantville showed up to buy things he didn't want anymore.

What would he have made if everything had been maintained properly? He hadn't realized just how badly he'd let everything slide over the last twelve years. The only reason the house hadn't been the mess the garage had been was the babysitter, Barbara, had cleaned the place once in awhile.

Papa and his friends had two wagons filled with wooden cases. They had rented the wagons and teams from Old Man Bickrodt, promising to leave them with a friend of his who ran a stable and smithy outside of Magdeburg. Now Papa was going to find out she intended to go with him. Angie had already snuck her few plastic bags onto Papa's wagon while they had been inside having breakfast. They hadn't even noticed her things when Papa and Fenton had loaded the rest of his crates.

Angie made her way toward her father with the twins in tow. It was hard going because the girls were only toddlers, unsteady on their feet. Besides, she wasn't used to having them with her. It had been Barbara's job to take care of them. But without Papa paying most of her money, Barbara had found other employment.

Angie's mouth dropped open when Julio looked up. "Took you long enough. Well, get into the wagon and I'll pass Juanita and Julie up to you."

"But Papa!" Angie sounded more like a ten year old than a woman of nearly twenty-eight.

Her father shook his head. "If you thought I wouldn't find out what you were up to, you shouldn't have been smart mouthing Connie Cooper. Didn't you think that woman would track me down and start demanding I hurry up and get you out of town? She was so happy I was taking you away from her poor daughter, who you were corrupting with your whoring ways."

Angie started to protest but Julio glared at her. "Don't say a word, Angie, or I'll change my mind and leave you. If I can decide to start over somewhere else and get away from this place and everyone who knows me, I can give you the same chance. It's up to you whether you screw it up or not."

Angie climbed aboard and her father passed the girls up to her. Both were crying for Barbara. They didn't want to be with her. For some reason, it hurt. It hurt just the way her father talked to her. It had been a long time since anything had hurt like today.

Fenton had not been pleased about having Julio's daughter along. Angie was a waste of space. She was part of the party girl pack that included the Cooper girl. He didn't have much interest in them. There was no telling who they had been with and he didn't want to be pissing razor blades. No penicillin to get rid of that anymore. Three doses of the clap in his life had been enough for him. He had lived like a monk for the last two years. At least pretty much like a monk.

They'd brought their American weapons, but the up-time ammunition wouldn't last forever. They also purchased Struve-Reardon made musket-rifles and a set of the Hockenjoss and Klott revolvers each. Julio had misgivings about the revolvers. It was a matter of the supply of percussion caps.

That was why old Julio had also purchased a pair of flintlock pistols. He didn't want to be without weapons that would be easy to get the powder and lead for. Things wouldn't be all that safe on the road, even if the war was a long ways off and they were only traveling to Magdeburg. After all, they were leaving a place where real Americans were and heading deep into Krautland.

They had to travel through the snow and cold to get to Magdeburg. They were driving a treasure train with all their valuables aboard. Fenton smiled to himself. If they were attacked, maybe they could trade Angie off to the bandits and get them to leave the rest of them alone. No. It wouldn't be fair. The bandits would get the worst of the deal.

Fenton secured the last of the ropes. He checked the thirty-eight in the shoulder holster and prepared to climb into the wagon seat. Julio would lead out with his slut daughter and his bastard grandkids. Why the man wanted to drag them along was beyond him. It was just one more reason this trip was beginning to seem like a bad idea.

They had to face bad weather, days riding on a wagon, and finally starting over in Magdeburg.

Fenton pulled himself into the seat next to Odetta. He picked up the reins and followed Julio as he led out. Julio had come up with this hare-brained scheme. Hopefully, Julio knew what he was doing. Fenton no longer did.

Odetta spit a large brown stream of tobacco juice over the side of the wagon. Fenton shook his head. What a choice. Ride next to Angie and her screaming brats or the tobacco chewing human toothpick and her continual spitting.

It was going to be a long trip.

Fenton felt unsure about the outcome of their new adventure. What would happen if, for some reason, their plans didn't work out the way they hoped? Was this a new beginning for them, or was it the end of all their hopes and dreams?

Only time would tell. Farewell, Grantville. It's a nice place to be from.

Julio looked around their first night's camp. He had made a mistake in not stopping for the night in the last village. They were camping out in the shell of a hut of some type. This place had not been resettled for some reason. Whatever it was, it gave them some small amount of wall around their wagons and a break against the chill night breeze.

Already, Fenton had a fire going and Odetta and Angie had found the sleeping bags. With the exception of Fenton's bag, all the sleeping bags had come from him, left over from when Juanita had been healthy. There were four bags in all. There would have been a fifth, but he'd left it for Amy with the other things. The sleeping bags, like everything else that had been part of his life before Juanita's accident, had been thrown into the basement or garage. After the accident, there had never been another weekend of camping. The sleeping bags had been just another painful memory to be buried out of sight.

The twins screaming for Barbara had gotten on his nerves. They had finally stopped screaming for her by mid-day; but by then old, haunted memories had returned to add to his distraught nerves. Twice he'd started to pass the reins over to Angie and cradle his rifle at the ready as if it had been an M-16.

People in the villages they rolled through watched them from the sides of roads. It reminded him of riding as co-driver in a deuce with his M-16 pointed out the window while Dinks along the road watched their convoys roll by.

He had thought that he was getting a good job as a driver or co-driver on the convoys and not having to tramp through jungles and rice paddies of Viet Nam. He had been too young and dumb to realize that "convoy" actually meant "big target." Back then, he'd been a kid right out of Grantville and boot camp. When he'd been in convoy, he had never known who might wave as he drove by and then shoot at him or toss explosives into the deuce when they passed.

Here, the stares of the people they passed had brought back those old memories. It wasn't a good thing.

Julio knew they had nothing to fear in their present camp; but old memories were haunting him. He moved out beyond the shadows and squatted, his rifle at the ready. It would be a long night. He would take the first watch-maybe all night long-and let Fenton sleep. He could always switch places with Odetta and sleep in the wagon Fenton drove if he was up all night.

Angie made sure the twins were okay and rolled up the sleeping bags. Odetta was busy with a camp pot full of corn meal mush. The old blue speckled coffee pot Papa and Mama had used on camping trips was steaming with hot water. There was no coffee. But there was herbal tea, not the real stuff. There had been no Lipton for ages and coffee was an expensive luxury that none of them drank any longer. It seemed to Angie that with the remaining wealth from the sale of the house and personal junk, Papa could have well afforded it. But the past couple of years of doing without had had its effect. He hadn't even thought to purchase any. Besides, Fenton had brought along four cases of hooch. The last thing he needed was a shot of that right now with his nerves jumping as badly as they were.

Next Morning

Angie put the sleeping bags back into the wagon. She had even rolled up Papa's bag. He had been up all night. She hadn't seen him like that since Mama's accident-all wired up and lost somewhere. She had approached him when she'd first woke up and found herself staring down the barrel of his rifle. It was like he didn't recognize her at first.

She had been afraid he'd shoot her. But he snapped out of it. "Don't you never sneak up behind me on tip toes again!" She wouldn't.

"Come on, girls. Let's get something to eat." The two just gawked at her. "Come on. Don't make me come get you!"

Odetta looked at her and chuckled. "Them kids is too young to understand everything like they were already in school or something. They can't even walk all that good yet."

Odetta set down the brown plastic bowl and spoon she'd been using to have her breakfast and stood up. "I'll get them over here and fed."

Angie wanted to cuss her out for interfering. After all, the twins were her kids. But she bit back the response. For the last week now, she'd been finding out the twins took a lot of work, and Tiffany hadn't been willing to help her none. In fact, Tiffany had razzed her about having kids and being pregnant again.

Damn! Why couldn't she have accepted Uncle Sergio and Aunt Janie's help, like John and Amy, instead of deciding that since Papa didn't care and Mama was so bad off, she was old enough to do what she wanted? At least she had listened well enough not to get knocked up while she was still in high school or until the birth control pills ran out.

She would have blamed Papa and Mama for ruining her life-she did quite often. But she had John and Amy to look at and see that they hadn't turned out like she had. She was the one who had become the town slut in capitol letters. Miss Party Girl. Mama hadn't had that accident just to ruin her life and Papa hadn't just given up on her, though it was easy to blame them for her own actions.

Angie watched as Odetta put up two more plastic bowls of mush and set out two more plastic spoons. "Don't touch!" The twins looked at her and at the bowls.

"Hot!" Odetta said.

"Ooo," the girls responded.

Feeling bitter, Angie sat down and poured a cup of hot water. She spooned some of the tea into one of the old tea balls Mama had used for her bead work decorations and dunked it into the cup. She hadn't seen one of the cheap metal things in at least twelve years. Like everything else of Mama's, it had just disappeared from the house.

When the mush had cooled enough for the girls to safely eat, Angie gave each of them a bowl. She ended up cleaning up a mess. She had forgotten the lesson she had been learning during the last week. The twins were really messy eaters and needed help.

It didn't help for Odetta to laugh at her when she got frustrated. Barbara had always done this for her. She usually wasn't even up this early.

Odetta Thorpe was happy. It had been a long time since she'd been on the road-too long. She had forgotten how good it felt to get up, make a quick breakfast, and breath open air.

It wasn't that she had traveled like this. She'd never before traveled in horse drawn wagons or camped out in burned out barns. But she hadn't always ridden the bus or caught a ride with a trucker, either. There had been times when she had moved on with just a backpack, her accordion, and what she could carry when the urge to move on had hit her.

It felt good being on the move again. And this was probably the last. She was forty-nine, going on eighty, judging from the stiffness and pain in her joints.

She enjoyed watching Julio's high-and- mighty daughter struggling to care for her kids. Julio had been right. Angie didn't know jack about taking care of kids. Odetta knew more, and she'd never had any kids of her own.

Fenton had asked her to take over for him on the reins off and on yesterday. She had a feeling that today her practice was going to be put to the test. Julio had been up all night. She had the feeling she would be driving his wagon. If that happened, Fenton would take the lead.

Julio had been up all night, guarding them while they slept. He would probably crash today. Actually, she liked the idea. She had spent nights on the road, her pocket gun in hand, trying to sleep in places she knew were less than safe when she'd been wandering.

One thing she had learned very well: never figure you're safe for the night. She'd been lucky not to be Jane Doe on a slab somewhere because of her own carelessness a couple of times. She had a few scars to prove it, too. Some things, like the tattoos, were courtesy of one- or two-year stints in prison for shop lifting; theft; and-once-knifing a guy who had tried to rape her. But that had been when she was young and stupid-younger than Angie even. She'd learned not to get caught at things like that later.

"Come on, girl," Odetta said. "Get them cleaned up. Your father's coming in to eat. You want him to see what a ditz you are?"

Odetta smiled when she was rewarded with a scathing glare. Nothing like starting the day right by ticking someone off, especially old Hot Pants' running mate. Those two girls had taken more than one decent man from her over the last two years. Any man who would chase those two wasn't getting a chance to come back to her afterward, either. She did have some standards. Odetta drank the last of her tea, pulled out some tobacco, and crammed it into her cheek.

It was going to be a longer day today than yesterday had been. A bit of cushioning on the wagon seat would have been welcome. She now wished she had been blessed with a bit more padding on her rear. Maybe Angie would loan her a bit. She had more than enough for both of them. Odetta laughed to herself as she spooned up a bowl of mush for Julio.

Fenton was glad when they were allowed to stop for the night again. This time, they had a dry barn in which to spend the night. Odetta had talked the villager in charge into letting them pay for the night's use. Fenton was glad for the dry place to stay. Between the cold drizzle and colder wind gusts that occasionally caught them during the day, it felt good to be under a roof, even if it smelled of livestock and wasn't heated.

He was also glad that he and Julio had let Odetta come along. She had picked up German palaver pretty well. He knew just enough German to run a stray Kraut out of the Club, if one was foolish enough to stick his head through the door. He now realized he needed to learn German if he planned to get along. And like the villagers who were letting them spend the night in his barn, Germans weren't all bad. They seemed like regular folk.

He would have been as suspicious as they had been, if a couple of wagons carrying armed people had rolled up in front of his trailer, women folk or no women folk.

Odetta pulled the thick blocky suitcase she'd loaded from the back of the wagon and opened it.

Fenton swore. She had a real, honest-to-god, polka-playing squeeze box-a fancy, mother-of-pearl-inlaid red beast. She broke it out, set the straps to her scrawny shoulders, and opened out the accordion.

Fenton didn't know what impressed him more: that Odetta had something that fancy or that she knew how to play it. He watched her fingers work the keys on one side and the buttons on the other as she opened and closed the bellows. Damn he knew that song-Daisy Polka. He reached inside his coat and broke out his harmonica. Time to join the fun. He hadn't played with anyone for years. Just played in the trailer to entertain himself.

Julio watched as Odetta and Fenton started to play their music. It had been ages since he'd been around anyone playing anything. He hadn't touched his git box since Juanita's accident. So long that he probably couldn't play it anymore. Besides, he'd never been into that polka garbage. He was almost tempted to dig out his old hollow box Fender, but decided against it. It would be really embarrassing to mess up Odetta and Fenton's music by adjusting the strings and then not remembering how to play.

He joined Angie and the twins by the lantern as they listened to Odetta and Fenton start to play another piece. He thought he'd known all about his traveling companions, but apparently not. He hadn't known Odetta spoke decent enough German to be understood, and he hadn't known either of them played any instruments.

Julio saw that Julie and Juanita were both curled up in a sleeping bag with their heads on Angie's lap. Both girls were sound asleep. He hadn't realized how much they looked like Angie. It was the first time he'd really paid much attention to them. It was even worse that he had pretty much ignored them for almost two years. They had just been Angie's bastards to him, even if they were his grandchildren.

Julio did something he hadn't done in a long time. He put an arm around Angie's shoulders and gave her a fatherly squeeze. Angie actually smiled at him. They hadn't been this close since… well, since back then. Julio smiled back.

Odetta started to sing, "Roll out the barrel; We'll have a barrel of fun…" She wasn't half bad.

Julio looked up to see one of the villagers, with his wife and kids, at the barn door, watching and listening. Probably the first time they'd heard real American music.

Julio looked back on the trip from Grantville to Magdeburg. They had finally made it. During the first couple of days, he thought they would kill each other on this trip. Angie with the twins; Odetta with her sarcasm and abrasive comments; and Fenton either predicting gloom and doom or making the Kraut comments he spouted out of habit more than actual belief; and finally, his own flashing back to a time he'd rather forget. All had been irritants and causes for discord in their little group.

Today, they were turning the horses and wagons over to Herr Knaust, who would see that Herr Bickrodt was notified of their arrival. Apparently, they had an arrangement. These horse and wagons actually belonged to Herr Knaust and were just being returned to him.

Julio smiled to himself. Well what do you know? A German U-Haul system, horse and wagon style.

Herr Knaust was going to allow them to store things in one of his buildings, for a price. They needed a place to store nearly everything.

The idea had been, sell everything, move to Magdeburg, buy a place near the naval base construction, and open a burger flipping place for the sailors and Marines.

Well, they were here. The problem now was finding a place they could afford. From what Odetta had found out from Herr Knaust, they certainly weren't buying anything with the money they had. But the old German was taken with Odetta. Why? Julio couldn't figure it out. The woman was gross with her anorexic, Ethiopian-famine-victim look. But, Herr Knaust had volunteered to help them find a place they could rent.

The old stable owner and blacksmith had recommended an inn where they could stay. Julio couldn't decide if Odetta was actually taken with the heavy set, gray bearded man or was just shining him on to get what she wanted. Odetta was much more complicated than she seemed.

Odetta had flirted with Georg Knaust for the last three days. The man reminded her of one of the old wrestlers. Not those tall, painted freaks who had been replacing the old wrestlers. He reminded her of men like Ivan Putski or Moondog Mane-big chested, massive armed, and a gut to go with it. His short, gray beard blended into his moustache.

Georg was a widower. He had lost his wife, children, and grandchildren when Magdeburg had been overrun by one of the German armies fighting in the area. Georg, himself, had nearly lost a leg and had been stabbed three times, according to what he'd told her. He had been left for dead with his family. Odetta could believe it. Georg certainly looked like a tough old buzzard, like a biker she had run with for awhile before the New York State Patrol arrested him for stealing cars.

The inn they were staying in was slightly rundown. But for having been rebuilt from a burned out shell, it looked pretty good.

Georg had found them a two-story building that had been an inn before it had been burned. After it had been rebuilt, it had been a warehouse for awhile.

She was supposed to meet Georg for dinner in a few hours. He had invited her to his house.

Angie studied the three sailors she was sitting with. One was cute. She had sashayed up to them and been invited to sit down. Papa would just blow a gasket if he saw her now. But he was watching the twins while she was supposed to be fetching their lunch.

That was how she met Josef, Michael, and Veit. Josef was the cute one. He was a petty officer, third class-a supply clerk. Michael and Veit worked with him, but both were only seaman. All three looked good in their uniforms, but Josef was the cutest.

"If you would like to meet me later," she said to Josef, "I'll be back this evening for awhile. Late that is, as soon as my friend gets back."

Odetta wouldn't stay long with the old coot she was having dinner with. Old Man Knaust looked like Santa on steroids, with a few scars thrown in for good measure. Even Odetta couldn't see anything in him. She was just buttering the dirty old man up to get his help.

"Yes, I would like to meet you again," Josef said. "Tonight, then. I'll be here."

Angie smiled. Magdeburg was going to be fun. She hurried to see if the food was ready to take back to her room. Now to convince Odetta she just had to get out and away from the twins for awhile.

Fenton had just come back from the dump Odetta's boyfriend had found for them. It would have to do. All they had to do now was go through the lawyer Knaust had recommended and get the papers drawn up. It was going to take most of their working capital to fix the place up, get the first two month's rent money paid, and stock it. They really hadn't expected rent and leases to be so high. But they were looking at property close to the navy base.

They could turn the upstairs into living quarters and cut down on expenses that way. The main floor was divided into three rooms. One was a large room, big enough for a bar and a dozen tables. There were two smaller rooms, one third the size of the main room. One small room was perfect to set up a stove, the barbeques, and the three ice chests they had brought. The other room could be used as a pantry and prep room.

Fenton figured they could set up the meat grinders and make hamburger in that room, as well as store homemade condiments from Grantville and things like the local mustard. But they had to get ketchup from Grantville if they were going to keep it.

The basement would be a good place to store kegs of beer and the cases of shine they'd brought with them. They only had one case of good stuff. It was more expensive than the stuff from the Five Hollows, but they might actually have a customer who wanted quality.

Julio had sent him to go over the place with a fine-toothed comb. He wasn't sure Julio wouldn't have been better at evaluating the place.

Fenton saw Angie coming from the eatery next to their inn. She sure looked happy. Maybe being away from Grantville was good for her, too. It sure was for him.

Julio looked at his notes. Things weren't going terribly wrong, but they weren't going like he'd figured a few weeks ago when he'd gotten this wild hair about moving away from Grantville and coming here to start over.

Well, he was starting over. Maybe he would look up an old friend who was supposed to be transferred here and John and Regina. He hadn't seen John for awhile and it was time to meet John's wife, Regina.

Fenton brought him the rough sketches of the warehouse, which was located a few blocks from the naval base. It would do. Julio was letting Fenton handle the actual lease and evaluate the building because, as much as Julio hated to admit it, he really didn't have Fenton's savvy when it came to business.

There was a reason he'd been a window washer, a dish washer, and a cook. He just didn't have a knack for much else. Oh, he'd tried a lot of other things, but he just didn't do very well at any of them. He was a jack of all trades and master of none.

They would establish the Greasy Spoon here, a few blocks away from the naval base; then make sure fliers were handed out at the gates. "Real American Burgers and Fries as well as Beer and Spirits." That should do the trick.

Office of Valentin Sheister, Magdeburg

"No!" Julio shouted at Georg's friend, Valentin Scheister, the lawyer he and Fenton had hired. "We don't have the money to be hiring a bunch of expensive workmen."

Scheister smiled. "I know that with the building boom going on in Magdeburg, labor is getting more expensive. Still, I think I might be able to work out something for you. Just give me a chance and we'll see what can be done."

"Yeah, go ahead. But remember we don't have a fortune to spend." Julio figured he'd better remind Scheister of that.

"I will keep it in mind," Scheister replied. "Also, there is the little matter of payment for arranging the rental and permission to alter the building in question. Will you be paying that soon?"

Julio pulled the leather pouch hanging down inside his pants from his belt and started counting out coins. Things weren't going well. The vast fortune he and Fenton had amassed was not as vast as they'd thought. Things were much more expensive than they'd anticipated and new expenses were turning up every day.

Julio paid the lawyer and headed back to the Greasy Spoon. It looked like the only thing to do now was wait on Scheister and get everyone together for a little music. That was about the only thing turning out good so far. It was funny. Before Juanita's accident, they'd spend time playing music and just plain having fun. It felt good to have it to fall back on again.

The Greasy Spoon, A Week Later

Odetta was installing the second meat grinder on the counter. Julio had insisted that the counters be separated for food preparation. It was going to be rough going without refrigeration. They would have to bring in fresh meat daily or risk poisoning their customers. As it was, she was leery of having to have hired help just to bring in water to cook and clean up the place. They would be using vinegar to sanitize, not a very satisfactory solution to the problem.

Angie was upstairs watching Julie and Juanita. While Odetta could have used her help earlier, the twins would have had to come down her with her. That wouldn't have been a good idea. The two girls could get into anything the minute no one was watching them. It made her glad once again that she'd never had children.

Thinking of children reminded her, she was still playing Russian Roulette with Georg. She might be forty-nine, but her plumbing wasn't totally shut down yet. She had better watch herself or she just might pull an Angie.

At the present, Julio and Fenton were out visiting the leech, Scheister again. Actually, Valentin wasn't all that bad; but every time they turned around, something was coming up that required his help.

Odetta made sure that the wooden waste barrels were in position and that the lids fit securely. She looked around. Everything looked good for the opening next week. The opening had to go off on schedule because Julio said they were getting low on funds. If the funds were low enough for Julio to mention, things were really tight. They needed to get the Greasy Spoon opened and start making money. They had rent coming up in less than a month, as well as other overhead expenses.

Julio refused to touch what he called the "fall back" money-the money they would need to return to Grantville if everything fell apart here. But that wasn't about to happen. Even the oracle of disaster, Fenton, was sure they would succeed now.

Odetta wondered if Georg would leave the stables to one of his underlings and come to listen to them jam tonight. If he did, they could sneak over to his place for a bit of grab and tickle. Maybe a bit more than that.

The guy was really growing on her.

The Greasy Spoon, Grand Opening, One Week Later

Angie looked at her figure. It required a hard look to see the slight bulge that was beginning to develop. She adjusted the ankle length dress and was nearly ready to go to work. Veit had promised to bring a bunch of his friend's from the base tonight. She couldn't wait to see him.

Her raven black hair was pulled back into a long ponytail and tied with green ribbon. She applied her lipstick sparingly since she didn't know if she'd ever get another. She applied blue eye shadow and then the eyeliner. She was ready.

The girl they had hired to watch the twins while she worked was busy playing with Julie and Juanita. Angie had already arranged for her to spend the night so that she could have some time with Veit.

It was time to go downstairs. They had hired two extra serving girls and she was in charge. This was the first time Papa was really trusting her with anything important. For once, she was going to make sure she didn't disappoint him.

She moved away from the makeshift vanity and headed for the door.

Fenton was behind a bar again. This time, though, he had an assistant. The barrels of beer were set up, the tankards were all stacked neatly, and the metal pitchers were ready to go. The only thing they needed now was customers.

Angie came down the stairs and walked over and talked to the two other waitresses. Julio was in the back with Odetta and the new cook.

Fenton watched as Angie lifted the bar locking the entrance door and opened it. The first customers through the door were sailors. Fenton recognized the one who grabbed Angie and put a lip lock on her. It was the same one she had been seeing for the last month. Maybe the girl was going to finally settle down. Better the stupid sailor than him, though. Tigers don't change their stripes and he was sure Angie wouldn't.

More customers started filing in. It looked like they might have a success, not that he hadn't known they would all along.

As the evening wore on, things were going pretty well until some Marines entered. From that point on, things deteriorated rapidly. It wasn't the Marines who caused the problems. The trouble was started by some sailors who had already had a few too many.

Fenton grabbed his baseball bat from under the bar and waded into the fray. He didn't even get a chance to bust heads. Some tough looking characters moved in and the fight was over.

Fenton listened while one of the tough guys said, "No trouble or the Military Police will be in here and put the place off limits." Fenton hadn't thought of that possibility. Off Limits? Something like that would ruin them for sure.

"Thanks."

"Think nothing of it," the man said. "Besides, I think I'm gonna like this place. I'll come around when I'm not busy."

Fenton returned to the bar. His assistant had been running his butt off, trying to keep the beer flowing. There had even been a few orders for the Revenoo-ers Rue he'd brought from Grantville.

Serving liquor had been another problem handled by Scheister. The man actually had an interest in the Greasy Spoon now in lieu of fees. It gave them a mouthpiece on call, but it had also cost them a twenty percent interest. Scheister was really a shyster.

All night long, Julio had been trying to get Christian Grosch to work the skillets of fries. The man refused to do it. He would work the meat grinders, even clean them. Grosch would fry hamburgers or prepare sausages, anything to do with meat; but he refused to touch a vegetable one!

"I'm a journeyman butcher," Grosch complained. "It's bad enough I must prepare the meat as well as do my proper job. I'll not peel your potatoes, cut them up, or prepare them."

In a whining voice he added, "If only my guild master hadn't recommended me for this job."

Julio wanted to strangle the young man. It had cost him a pretty penny to get the Butchers' Guild off his back. He'd been saddled with hiring a journeyman as part of the deal Valentin had brokered.

He had learned more about operating a business than he had ever thought existed. And he was also sure there were things he'd missed. But he was confident that nothing could go wrong.

The Greasy Spoon, Two Weeks Later

"See?" Odetta waved the ledger in front of Julio, Fenton, and Angie. "See what I've been trying to tell you all morning. Yes, The Greasy Spoon is making money! But, we're spending money not just for the supplies of which we are going through a lot, but look!" She pointed to a line in the ledger. "Fenton has made personal withdrawals three times, Angie twice, and Julio once. That doesn't count the cash withdrawal I made. We're in the red after our employees salaries, supplies, and Scheister's twenty percent of the gross." Odetta glared at the others. "And whose great idea was it to give Scheister a twenty percent interest and pay him from gross profits?"

She watched as Julio swallowed.

"Aha! I thought so. At this rate, we'll end up in debtors' prison-if Magdeburg has one."

The first meeting they'd had since the Greasy Spoon had opened wasn't going to be a good one. Odetta knew if something didn't turn around soon, they would be in the shit neck deep. The Greasy Spoon had customers; but as a business it was already sinking.

"I have an idea," Fenton began. Odetta picked up the cup of Willie Ray's finest next to her and took a drink.

Another Two Weeks

Julio finally knew they were beaten. Two weeks ago, they had made a deal with Georg Knaust. He provided the money to pay the rent for the next two months and salaries for the employees while things got straightened out.

Georg had taken a thirty percent interest in the Greasy Spoon.

Things had started to look good until now. They received a tax notice today that nearly brought on heart attacks. It was time to talk to Scheister again.

But first Julio would have to call everyone together. Their business venture wasn't going to work. It wasn't because everyone hadn't been doing their part, and then some. They'd all worked hard. But they just weren't business people.

The Greasy Spoon was popular, it pulled in money, but they just couldn't seem to make it work. The employees were trained. After he had threatened to march Grosch back to the guild request a replacement, even that jerk had straightened out and became a model employee in the kitchen.

Angie was showing pride in herself and staying with the same guy, as far as he could tell-a vast improvement. She had even begun dressing more conservatively. She wasn't a walking billboard for 'free love' any more. He was proud of her, as proud as was possible at this time.

But he could see the writing on the wall. They were not going to succeed.

One Day Later, Scheister's Office

Six people were crammed into the small room Valentin Scheister used for his office.

"I've drawn up the paper work," Valentin said. "All it needs is my signature, Herr Knaust's signature, Herr Sanabria's, and Herr Mase's signature to make it legal."

Julio studied the document before he picked the quill up from the desktop. He dipped it into the ink and awkwardly scrawled his name on the bottom of the document.

Fenton muttered under his breath before taking the quill from his hand and signing.

Georg and Valentin had agreed to take over the Greasy Spoon; however, there were a few stipulations they'd all had to agree on. First, the name was to be changed to the American Greasy Spoon, even though it was owned and operated by down-timers. Second, the up-timers all stayed on for awhile longer. That had made Odetta and Angie happy.

Their time in Magdeburg had been a lesson for them. While they might not be the new owners of the Burger King or McDonald's of the USE, they did function well as a team. They just didn't do it in the restaurant/tavern industry. They didn't have great heads for business.

One thing they were extremely good at was playing music. They had gained a lot of confidence over the past few months. They no longer worried about what they were going to do.

They had a new plan. They were going to run the American Greasy Spoon for Valentine and Georg. They would also provide entertainment. They would form a band called Greener Pastures. One day they would leave Magdeburg. If they could please the customers at the Spoon, they stood a good chance wherever they went.

Julio watched Odetta move toward Georg as the big German took the quill to add his signature. Maybe it would be better if they stayed around Magdeburg for awhile. They might even learn how the German guilds worked.

He watched as the lawyer added his signature. The deal was done.

"That seals the contract." Valentin chuckled as he returned the quill to the table. "I'm glad you chose to stay. It will add an American touch to the American Greasy Spoon."

Julio momentarily felt like the main attraction at a zoo. He smiled to himself. He had better get used to being watched if he planned to play his gitbox on stage. They wouldn't be returning to Grantville any time soon. Staying would give Odetta and Angie a chance to make decisions about their romantic conquests. Now they didn't have to say good bye to friends and, in some cases, loved ones.

It was time for them to try their hand at something new. This time, he didn't just think they would succeed; this time he knew they would.

Grantville's Greatest Philosopher?

By Terry Howard

Ken looked up when the door opened. When he saw the men who were entering, he moved down to the cash register. Once there, he put his hand on the sawed-off shotgun that hung in a rack on the underside of the bar. "Julio," he called.

"Yeah?" Julio Mora replied.

"Nine one one, now!"

"On it." Julio left the sink of dirty dishes and headed for the phone in the back room.

Three men walked through the door. Each was well dressed, one more so than the others. They were armed but that was common enough. Two of them had that air of 'trouble on a short leash.' Muscle, Ken thought. Bodyguards, competent, deadly, dangerous. They were also down-timers. Under the big "Club 250" sign on the door a little sign read "No Dogs and No germans Allowed." All down-timers were "Krauts" as far as the denizens of Ken's bar were concerned.

If it had been a bit later in the day Ken would have told them to get out, knowing there was enough firepower at hand to make it stick. It was, after all, that kind of bar. At this hour, though, the "I want a drink for lunch crowd" was mostly gone. There were only three patrons left. Ken knew they were nothing but three more targets. It was time to stall and pray that the police came quickly, so Ken waited nervously for the down-timers to speak first.

After standing inside the door for half a minute the trio consulted briefly and one of the guards spoke in fairly understandable English. "We have read the sign."

Uh oh Ken thought.

"We are not staying," the guard said.

Relief swept through the owner of the bar. Ken had never killed anyone in the bar and didn't want to start now. For that matter he had never been killed and sure didn't want to start that now, either.

"We were told that the great philosopher, Herr Head, always had lunch here."

James Richard Shaver, Jimmy Dick, often referred to behind his back as Dick Head, a name he richly deserved for being a jerk of the first water, actually managed to blush. Ken, from long practice, managed to swallow his laughter completely. Some of his patrons were a mite touchy, especially when they were drunk.

"Herr Krieger wishes to converse with him," the guard continued. "It need not be here, where we are not allowed. Over dinner tonight, at the newly opened salon, perhaps?"

Ken let out the breath he was holding and took his moist hand off the shotgun. The tension flowed out of his muscles and evaporated without leaving any residue on the floor. Politely, he answered the trio with complete honesty. "There is no one here right now who answers to the name Herr Head. Can I ask who sent you?"

"We sought the gathering place of the local philosophical society at the…" The guard did not quite pause, "'front counter', where we took lodgings. We were directed to the…" This time he did pause while he wrapped his tongue around a more difficult, recently learned, word phrase, "'Police Station.' They directed us to the.. ." Again a new word. "'Post office.' There we were told that the only fulltime, practicing philosopher in town was Herr, excuse me, Mister Head, and he could be found here having lunch, since there was no longer a Cracker-barrel in town."

"Did the post office say Mister Head or dickhead?" Ken inquired.

"Yes, Dick Head is the name we were given."

The other two patrons snickered and James blushed again.

"Where are you staying?" Ken asked. "If Herr Head comes in today, I'll give him the message. And then, if the greatest of Grantville's philosophers wishes to talk to you, he can send a disciple to make arrangements."

All the while Ken spoke, Jimmy Dick was thinking hard. He was never going to live this down. He knew it. People who hadn't spoken to him in years, if ever, would hail him on the streets of Grantville at the slightest of excuse, just to have the opportunity of addressing him as "Herr Head." The more polite of them would seek the opinion of Grantville's greatest philosopher. Small towns can be quite cruel that way.

It was almost a relief when the door opened and two cops walked in.

"Is there a problem, Mister Beasley?" one of them asked.

"No. No problem at all. These gentlemen were just leaving."

One cop looked at the other and tilted his head slightly towards the door. The second nodded ever more slightly. Then Hans, the down-time cop, went out with the three strangers to make sure they didn't have any complaints that should be addressed.

Lyndon approached the bar. When he reached the cash register he asked, "What happened, Ken?" Officer Johnson was probably the only cop that ever addressed Ken Beasley by his first name. He once briefly dated Ken's step-daughter, and Ken still thought well of him.

"Sorry about that, Lyndon," Ken said. "When three armed Krauts came through the door looking dangerous, I thought I had a problem. Turns out someone down at the post office sent them here on a wild goose chase; just to get rid of them, I suspect."

Lyndon worked so hard to swallow his laughter that he almost choked on it. "Sorry about that, Ken," Lyndon apologized. "I guess that's our fault. When the three wise men came wandering into the station looking for our philosophers so they could commune with them, the person behind the desk tried to explain that we didn't have any. She finally got rid of them by sending them to the Post Office. After all, they have everybody's address. Well, someone thought it was funny, I guess, to let them chase their tails all over town and called the post office and suggested Jimmy Dick."

"Thanks a hell of a lot!" James added from the sidelines.

Lyndon continued. "If the post office had given them his home address they never would have come here."

"Hey?" Jimmy Dick called out. "Hello." He waved his hand in a big "bring on the train" wave. "I'm down here. If you can't talk to me, you could at least not talk about me as if I ain't here, damn it."

"Oh, I'm sorry, Jimmy," Lyndon said. "When I didn't see you talking to them I figured you weren't here."

"Why the hell should I talk to them? And why was it funny to give them my name?" James demanded. Then before that could be answered, if indeed it could be, he also asked, "And just who do I thank for that anyway? And why would I want them poking around my house?"

Lyndon started to answer the first or second question and then bit his tongue. He didn't answer the third question either but he did reply to it. "Jeez, Jimmy, I'm not sure who made that call."

In truth, Lyndon knew exactly who made the call. He knew it had been discussed for almost three minutes and everybody in the office, including the chief, knew about it and thought it was funny.

The conversation started out with someone suggesting that they call the post office and have them send the three wise men down to the stables to look for Don.

"Don who?" someone asked.

"Donald Duck," someone else suggested.

"That would do, but I was thinking of Ma Quixote's oldest boy."

The people in the room had chuckled. Then someone had showed his age by saying, "If they want philosophy, we should send them to Ma and Pa Kettle."

"Who's that?" At least two people asked.

As he tried to explain who Ma and Pa Kettle were and then what a cracker-barrel philosopher was, the name Dick Head came up.

The truth was that they were, perhaps, just a little embarrassed that they did not have a Philosophical Society in town nor did they have anybody they considered a philosopher. So they sought to hide the embarrassment in humor. Pain turned inward is depression. Pain turned outward is anger. Pain turned sideways is humor. All three can be destructive.

"If there's no problem I'd better get back to work," Lyndon said. Ken noticed he hadn't answered the fourth question, either.

The other two patrons were out the door behind him before it shut all the way. The closing of the door seemed to trigger a wave of laughter.

"Ken, bring me a bottle of whatever you're calling whiskey these days," Jimmy Dick said. "That story is all over town by now. Looks like I'll be doing my drinking at home for a good long while."

"Shoot, Jimmy. That won't help and you know it. The only thing you can do is make it your joke on the Krauts and ride it out."

James picked up his beer and took a long slow sip and thought for a minute. You can't talk while you're drinking and you can't talk while you're thinking. Or is it you can't think while you're talking? James mind went back to junior high school. If someone insulted you it was best to turn it back on them; it was almost as good if you could turn it on someone else, then you were doing the laughing instead of being laughed at.

"Oh, come on, Jimmy," Ken said, "why do you think I told them you'd have a disciple come to their hotel? You can have the whole town laughin' at you or you can have the town laughin' at them."

"I don't know, Ken."

"Go have a free dinner. Order two of the most expensive meals on the menu. Hand them some bullshit. Then tell everybody in town what saps the puffed up highbrow Krauts are."

"I don't know, Ken," James said, again. The answer came a bit slower this time.

Ken knew he was coming around. "Well, why not?" Ken pushed.

"That interpreter he had was hard on the ears," James said. It was lame and he knew it. He also knew that he would be taking Ken's advice. He just couldn't give in without arguing. It wasn't in his nature.

"So when you send the messenger tell 'em you're bringing your own. Better still, tell them you're bringing two, so it'll be three on three."

Julio brought half a tray of glasses to add to the stack under the bar. The only time he ever brought less than a full tray was when he wanted an excuse to come out front. "I'll get my grandson to deliver the message," he said.

"He's in school, ain't he? I want to get this over with." James said.

"I'll call over there and get him out," Julio said.

"Why don't we just call the hotel?" James asked.

"Naw! It ain't dignified enough. Grantville's greatest philosopher would send a formal note. While we're waiting for the boy, I'll call home and get a blank card. Don't just stand there, Julio," Ken said. "Call the school and get the kid over here."

When Matthew got back to school he had missed one class and was late for the next. When he entered Mister Onofrio's math class he handed the teacher a note from the office. The note said simply "Matthew Bartholow was excused and may be admitted to class at this time."

After forty years of teaching, Emmanuel Onofrio knew a rat when he smelled one. "You will speak to me after class, young man. Do you have today's assignment?" It was the last class of the day and Emmanuel knew Matthew's shift as a bus boy didn't start until dinner time. The lad had tried, once, to use it as an excuse for not having his homework done.

When the room was empty except for the two of them, Mister Onofrio asked, "Just where were you, young man?" in his well practiced "I can see your soul so don't mess with me" voice.

"My grandfather sent for me to run an errand," Matthew replied.

"And what was this errand that was so important that it couldn't wait?"

"They needed a message delivered." The boy's answer sounded rather lame to the old man.

"And what was this important message, that had to be delivered, by you, before school was out?" The mathematician wanted to know. The boy blushed but did not say a word.

"Come, come," the gray beard said. He knew he was near a confession when the lad blushed. "Speak up."

"Well, they didn't tell me not to read it," Matthew said.

"So you read it. What did it say?"

"Dick Head, along with an interpreter and an associate, will be pleased to except Herr Krieger's dinner invitation tonight at seven. Please make reservations for six at Grantville Fine Foods."

At the name Dick Head, Emmanuel Onofrio started to dismiss the whole thing as a bad joke. But the name Krieger caught his full attention. "Krieger?" He almost gasped. "Not Wilhelm Krieger?"

"That's the one. I got his first name at the counter when I delivered the note," Matthew said.

"Why would he want to see that idiot Jimmy Dick?" Emmanuel asked the universe, all but forgetting that there was another person in the room.

"All I know is that the post office sent 'em lookin' for Dick Head and they found him where Grandpa works afternoons," Matthew said.

"The post office?!" The puzzled teacher nearly yelped. "Why would they send him there?"

"I don't know."

"That will be all."

Shortly after Matthew left, Emmanuel was on his bicycle. He was heading for the post office and determined to get to the bottom of it all.

The gray haired man stepped up to the window to be promptly told, "Sorry, Emmanuel, there isn't any mail for you. I'd send it on to the school anyway."

"No, I'm not expecting anything. I was wondering though… Well, I heard something improbable from a student and thought I ought to check before I called him on it. You didn't see Wilhelm Krieger today did you?" Emmanuel asked.

"Not that I know of," she answered.

"Thank goodness. That's a relief. I was told you sent him looking for Jimmy Dick," he said.

"Oh! The three wise men. Yeah, I sent them to Club 250 to see the Dick, ah, Jimmy Dick." Even grown ups can be intimidated by an old teacher.

"Why?" Emmanuel practically shouted.

The post mistress must have "got her back up" at his tone of voice, at the implied criticism, and at being made to feel like a naughty little girl. "'Cause the cops called over here and told me to. If you got a problem with that go and talk to them." With those words she turned away from the window.

Shortly thereafter, Emmanuel found himself at the police station. Shortly after that, he found himself in Chief Richards office. Oddly, it was the chief who was uncomfortable.

"Chief Richards, do you know why one of your people sent Wilhelm Krieger to speak to Jimmy Dick?"

"Well, Mister Onofrio, what can I say? It seemed like a good idea at the time."

"Chief, you just sent the biggest jerk in the whole town to represent us to the greatest intellectual mind that Germany is likely to produce this century."

"Never heard of him," Chief Richards replied.

"He probably didn't live long enough to make it into our history books. Beyond doubt, he will be in the ones we're writing now. His published work on philosophy guarantees that, even if he never writes another word. We can't have him thinking that jackass, Jimmy Dick, represents Grantville. You've got to stop it." Chief Richards knew Emmanuel must be a very flustered academic. He wasn't just speaking forcefully, he was nearly shouting.

"I don't see what I can do about it. Having dinner isn't a crime. If you feel that strongly about it, go talk to Jimmy Dick. Now, is there anything else I can help you with before I get back to work?" Chief Richards was getting a bit annoyed. He wasn't used to being yelled at in his own office.

Emmanuel put his kickstand down outside of Club 250 within a few minutes of leaving the police station. As he read the sign, 'No Dogs And No germans Allowed', his mind corrected the missed capital letter. Then he realized it had been done that way on purpose. He took a deep breath, squared his shoulders and entered the den to bait the lions.

Ken looked up as Emmanuel walked in. Emmanuel could see that Ken didn't immediately recognize him. Then he apparently decided that Emmanuel was obviously an up-timer, probably okay. The old man approached the bar and Ken asked, "What can I get ya'?"

"I'm looking for Jimmy Dick," Emmanuel said.

"He ain't here," Ken answered.

"You're Ken Beasley, right?" Emmanuel asked.

"Yeah," Ken answered.

"I'm Emmanuel Onofrio," Emmanuel said.

"Ralph's uncle?" Ken asked.

"Or his brother, depending on which Ralph you're referring to. Perhaps you can help me. I need to convince Jimmy Dick to not keep that dinner date tonight."

"Why?"

"Mister Beasley," Emmanuel started to explain but was interrupted.

"Call me Ken," Ken said. "The only people who call me Mister Beasley in here are cops here on official business."

"Ken, Jimmy Dick is the butt of a horrible joke. A joke that's in very bad taste, I might add, perpetrated by the police department."

"Manny, we knew that when we sent the note accepting the invitation," Ken said.

Emmanuel ignored being called Manny. The old man detested that nickname, but was dealing with a shock of his own at the moment. "You knew?"

"Sure," Ken said.

"Then why did he accept?"

"Well, Grantville is going to be laughing about this for years to come. We decided we'd rather have them laughing at some damned Kraut stuffed shirt than at one of our own," Ken explained.

"But, Mister Beasley, Ken, that Kraut stuffed shirt is Wilhelm Krieger. He's here to research our philosophy before he writes about it for all of Europe to read." When it came to Herr Krieger's purpose Emmanuel was guessing. Correctly, as it turned out, but still just guessing.

"Really?"

"Do you actually want all of Europe to judge us by Herr Krieger's impression of Jimmy Dick?" Emmanuel asked.

Ken looked taken aback for a moment. The stakes were a lot higher than he had realized, apparently. Still, he asked, "Do you really want Jimmy to spend the rest of his life being laughed at over this?"

Emmanuel started to speak and paused with his mouth open. He hadn't thought of that. He was angry with himself. In an argument you take the time that your opponent is speaking to plan your next point. In a discussion you listen to the other party and think about what was said before responding. He hated arguing and was annoyed with himself for having slipped into one. Still, he had to try. "Mister Beasley, this is important. Way too important to leave in the hands of Jimmy Dick Shaver."

"Well, the cops should've thought of that before they set him up to take a pratfall. Shouldn't they have?"

"I can't agree with you more. Their behavior is reprehensible. But what can you do, report them to the police?" Emmanuel asked.

Ken actually laughed. The hostility that had been building was, provisionally, set aside, though it was ready to hand and could be easily put back in play.

"Where is Jimmy Dick? Perhaps I can reason with him," Emmanuel said.

"I doubt it." Ken smiled. "His mind is pretty well made up. Have a seat and a beer on the house. Jimmy will be back shortly. He's gone out to nail down his interpreter for tonight."

That caught Emmanuel's curiosity. "Who is he getting?"

"He wants Old Joe Jenkins."

"That old hillbilly?"

"Yep." Ken nodded. "Jimmy said he heard him translatin' sermons, German to English and English to German right down to the emotional slant of the preacher and was never more than one word behind. He also said that Old Joe Jenkins was the smartest man he had ever met."

Emmanuel was shocked to find that he was angry or jealous and chided himself for it. Why should he care about the opinion of the biggest jackass in a town half full of petty, close minded people? Besides he had never really met Jimmy Dick, so the poor man didn't really know what a smart man was. Then he chided himself for being overly proud and again for being uncharitable to the village he grew up in and had chosen to retire to.

"Who's his other second?" Emmanuel asked.

"Huh?" Ken looked confused.

"Jimmy has been challenged to a duel of wits. He's taking two seconds. One is Joe Jenkins. Who is the other one?"

"I don't think that's been settled yet," Ken said. He knew for a fact that Jimmy was assuming he would be the third member of the party. He wasn't thrilled with the idea. Fresh organic fertilizer had a way of splattering anyone close by when it hit the fan and he didn't want to deal with it. A thought grew in his mind and a smile grew on his face. "But I think it should be you."

Fritz Shuler was ecstatic. On a week night his struggling restaurant, Grantville Fine Foods was booked to capacity. He hadn't had a night like this since the opening rush. The crowd was almost all up-timers, for a change. There was one reservation from a down-timer. Then the calls started trickling in. The trickle steadily increased until he was turning people away.

Fritz was frantically putting the final touches on the new policy that he hoped would be the salvation of his investment. He had researched up-time dining before he opened. He found a paper maker who would make paper plates and napkins. His niece bought plastic flatware and cups at school from anyone who would sell them.

He had set out to provide an authentic West Virginia dining experience. He featured catfish, Kentucky style chicken cooked in a very expensive "pressure cooker," and beef grilled to order, on top of a full menu. The down-timers found it charming but up-timers didn't come back.

Someone finally explained the difference between fast food and fine food. After tonight when diners arrived they would be asked, "Paper or cloth napkins?" But tonight, except for the one table, everyone would have real linen, silver flatware, fine china and glass. He hadn't planned to start that until next week but when the river floods, it's time to float the logs.

After a hard day of frantic preparations the night was not going well. People who arrived at six were lingering over coffee and wine, as if waiting for something. People who had a seven o'clock reservation were arriving early, as if they were afraid they would miss something. Customers were piling up in the waiting area. There were no open tables except for the one set for six with paper and plastic. Fritz was not going to put an up-time patron there. He gritted his teeth and started passing out free wine.

The down-timers arrived a bit early. Oddly, no one in the waiting area objected to being passed over. Fritz showed them to the table where they immediately examined the place settings in detail as was typical of a first time down-timer diner. Fritz was shocked when the rest of the party arrived and were up-timers. Well, it was too late to change things now.

Fritz showed the new arrivals to the table. Before they could seat themselves one of the down-timers stood up. Fritz was startled and just a bit worried.

In passable English the standing man said, "Herr Krieger suspects that he is being played for a fool." From the look on his face the interpreter was completely convinced of it and was more than a little pleased about it for some reason.

Emmanuel's heart dropped. He had hoped he could take the conversation into Latin, the language of scholarship, and control the night. Now the game was lost before it started. All he could think to do was apologize profusely. Before he could start Joe Jenkins spoke up.

"Why does he suspect that?" Joe asked.

It was a fair question, Emmanuel thought, but something about the way Joe said it was… Latin! It was Latin; accented but understandable Latin. Where did a dumb hillbilly learn Latin?

The interpreter looked perplexed. Emmanuel guessed that he didn't know Latin, just his native dialect of German and the passable English he had picked up somewhere. Herr Krieger, on the other hand, was suddenly focused completely on Joseph. He motioned for the interpreter to sit down.

"My man here claimed to have overheard a conversation leading him to believe Dick Head is not a name but an insult," he said in crisp Latin. His voice was quite tainted with suspicion and hostility.

"Well, he is right about it being no one's proper name." Joseph continued speaking in Latin, to Emmanuel's ongoing amazement. "I am Joseph Loudoun Jenkins, now commonly known as Old Joe. When I was young I was known was Low Down Jenkins. Over there is Emmanuel Onofrio, known to his students as Oman Frio, meaning Old man 'Frio. Don't look sour, Emmanuel. You know it's so. Emmanuel is otherwise known as Ralph's brother or Ralph's uncle, depending upon the age of the speaker. Your third guest is James Richard Shaver, commonly known as Jimmy Dick, sometimes called Dick Head."

"Why?" Wilhelm asked.

Joe began to answer. "Well, sir." Hearing the West Virginia accent and word choice coming out of Joseph's mouth while speaking Latin was amazing to Emmanuel. Still, somehow, it felt like Joseph was yet going to pull it out of the soup. "We came from a very busy time. Anything we could do to get things done faster we did it. Even our language was rushed. We didn't have time to say 'The United States of America,' so we said 'the U.S.A.' When I was a young man we had a 'President,' a leader named Eisenhower. He was very highly esteemed. Everyone referred to him as Ike. Later two presidents in a row were known by initials, J.F.K. and then L.B.J." Joseph answered the question while completely ignoring what was asked.

"Are we just goin' t' stand here or what?" Jimmy Dick spoke up.

Herr Krieger's interpreter translated the question into German. Wilhelm nodded slightly and motioned to the chairs with a slight hand movement. Emmanuel realized that James was a loose cannon who was getting irate about not knowing what was going on. He started translating the Latin into English for him.

"So you shorten names for convenience. That is nothing that we do not do. But he is Dick Head. Is that not an insult?" Wilhelm asked.

"Have you studied Hebrew, Herr Krieger?" Joseph asked.

"Briefly." Wilhelm said. "There were works I wanted to read, but in the end it proved more workable to have them translated."

"I know what you mean. I tried to learn Hebrew and Greek but it was more time than I could spare back then. Knowing French helped when I decided to learn Latin six months ago," Joseph said.

"You have only been working on Latin for six months? Incredible," Wilhelm said. Emmanuel agreed.

"We Americans do things in a hurry. I thought I might need it for dealing with the Catholics, so I was motivated. As I was saying about Hebrew, you know that the word 'Rosh' can translate as 'first' or 'top' or 'head.' Dick can be used in English to mean 'penis.' But it also can mean 'any man' for obvious reasons. Like the words," he shifted to English for two words "lumberjack and steeplejack. So, yes, it can be an insult. But then, to misquote scripture, 'a philosopher is not without honor except in his own home.'"

Wilhelm smiled and started to call for wine by picking up his glass and holding it in the air. But he stopped with the red plastic cup only inches off the table. "Why are we the only ones who have these?" he asked.

"Shit," Jimmy Dick said. "They came from up-time with us and when they're gone they're gone. You're being honored." He swallowed the words, 'ya dumb Kraut', because Emmanuel had impressed on him how important the dinner was. "Honored with a piece of the future. Everybody else here tonight has to make do with the here and now."

Emmanuel started translating what was said into Latin before Herr Krieger's man could give an uncensored version. People at the nearby tables seemed to be taken with sudden fits of coughing.

"Waiter, wine for my guests," Wilhelm Krieger called out. When he did it seemed as if there was a pause in conversation while he spoke. The noise level in the room unquestionably went back up when he set his glass down. "This," he waved his hand to include everything on the table, is truly amazing, so light, yet strong." He picked up a fork and looked at it skeptically. "Can you truly eat with this? It seems like it would break."

Emmanuel was busy translating German to English for Jimmy Dick, who was amongst the minority in Grantville who refused to learn German. So the conversation fell to Joseph, who responded in German. "They can break if you try cutting meat with them, so you use the knife. They were made to be thrown away after one use."

"Truly?" Wilhelm asked with raised eyebrows. "What of the expense?"

"You could buy a box of one hundred for less than you earned in an hour," Joseph replied. "They were not highly esteemed but it saved the time of washing up. Our thought was 'anything to save time.' We were a very busy people."

Herr Krieger's eyebrows went up again. Emmanuel could almost see him thinking that there was a fortune to be made here.

"Unfortunately, we can't make any more. Even if we had the equipment, the materials are not available. These are the last for at least ten years," Joseph said.

"Unfortunate, indeed. Do you teach at the local academy also?" Krieger asked.

"No. I don't have the credentials it takes to do that," Joseph said.

"But with your Latin… and you are a philosopher, surely?"

"Neither Latin nor philosophy are much regarded." Turning to Emmanuel, Joseph said, "Why don't you tell Herr Krieger about the school system."

Emmanuel set about giving a detailed account of Grantville's schools. As far as he was concerned, he was justifiably proud of them, even if they were on the low side of average up-time. Joseph translated for Jimmy this time. Ordering food interrupted the flow of Emmanuel's lecture, but he eventually concluded with, "I would put our high school graduates up against Jena's University students when it comes to general knowledge. When it comes to specialized knowledge, I would match Jena graduates with ours in the same field. Of course, we have areas of study that they do not." He was thinking drivers' ed, and then others.

The food arrived. Diners began to leave while others arrived and took seats. It didn't look like the hoped for fireworks were going to happen. No one had the Latin to follow the conversation, so why stay?

"Your colleague says Latin and philosophy are not esteemed?" Wilhelm asked.

"We offer Latin as an elective. Philosophy is covered as part of English literature," Emmanuel answered.

Herr Krieger cautiously cut at his steak with the plastic knife and was visibly surprised that it worked. The silent bodyguard tried cutting his with the fork. It broke in his hand. A staff member immediately turned up with a set of silver utensils for him, and took the knife and spoon away. Emmanuel had the chicken. It was quite good. It had been so long since he last had Kentucky chicken that he couldn't tell the difference. The slaw, mashed potatoes and gravy were superlative.

After his first bite Wilhelm Krieger reverted to Latin. "Herr Head, is war mankind's greatest glory or it's greatest shame?"

Emmanuel translated the question.

"Hell, it's neither," Jimmy Dick Shaver answered. Joseph translated the answer.

"Neither?" Herr Krieger prompted.

"War is a great adventure," Jimmy Dick quoted. "But, an adventure is someone else havin' a hard time of it somewhere else. War is glorious when you win with an acceptable casualty rate. But no casualty rate is acceptable to the casualty. And since someone always loses, war is glorious less than half the time.

"To the men in the middle of it," James continued, "war is at best boring drudgery spiked with moments of terror. For some, it is a walking nightmare that never leaves them this side of the grave."

"Then it is our greatest shame?" Krieger asked.

"There are greater shames," James said after Emmanuel translated the question. "The holocaust comes to mind."

"Do you want me to explain that?" Joe asked.

"Might as well," James said.

"In our history, Herr Krieger," Joseph said, "in the years of the nineteen thirties and forties, a Prussian government rounded up twelve million people they did not approve of. Jews, gypsies, Poles, Slavs, and others. Then they exterminated them."

"Like Vlad the Impaler killing every beggar in the kingdom," Herr Krieger said. "But, that many?"

"It was a very full world," Joseph said. "Look it up at the library. The key words are Nazi, and Holocaust. It will surely confirm the six million Jews. You may have to dig to find the others. They are often forgotten."

Wilhelm Krieger looked at James. "But, this Holocaust is surely a fluke?"

"No!" James replied. "Pol Pot, five million, Saddam, three million, Stalin… who knows how many millions."

"So these holocausts are man's greatest shame?" Krieger asked. The undertone of skeptical unbelief was less than perfectly hidden.

"Hell no!" James answered.

A frustrated Wilhelm finally demanded, "If it is not war and it is not slaughter then what is it?"

Emanuel translated the question. Joseph waited for the answer. James paused. His last "hell no" was a reaction without conscious thought. Now he needed a response. "Tell him that mankind's greatest shame is running out of good whiskey. No, wait." A memory of personal pain gushed into his mind like a torrent of water from a long forgotten dam that crumbled. "Tell him our greatest shame is an uncherished child. A man's greatest glory is to love his wife and raise his children well."

Joseph translated it. Wilhelm started at him like a pole-axed steer for at least five seconds. Then he turned to Emmanuel. "Did he translate that correctly?"

"Yes," was all Emmanuel said.

Wilhelm looked back at Joseph. "Do you agree with him?"

"Well, it was my greatest joy. And yes, it is my greatest glory. So I agree with him." Joseph said.

"And you?" Herr Krieger asked, looking at Emmanuel.

Onofrio's memories flashed back through a list of unloved, bright children who faded into dull commonness or blossomed into brilliant horrors. "Yes. An uncherished child is our greatest shame."

"You people are hopeless romantics." Krieger's tone made it clear he thought the idea contemptible.

Both up-timer translators laughed. When Emmanuel explained why, James smirked.

"What is so funny?" an obviously angry Wilhelm demanded.

Joseph dried his eyes. "My wife, may she rest in peace, often told me that I was a typical male with no idea of what romance was."

Wilhelm humphed before asking, "Herr Head, how many children did you and your wife raise?"

"I ain't mankind. I'm one man. Nam was my greatest glory and my greatest shame. When I returned no women worth puttin' up with would have me and any women who would put up with me weren't worth havin'."

He saw no reason to tell this damned Kraut about his personal life. When Bina Rae found out their baby had "bad bones," probably from something he brought back from Nam; something he hadn't told her about, she moved out on him. She acted like Agent Orange was some sort of venereal disease he could have avoided. When she left he took to hitting the bottle hard and lost his job. Bina Rae wouldn't talk to him, wouldn't go to counseling and wouldn't let him see Little Merle with out a big fight each and every time.

Now Merle was living in the nursing home and as long has the bills were paid he never heard from or of her. Merle would not speak to him for abandoning her. She never even heard his side of the story.

The only happy year of his miserable life crashed in 1973. Bina Rae came home from the doctor and was packed up and gone when he got home from work. He got drunk and stayed drunk. Along the way he got divorce and listed as sixty percent disabled instead of the usual thirty percent for a head case. Up to the Ring of Fire the Veteran's Administration paid for Merle out of his disability check. Now he was making do with family money off of rental properties an agent managed.

None of that was anybody's damned business, especially some damned Kraut.

"So you admit that your greatest glory and your greatest shame is war. But you would have me believe it is raising children." Herr Krieger turned to his interpreter and spoke in loud, angry, German while rising to his feet and pocketing the plastic spoon. "You are right! I am being played for a fool. Settle up with the proprietor and return to the lodgings." Then without a fare-thee-well, he and the silent bodyguard stalked out of the totally silent room.

Jimmy Dick was the first to speak. "Ya know, this catfish is really quite good."

The dinning room burst into roaring laughter.

When it had mostly died down Emmanuel Onofrio stood and extended his hand to Jimmy "Dickhead" Shaver. "Mister Shaver," he said in a voice pitched to carry, "it was truly a pleasure translating for Grantville's only fulltime practicing philosopher."

The Misadventures of T amp; V

Mama Mia, That's A Good Pizza Pie!

By Jon and Linda Sonnenleiter

Early October 1634, Naples

The ash dust flew up when Vince fell flat on his face. They had just left the main entrance to the mission's rented villa and Vince had tripped in a hole he hadn't been able to see.

Tim laughed. "What kind of impression are you going to give the Italians, Vince? They'll probably think you're some kind of major klutz."

Tim Claggett stood 6 feet tall and weighed 190 pounds. A big change from up-time, when he'd been a junk food addict and had weighed 310 pounds. Both men were in their early thirties and in excellent shape. That helped when you were meant to be an embassy guard.

When he was standing above the road, instead of lying on it, Vincent Petrini, aka Vince, was 5 feet 10 inches and weighed in at 160 pounds. Except for the pound of Vesuvius' ash that he was busily brushing from his clothes.

"Damn. You'd think these pockets of ash would have blown out to sea after three years," said Vince. "But no, the wind keeps bring that volcano's ash into the city every time the winds come from the south. I'm tired of tripping in these ash-covered holes in the road." Vince's face was glum. "It's been a bad day and I'm pissed. Let's go." He took off for town at a fast walk.

"Well, what are we going to do now?" asked Tim. He hurried to keep up with Vince who was heading towards the middle of town.

They'd been the city four times since they arrived. By now, they considered themselves old hands at finding their way around, even though they'd only been a mile or less from the villa. The town seemed very busy, and at times dangerous. Still, they were starting to get a little bored with the uptight people and the lack of good food. "Good" food, of course, meaning junk food.

Tim kept dreaming of big, greasy cheeseburgers dripping with ketchup, mustard, onions, lettuce, tomatoes and a half pound of grease from the grill. The kind that were served with western fries, smothered in salt, with a jumbo strawberry shake. Or maybe foot long hot dogs smothered in everything, with a cherry vanilla coke to wash everything down. His mouth watered just thinking about it.

"Damn it, what I wouldn't give to have a big cheesy pizza with the works." Vince shouted to the sky. He stopped quickly, causing Tim to bump into him. " Man, this is Italy, the home of great pizzas. Where are the pizza shops? There has to be someone who knows something about the subject."

"Vince, remember this is 1634. Hell, Italy isn't really Italy yet. It's not like back home in our time, where you couldn't go a few blocks without seeing a pizza shop, or any kind of fast food place."

"It's not fair," Vince said as he slumped against the stone wall. "There has to be somewhere here that can make a decent pizza."

Vince knew that being here was hard on Tim but here they were. All anyone could do was try to make the best of a bad situation and try to look on the bright side. If there is one he thought. At least some things had improved since they got here. Tim had lost over one hundred pounds, fine. But still and all, there was no sense in having to eat the same old food day after day. There was no imagination in the Italian foods. They needed to mix things up a little.

Vince let out a long sigh and started to walk a lot slower. This time Tim was right beside him and not hurrying to keep up. They walked in silence, passing all the street vendors hawking their wares and people pushing each other to get to what they were selling.

"Well, where do you want to go eat now?" Vince asked. When there was no reply he turned to see that Tim wasn't there. He looked around and didn't see him. "Now where in blue blazes did he get off to?"

Vince took a moment to look around him but saw no Tim. He started to walk back the way he came, all the while looking around to see if Tim was among the crowd. A few minutes later he spotted Tim. He was talking with a man who was selling fruits by a fountain. The fear he had been feeling that his friend might have been taken by some thugs was turning into anger. He rushed up to Tim and grabbed him by his right arm and spun him around to face him. The fruit vendor let out a little yelp and jumped under his table, almost knocking it over.

Vince felt like punching Tim for scaring him that way. Instead, he pushed him a bit and shouted, "Don't ever do that again. Disappear on me like that. I thought some thugs might have jumped you and shuffled you away. Worse yet, what if a couple of Spanish soldiers wanted one of their special chats with you? If you're going to stop somewhere let me know."

"I told you I was going to go ask someone where they make pizzas. You must not have heard me." Tim rubbed the arm Vince had grabbed. He started off back down the street. "I thought you heard me. Shit, do a guy a favor and he goes off like this. If a couple of criminals took hold of me, I'd have hollered and fought like hell. Ah, shit. I need a drink."

"I need a whole bottle," muttered Vince.

They went to their favorite tavern and picked a table toward the back of the room. "A jug of the best red," Tim said. The waiter scurried off and brought the wine in short order. They were on their second glass when Vince finally spoke.

"Sorry, man. I never should have gone off on you like that. But how was I to know you decided to ask questions and weren't kidnapped? Damn, it's hard to think of the Spanish ruling the roost here."

"I should have made sure you heard before I stopped to talk to that guy. I'm sorry, too." Tim raised his glass and nodded. Vince clinked his glass to Tim's and they both drank the wine straight down. "But I did find out there's a place here that specializes in making pizzas and I thought I'd treat you to one."

"Pizza like the ones we got back home?"

"I doubt it," Tim said. "But I thought we could give it a try. In fact, I got to thinking… maybe if it isn't like we could get back home, well, just maybe we could teach them how to make a really awesome pizza." He paused a moment and gave Vince a sly wink. "Never know. We might just make a little money on the side teaching them how to do it."

"You mean like a franchise, like a McDonald's or something?" Vince liked the way his friend was thinking. For once, he thought, they could be making money the easy way like so many others were. If a bunch of teenagers could do it, why couldn't they? "Do you think we got the stuff here to do it?"

"Vince, we just walked through an open market. Didn't you see the different meats and vegetables and smell the spices?"

"Uh… no. I wasn't paying any attention, I was still mad at you." Vince took another sip of his wine.

"Come on, Vince." Tim rolled his eyes. "We've been though here before. Didn't you notice anything then?"

Vince made a face. "Okay, okay. You got me. I just never notice things like that. I was looking at buildings and people. I mean, I saw they were selling food. I just never noticed what kind. I guess that makes me a lousy Italian. Mom would be in seventh heaven here. It's really funny. Up-time I always wanted to visit Italy. But now that I'm here, it's dangerous and dirty and it really, really stinks."

"Amen to that," Tim said. "Just trust me. I noticed the food. Everything we need is here, if it isn't… well, then we can make do with what we do have. Where there's a will, there's a way. What do you say, partner?"

"You know Phil doesn't want us making any waves. The political situation here is dangerous."

"I guess that's why he wants us wearing civilian clothes outside the compound on our own time." Tim poured the last of the wine in the glasses. "We can be careful. What do you say?"

" I say, I've always wanted to own a pizza joint."

It took them about twenty minutes to find the restaurant the vendor told Tim about. Gillmarino By The Sea it was called, and it wasn't too far from the villa where they were staying. They stopped for a moment before getting too close and took a look at it. It wasn't that large. And, well, Tim had to admit that it was a little run down. But there was some space in front that could have some tables put out in it. A vision of a picture he'd seen bubbled to the surface of his mind. Tables on a patio. Wrought iron chairs and tables. Blue umbrellas with the word "Cinzano" emblazoned on them. Yeah. This could work for that. Probably eight tables would fit out front. Maybe a couple of benches. Yeah.

The place wasn't too crowded and getting a table was fast. The first thing they ordered was the best wine they served. When the waiter brought them the bottle and two glasses, they ordered a pizza with the works.

The waiter just looked at them as though they asked for something strange. Tim tried to explain to him what they wanted in his limited Italian and still that look remained. After several minutes, the waiter snapped his fingers and said, " Ah! Neapolitan pie."

"Whatever you call it. Yes, yes." Tim nodded vigorously. "We want the works."

The waiter bowed and headed for the kitchen. Twenty minutes later he came back and placed a large round plate on the table. He stood there smiling.

Vince and Tim looked at what he brought them and they both were speechless. On the plate was a round of cooked dough maybe seven inches in diameter. It had some sliced tomatoes, some green leaves that maybe were a herb of some kind and very little cheese. They looked at each other and then at the still smiling waiter.

"This isn't a pizza." Vince said. "It sort of looks like maybe a poor example or… or…"

"It looks like something a four year old would try to do," Tim piped in. "Is this your specialty? Can we talk with the manager for a few minutes?"

"Yeah. We don't mean any disrespect to your restaurant, but we would like to show you how to make a pizza from our time," Vince said.

"This may be your best." Tim pointed to the pie. "But we can make it even better."

The waiter left with a concerned look on his face. He returned with a short, bald man who introduced himself as one of the owners of the place.

Marco felt a little worried about these up-timers and hoped there wouldn't be any problems with them. He knew he and his family couldn't afford to lose any more business or they would lose the restaurant and everything else. He hoped that these two men wouldn't be his downfall. They tried to serve the best food they could but sometimes that wasn't always easy. The Spanish had placed some pretty high taxes on them-not to mention that they always required the best food for themselves. That left very little for Marco and his people to choose from. He hoped that what the waiter told him was true, that these men could help him. He could use a little bit of luck right now.

"You gentlemen do not like the pie?" he asked, wringing his hands nervously. "This is the best in the house. We only use the best in such a noble dish. We can make you something else to your liking. We wish… to… "

Tim held his hand up to stop the chatter. "We want to help you. Of course, ourselves, as well. What's your name?"

"I am Marco. My family and I own this little place. You wish to help me in some way? May I join you at your table?"

"Please. Join us and have a drink of this excellent wine." Vince motioned towards the empty seat and asked the waiter to bring another glass. "You probably know just from looking at us that we're what people call up-timers. One of the many things we miss from our time is a really good pizza. You call it Neapolitan pie here, but in our time it was called pizza. What you have here," he pointed to the plate, "is the beginning of a pizza."

"You have tomatoes which is the first thing to start the pizza sauce." Tim took over. "You have everything here to make a really great pizza. I've seen it in the markets. We want to show you how it's done. We'll teach you how to do it and in return we ask to be given a small part of your profits."

"You wish to be paid?" asked Marco. "We have no money to give out."

"No, no." Tim shook his head. "You only pay us once the pizza's start selling hand over fist. okay?"

"What do you do with hand and fist?" Marco asked with a puzzled look on his face. "We only cook food here, no hands or fists." Marco wasn't entirely sure these were sane. What did hands and fists have to do with pizza, what ever pizza might be?

"Listen, Marco. That's just a old saying from our time," Vince said. "It just means making more money than you can imagine."

"You wish to help us do that?" Marco asked, looking at them strangely. He stood up. "What is really going on here? We do not want any trouble. We only want to live peacefully with everyone. We start no trouble."

"Neither do we want trouble." Tim motioned for him to sit back down and he poured him some more wine. "We want a pizza like the ones we remember. And we want to share with the people of Naples the great taste of a truly excellent Neapolitan pie." Tim flapped his hand at the Neapolitan pie on the table. "Yeah. Keep that one. No big deal. But the ones we teach you to make can be called pizza. We'll show you how you can put anything on these pies as long as you have the crust, the sauce and the cheese."

"You will become world famous for your pies and become rich while doing it," Vince pronounced solemnly.

Marco looked at Vince and stated. "You are so sure of this?"

"You bet." Vince grinned. "You'll get rich. I'm willing to bet on it. But my friend and I, we only wish to be comfortable in our old age." He asked the waiter to bring another bottle of wine. Then he took a piece of the pie and tasted it. "This is okay. Not bad at all. But we can make it better. Even great. What do you say?"

"I must first talk with my brothers. We will let you know tomorrow if we wish to get rich as you say."

"Fair enough," said Tim.

Bright and early the next morning Vince and Tim made their way to Gillmarino's. Marco and his two brothers, Anthony and Michael, met them there. They all sat down and Tim did all the talking this time. Last night, before they went to bed, he and Vince wrote down everything they could remember about making pizza. They'd argued about what their mothers put into their pizza sauces for a while. Some people liked oregano more than others. They'd written an outline of what went on the pizza and how long it was cooked. Tim was ready for any questions they had. After about twenty minutes of talking, the brothers excused themselves and went behind the bar and talk over what to do.

"Five bucks says they don't go for it," Vince said.

"My father always told me to only bet on sure things." Tim answered. "You're going to lose. Again." He cast a look over at the brothers. They were all talking rapidly and waving their hands in the air.

Ten minutes later the brothers rejoined them at the table. It was Marco who spoke first. "You will teach us how it is done. If it is true what you say, about how it will be received, then we will give you five percent of the intake."

"No, twenty percent," Tim said.

Finally they settled on ten percent for four months only. Vince held out one more requirement. Tim and Vince could eat there for free or no deal. After all, the recipe couldn't be kept secret for very long.

"That's fair." Tim shot a look at Vince to keep quiet and let him handle this. "Shall we get started, say day after tomorrow? It will take a few days to get everything set up and tried out and put just right."

Lucky this was their day off. Vince and Tim spent all day and half the evening making things. They cut up different vegetables and herbs they bought on their way to the restaurant. Tim showed the brothers and the cooks how to cut up the tomatoes and cook them and smash them as they started stewing. He added sage, rosemary, basil and thyme to season the sauce. They didn't have a grater, so Tim showed them how to cut up the cheeses more finely. He even showed them that adding a little olive oil to the dough made a crispier crust.

Vince helped the one brother, Michael, figure out how they'd advertise the new product to the people and how much to charge for each one. It all depended on what was on the pizza. He suggested that they should give out some samples; small pieces, to some of the people who hung around and explained that this would be free advertisement for them.

Michael wasn't real sure about that and it took a good bit of convincing him. "We don't gotta do it every day," Vince said. "Just the first few. Maybe three days? Give the word a chance to spread around." Michael eventually agreed.

By the time Tim and Vince headed back to the villa, they were dog-tired and felt ready to fall asleep as soon as their heads hit the pillows. Hopefully by the time they got off work tomorrow and went to Gillmarino's, the place would be packed. Vince was a little uneasy about the whole thing. If he'd been able to, he'd have taken a few days leave, instead of letting the Gillmarino brothers do it alone.

"Good grief," Tim said, noticing the worried look on Vince's face. "Everything is going to be fine. Who doesn't like real pizza?" Tim was sure everything would be fine.

Vince hoped he was right. They wished each other a good nights sleep and then went to their own rooms.

Vince settled back into his pillows. They were his own pillows, brought from home in his baggage. He never could sleep on strange pillows. You'd think it was Christmas Eve he thought. He was trying to go to sleep so Santa Claus would come. But just like it did for a little kid, the night just dragged on.

The next day was just as bad. Tim and Vince waited anxiously until it was five o'clock and quitting time.

Finally their relief came. They hurried off towards Gillmarino's. Vince hoped that there was a full restaurant and the pizzas were a success.

Standing across from the restaurant, they both felt a little down. It seemed like only a few more people were going in or coming out. "Shit," Vince muttered. He'd really hoped to see a long line of hungry people. Not so, not today. "Maybe tomorrow." He could still hope.

"From the look on your face, old buddy, you're disappointed." Tim patted him on the back. "This is only the first day, guy. Remember the old saying, 'Rome wasn't built in a day.' So cheer up."

"Duh… we're not in Rome," Vince said. He looked at the few people in line. "I need a drink." He took off across the street, heading for the restaurant.

The inside of the restaurant was dim. It took a moment for their eyes to adjust. Finally, Tim spotted an empty table. He whistled. One of the waiters looked up and Tim signaled for a bottle of wine.

Funny Vince thought. Tim is acting as Italian as the Italians, what with all that arm waving. Nevertheless, it worked. The waiter headed for their table with a bottle and three glasses, just as Marco came out from the kitchen and headed toward them.

"How's business, Marco?" asked Tim.

"Slow, but not really slow." Marco poured three glasses of wine. "We did as you told us to do. We started giving out the free samples this morning, yes, yes. They went fast. Hungry people all around, but the majority, they really liked it."

"So the advertising went well, " Vince said. "You got a lot out then?"

"Oh yes, very many. Why, we even sold quite a few in the last hour."

"You don't say." Tim grinned. "We told ya."

Marco ignored him. "Anthony is drawing the menu just like you said, so people can see what comes on the different pizzas, It's good that one of us can draw pictures. You know, with these menus, anyone can order food without having to learn our language. We will get new foreign customers."

"Yes. That would benefit everyone," Tim said. "But Vince was really hoping for a packed house today. Yes, I know, I know, it takes time to get the taste out to the people."

"Mr. Vince." Marco patted him on the shoulder. "This is the first day. I feel within my heart that things will soon improve. You must have faith that this pizza will be received with great hunger soon. How about a pizza with the works?"

Mouths watering, Tim and Vince nodded. "Yes," Vince said. "And another bottle of wine."

Over the next three days Tim and Vince kept track. Each time they went to Gillmarino's they noticed a little more of a crowd. Quite a few people were ordering; but not a few were standing around hoping for a free handout. Some of the customers seemed to be tearing their pizzas apart and looking really close at the items before they slapped it back together and ate it. This made Vince laugh. Tim told Vince as long as they paid for it, they could wear it like a hat for all he cared.

Anthony and Marco joined them at what had now become their usual table. "My friends." Anthony shook their hands. "Each day becomes better, as does our making of the pizzas."

"As you can see, pizzas are becoming quite popular," chimed in Marco. "Soon we will be selling them faster than they can be made."

"If you say so," said Vince.

Tim looked at Vince and then the people in the room. "How about a cheese pizza and a bottle of wine?"

The next day, after work, Tim and Vince headed straight for Gillmarino's. As they rounded the corner to the street the restaurant was on, they noticed a huge line of people waiting to get into Gillmarino's. Both their jaws dropped. With pounding hearts they raced up to the front door and saw Michael directing the flow of people. He saw them and his face lit up with the biggest grin and he hugged them both. He was speaking so fast they didn't understand a word he was saying. But from the looks of the packed place they understood his excitement.

They squeezed their way up to the kitchen area and saw pizzas in all stages. Some dough being rolled out, some getting sauce and toppings, some were coming out of the fire and more going in. Everywhere they looked they saw pizzas. Marco came up to them and also gave them a hug.

"Look at this place. Never has this place seen so many at one time. They are a big success as you said they would be. Once the word got out, people had to come and see and try."

They knew people would love them, but never this much. Even Tim and Vince were struck speechless.

"We even had a fight or two with people wanting to get one first." Marco beamed proudly. "We only hope this will continue this desire to have a pizza your way. We all are going to be rich. Thank you both. You have saved my family from ruin. You deserve everything you get and you will be getting your percentage tonight. Now would you like a pizza with the works?"

They both nodded yes and turned to look for a table.

"Now you can see why I settled on ten percent," Tim said. "We shouldn't get greedy, you know. And let's just say this is only the beginning of things to come."

"Did you bring your fishing pole with you?" Vince asked.

"My fishing pole?" Tim gave him a puzzled look.

"I'm getting hungry for a McDonald's fish sandwich." Vince smiled and gave him a wink.