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

One Step Toward the Clouds
Sean Massey

Hans Richter Field

Near Grantville

December 1633

Marie Moritz concentrated hard as she lined her plane up for final approach. The drone of the engines poured from the speakers next to the monitor as she fought a thirty mile-per-hour crosswind within a simulated Cessna. Although she routinely flew flights like this on her computer, she usually didn't do it while waiting to present this software to the top brass of the new USE Air Force.

The base didn't have a conference room and Colonel Wood's office was supposedly too small, so Marie had been directed to set up her equipment in one of the unused hangars that had recently been constructed. Through an arrangement with Lieutenant Miller, she managed to have her computer delivered to the base and set up two days prior to the meeting.

The room was cold-much too cold for Marie's comfort. The buildings on the base lacked heating. Had she known that, she would have brought gloves and worn something warmer than a skirt.

"Come on, Marie," she told herself. Her left leg began to bounce, draining off her nervous energy. "You can do it. You just have to concentrate." She reached up and adjusted the plane's flaps for landing and began to ease back on the throttle. That's it, just ease her in. You've done this a hundred times. It's no different just because you're going to be demonstrating this software.

Marie kept one eye on the altimeter and the artificial horizon as she descended. She didn't want to descend too quickly and end up as a smear on the ground, and she had to make sure she wasn't descending so slowly that she overshot the runway. The rest of the landing went quickly, and before she knew it, she heard the chirp of the tires on concrete as the plane touched down. As soon as she had brought the plane to a stop, she ended the simulation.

Before she could start another flight, Colonel Jesse Wood, the chief of staff of the nascent Air Force, entered the room a good half an hour late. "Marie Moritz?"

Marie stood up. "Colonel Wood." He had more than a few inches on her 5'3" frame and a strong grip to match.

"And this must be the flight simulator that you plan on showing me. If I remember correctly, you're in high school. I believe you were in Greg Ferrara's Rocket Club."

"Yes, sir," Marie responded.

"I realize you probably have a presentation, Ms. Moritz," he said, "but I think we can dispense with that. I'm familiar with flight simulators from my days in the Air Force. I had to do simulator checks in order to qualify in the aircraft I flew. Flight simulators are very useful for training, but they're a lot different than the real thing."

Marie began to tremble. This isn't going the way I planned. My whole proposal is ruined.

"I need simulators, Ms. Moritz," he said. "I need a way to weed out unsuitable pilot candidates before they get behind the controls of one of our few planes. And I need a way to put potentially good pilots into dangerous or emergency situations without risking them or their planes, so they can learn to handle those situations calmly when they meet them in the air.

"None of the simulators I have experience with came through the Ring of Fire," Colonel Wood continued. "Back up-time, I was aware of home computer based flight simulators, but I never had the time to really delve into them. I recognized how useful the software could be when I was forming up the Air Force this summer, but I didn't have the time or the resources to research it." He gave Marie a wry grin. "I wasn't sure if anyone even had the software or if they would be willing to part with it."

Colonel Wood gestured at the computer. "So tell me more about your flight simulator. Which one are you using? Can you create new aircraft and new terrain files? How realistic is it? And how easily can it be modified?"

Marie took a moment organize her thoughts. Although she could answer most of his questions, her nerves had driven the answers from her head. "I think it'd just be easier for me to do my presentation, Colonel Wood. It should answer most of your questions."

"I'm sorry, Ms. Moritz. I guess I got a little excited by the prospect of having a flight simulator. Please, continue."

"Thank you, Colonel." With her notes in hand, Marie started her rehearsed presentation. The longer she presented, the more comfortable she became. She began by describing the two flight simulators she was familiar with, then went on to discuss how they could be used in training.

"Honestly? I don't know how real these programs are," Marie said as she neared the end of her presentation. "The program literature and comments on the news groups by experienced pilots suggest both programs are realistic. The biggest issue with realism, though, is the aircraft model. If they aren't modeled perfectly, their flight profiles won't be realistic. And even then, it might take some tweaking to get it just right."

Marie took a breath. "Back up-time, that was one of the biggest complaints with all flight simulators. The models would look like the real thing, but avid fans and pilots would take the time to tweak both the default planes and custom creations to ensure they would fly as realistically as possible."

Colonel Wood nodded his understanding. "I can't elaborate too much, Marie, but we have some new plane designs. Can we use the computer to test the design?"

Marie shook her head. "I'm not sure. I know you can't test a design with one of them, but I'm not so sure about the other. The two programs have completely different flight models. I could look into it, though."

He nodded and jotted down some notes. "Okay, you do that. Now, what sort of information do you need to accurately model an aircraft?

"

"I'd need to know basic information about the aircraft. Thrust, drag, stall-speed, engine horsepower and so on. I'd need measurement data to build a 3-D model of the plane. I'd also need trained pilots, preferably the ones with the most hours logged, to perform virtual test flights to help fine tune the model."

"Can you recreate a control panel?"

"You mean on the computer screen?" Marie asked."Yes, you can."

He closed his note book. "I'd like to have at least three of these simulators up and running by summer. I'd prefer more, but I'm not sure you'll be able to find many people willing to part with their computers. You'll need to model the Belle II and, possibly, another plane or two that might enter service in the next couple of months. With the way things have been going lately, I doubt I'll personally have the time to help, but I'll let it be known that everybody should give you all the help you need. Without a doubt, you're my man. Uh, person.

"I'll be able to wiggle some money out of the budget for this, but Mike Stearns will give me an earful about it. I'll need your budget within two weeks, and please keep it as low as possible. "

Marie was startled at the speed of his decision. "Thank you, sir."

As she rode home from the base that evening, she thought about her assignment. She hadn't expected to be offered a contract to work on the flight simulators, but she wanted this opportunity to get to know the people in the Air Force and be close to the planes. All she had really wanted to do since she was three was fly. The Ring of Fire had destroyed that dream, and Marie had been in a deep depression for several months. The revival of powered flight and the development of an air force reinvigorated her and she quickly overcame her depression.

She also wondered what her mother would think. Since she first expressed interest in flying, her mother been against it. It had driven a wedge between the two of them, and Marie found herself spending more time with her father, who encouraged her to be who she was. She could never understand why her mom objected to her desire to fly. She thought it might have something to do with wanting to fly for the military.

Two days and five pages of notes later, Marie was overwhelmed. Colonel Wood had sent her a copy of his priorities. She was doing at least ten different tasks, half of them at the same time. She had never worked on a structured project before, and she had no concept of time management and multitasking.

She read through the list for the tenth time as she sat in her father's den. Why does he want me to change the scenery package before creating the down-time aircraft?. It had been the first item on the list, and she wondered if he had written the list in order of importance. As she continued to look down the list, she recognized other items that they had discussed.

Marie began to type up the list of priorities, making sure to rank items by their importance. Computers, planes, and controls should be at the top of my list. I should probably get in touch with that computer guy I met a while back in case I need his help with any of that. But I also need to select which simulator I will use. That has to be my first priority.

Marie finished typing her list and saved the file. "So how do I go about getting the computers? I need machines that are at least five hundred megahertz if I want them to run smoothly." She began to ponder where suitable computers would be found in Grantville. She doubted there would be a gamer or a business willing to part with one, especially the top end kind she needed.

Except, possibly, for her father. "Dad!" she yelled. "I need to ask you something!" She and Dad had always been close. He was the encouraging parent, and had always supported Marie's interest in flight. This inevitably led to confrontation with her mother, who didn't always agree with her interests.

Ted walked into his home office. "How many times have I told you not to yell across the house?"

"I dunno, Dad. But I was wondering if you still had those two old computers."

"Yeah, they're in the basement," he said. "Why?"

"Remember when I told you about that job I got setting up flight simulators for the Air Force?" she asked. "Our computers are good, and I'm wondering if you would sell the new ones. If we can get the old ones running, you'd still have what you needed."

"You know that I did get one of those for work, right?" he asked.

"Yeah, Dad. I know. But this is important, and they will pay very good money for them."

"Well," he said, after a few moments of thought, "I suppose I can talk to your mother about it. I don't think she'll be too happy with the idea, but she'll probably give in. You'll have to do all the work yourself, though."

"Thanks, Dad," Marie said. "You're the best."

By the time breakfast came around the next morning, things had changed. "That's not fair!" Marie shouted. She slammed her fist on the table, rattling a few bowls of oatmeal. "I have a job to do, too."

"You think I don't?" her mother replied. "You're not the only one who works, and some of us need the computer for more than just playing games."

"It's not for playing games," Marie responded. "It's for training pilots. And that's why I'm going to get the two we have in the basement up and running. So we still have computers we can use."

"There you go with your flying stuff again," her mother retorted. "Why can't you just be like your sister for once and be interested in normal girl things? And have you even checked to make sure those computers work? Because they've been down in that basement for an awfully long time."

Marie hated being compared to her younger sister. It was something her mother always brought out against her in their arguments, and it made her feel like she was some kind of freak because she didn't fit her mother's image of an ideal daughter.

"Karen!" Ted Moritz interjected. "That's enough."

Like the typical mother-daughter fights in the Moritz house, this one had gone from being about some issue to being about their personalities. Karen Moritz wanted daughters who did typical girl things. She was disappointed that her eldest had ended up climbing trees and working on projects with her father. They had become very close, and Marie had always known that her mother was jealous of that relationship.

"Mom, I'm a cheerleader. If that's not normal enough for you, I don't know what is. And that has nothing to do with my job with the Air Force."

"Fine," Karen said. "Sell your computer. I don't care anymore. But that's the only one you can sell. The one in the office stays right where it is."

Her mother was one to hold a grudge, and Marie wanted to be anywhere besides home. She didn't want to upset her mother any further or fall behind in the multitude of tasks that she was facing. So following the fight, she stayed late at school on weekdays for cheerleading practice or Rocket Club, and after that she worked on homework until the last library staffer turned the lights off. Marie had left her computer at the base, so she had to travel there on the weekends to work on the simulator.

Project work caught up with her quickly, though. Reports and budget requests didn't write themselves, and she still had to convince someone to sell a computer or two. That meant something had to take a back seat, and it couldn't be the project. There was no way she would let Colonel Wood down, so the project began to eat more and more of her time.

Marie was leaving the school's library a month later when it all came crashing down. "Hey, Marie! Wait up! We need to talk." She turned around to see Kristin Washaw approaching. Kristin was many things that Marie wasn't-tall, blond, outgoing, and popular, but despite that, they had somehow become friends.

"Hey, Kristin," Marie said. "I hope you can keep it short. I have to meet with Mrs. Kindred about my English Lit. paper."

"Can I walk with you?" Kristin asked. "We haven't talked or hung out in a while."

"Sure," Marie said, somewhat sheepishly. Both girls were quiet as they started to walk.

"Is everything all right, Marie?" Kristin finally asked.

"Yes," Marie lied. "I'm just under a little pressure right now." She hoped that Kristin wouldn't be able to see through the lie, but she knew that it wasn't likely. Kristin was good at reading people.

"Where have you been? You've haven't been to practice for the last three weeks. You were supposed to have some new cheers for us last week, and some of the girls have been telling me that you're not handing in homework. And I've been hearing that you aren't as involved in the Rocket Club. Have you started taking drugs?"

"No!" Marie was outraged. "Of course not."

"Then what's wrong, Marie? You haven't been yourself lately, and I'm worried. You love cheerleading, and you never used to miss a practice."

"It's just…" Marie stopped herself. She wanted to tell Kristin everything, about how she had taken on this large project for the Air Force, the fights with her mother, and how it all was affecting her at school. But should I? She's my friend, but what will she think of me if I tell her about it?

"I've just taken on a very big project for someone," she said. "I didn't realize that it would have this sort of effect on everything, and I'll take care of it."

Marie hadn't said anything to the girls on the cheerleading squad about her project or the trouble it was causing her. At this moment, though, she regretted that decision because it caused one of her friends to worry about her.

"A top secret project?" Kristin smiled. "I thought it would be something like that. But you really need a break. How about you come over on Friday night, and we'll have ourselves a slumber party."

It felt like a huge weight had been lifted off Marie's chest. "That sounds like a plan. I really need the break."

"We're practicing today," Kristin said. "If you're not there, I'll find you and drag you over."

Marie laughed. "You'd have to have the whole squad to help you. Don't worry, Kristin, I'll be there."

It was the first time she had smiled in weeks.

Marie paced the back of the hangar, nervously chewing on a lock of her hair while she watched Lieutenant Emil Castner test her simulator. A lot had changed in the hangar since December, and the front part of the hangar was now occupied by a partially completed aircraft. The winter snowfall had also revealed a few gaps in the roof, and Marie's equipment was under a plastic tarp.

She was watching Castner, and was shocked when got up and started to walk away from the computer, the flight still in progress. He flashed her a look of disgust. "This doesn't work for me."

"What do you mean, Lieutenant?" she asked. "The model is built based on the information Colonel Wood gave me."

"It just doesn't feel right," he said. "Why do we have to use this contraption? It is nothing like flying. It's not realistic at all. It doesn't feel like flying."

Marie started at his words. She had thought that using her flight yoke and rudder pedals would provide a more realistic experience. She had also expected Castner, being one of the more experienced pilots, would be able to grasp the idea of simulated flight.

Although she still had a month before she had to have a simulator ready for testing, she had put a lot of effort into getting this done early so she would have more time to test it.

"So what should I do to improve it?" she asked.

Castner thought for a moment. "Make it move. Make it feel like I'm in the plane. If you can't do that, then this isn't worth the trouble. The Air Force doesn't need simulators that don't work. I didn't have a simulator when I entered flight training last summer. I got all my experience behind the controls."

"Colonel Wood is saying something different." Marie could tell by the tone of his voice that he was disgusted with the idea. She wanted to say more to him, to come up with the magic argument that would get him to love it, but her mind had frozen, and she stood there waiting for some argument to come to her.

Castner pushed away from the table, nearly knocking the flight yoke to the floor. "We don't need this…" he said, and stormed out of the room.

Marie sat down in front of the computer and fought back tears. She had expected everything to be so much easier, and for everyone to cooperate. You can't let one bad review throw you completely off track. You have another review on in two days.

"Maybe the other pilots will be more helpful."

Spending an hour in the office of School Superintendent Ned Paxton was the last thing Marie wanted to do any day, especially a Friday. But it was the only time he had available this week, and the Air Force needed a pair of the school district's computers for the flight simulators.

She had tried every other source she could think of, but most people had refused to sell. The machines that people had been willing to sell would barely run a decades-old operating system, let alone a flight simulator, and she had to turn them down. The schools were the last option, and they were the only organization in town that might have one or two to spare.

"So tell me what you want them for again?" Paxton asked.

"Flight simulators, Mr. Paxton," Marie said. "Colonel Wood would like to have some computer-aided training so he doesn't have to risk the few aircraft we have training new pilots. With the war…"

Mr. Paxton sighed as he wrote something on a scrap of paper. "Yes, the war. I know. I suppose that means all those fancy new Gustavs and the Belle will be off fighting at the front. Kinda hard to train pilots when you don't have any aircraft around."

"Yes, sir. It is."

"Thing is, everyone is coming to me to ask for computers." Paxton handed her the scrap of paper. "The government. New businesses. Everyone just wants a few of our computers. Granted, your reason seems better than most."

"What's this?" Marie asked.

"That's how much it will cost," he replied. "Per computer."

Marie thought her eyes were going to pop out of her head when she saw the cost. "That's… outrageous!"

"Demand is high," Paxton said. "The government taxes us more than enough, so they should be able to afford it. And besides, the school could always use the extra money."

Marie sighed and bit her lower lip. She didn't think the Air Force had that kind of budget, but if they wanted the simulator, they needed those computers. "I'll talk to the Air Force and let you know sometime next week."

March, 1634

"Be careful with that!" Marie shouted. "Those are fragile, and if you break one, it can't be replaced."

The young Irish enlisted looked confused, and he probably had no idea why the metal box was so important. "Aye, lass, we'll be careful with your little boxes."

"Good." Marie couldn't help being short with them. Somewhere in the back of her head, she just couldn't trust anyone else with the computers. She had expended considerable time, effort, and a lot of the government's money, to get them from the school district. The last thing she wanted to do was try to replace one.

She was nearly at her wit's end from trying to get the aircraft models perfected. She had barely gotten the Belle model running to her satisfaction when Major Horton dropped the technical data for the Gustav in her lap. That had been much harder to complete. Most of the pilots who had any experience flying that aircraft were at the front fighting a war.

Marie must have done something right, though, as she had been teaching some down-time pilots and flight cadets the finer points of using the simulator. A few had started to visit her in the shed, and she assumed they were the ones who lobbied to get her into someplace better. Her new room was in one of the first buildings on the air base and much closer to the flight school. It also had a ceiling that didn't leak and a floor that wasn't dirt.

"So how do you like your new digs, Ms. Moritz?" Colonel Wood asked

Marie nearly jumped five feet into the air since she hadn't realized he had entered the room. "It's better than the back of a hangar. It's nice to have a ceiling that isn't a plastic tarp."

"The secret is that we put the tarp over the roof," he said with a smile.

Marie smiled and giggled. I'm glad someone around here doesn't have a stick up their butt. "What bring you up here? I thought you were out of town on official business?"

"Just passing through, Ms. Moritz," he said. "I'm just stopping in to get my mail." He turned to leave the room, but stopped just before the doorway. "Since I'm here, how about you set me up on the simulator."

"You'll have to give me a minute," she said. "I don't have the computer hooked up yet." Marie slid under the table, connecting the computer with its peripherals. The room had electricity, but the only outlet was a power strip fed by a bright orange extension cord that ran across the floor, so she had to be careful not to overload it by plugging in too many items. The last thing she wanted was to be responsible for the "Great Hans Richter Air Field Fire."

Once everything was plugged in and running, Marie inserted the program's CD and set up a flight. "How would you like to be the first one to test the Gustav?"

"I'd be honored, Ms. Moritz," Colonel Wood replied.

The Price of Dumplings

Written by Terry Howard

"Hey, John Ose, which one of these birds is the scrawniest?" Arch Pennock asked, eying the chickens.

Janos Tamas stopped what he was doing and looked up from his place inside the open air market stall. Behind him were crates of live chickens. In front of him were half a dozen plucked, gutted birds, hanging head down. Off to one side was a hook over a large kettle of boiling water for plucking. At the other side of the stall was a gutting and sorting area. Livers, hearts and gizzards, and chitterlings each went into separate buckets.

"Mister Pennock, good morning. What means scrawniest?"

"The least plump, the smallest."

"Mister Pennock, if you want a cheap chicken, they are cheaper live."

Arch shook his head. "No, John. I want it plucked. I just want an old, tough, scrawny one that's too stringy to fry and too skinny to bake."

"Mister Pennock, are you sure? Nobody asks for that."

"It's what I want, John."

"Well, if you are sure, I have just the bird. You come back in little bit and I have it ready for you."

"That's fine, John. I've got some other things to pick up."

After Arch had walked the market and picked up some garden produce, he stopped back for his chicken. As asked for, it was indeed a scrawny old bird. Arch smiled. "It's exactly what I wanted."

Janos was worried. He thought the only way he was going to sell that bird was when it was the only one left. He found Arch's smile reassuring. "Mister Pennock, can I ask why?"

"Sure. I've got a hankering for my grandmother's chicken and dumplings. She only used the oldest hens to make dumplings and I want it to be just right. I could make a better dish, but I'm cooking a memory as much as I'm making dinner." He didn't add that he could get a chicken from the grocery store near his home for not that much more, and he could save himself the walk. He liked the walk. Then, too, he wanted a freshly plucked bird, not one that had been in the meat locker for several days even if it was kept just above freezing. His grandmother's chicken went into the pot minutes after it was plucked. He thought it made a difference.

Janos got a faraway look in his eyes. "I know just what you mean. My bushka, my grandmother, she would make the most wonderful dumplings. When there wasn't enough of any one thing in the house to feed everybody, she would make dumplings. I miss them. The food is good, but I miss those." Janos was living in a settlement house, a co-op one step up from a refugee camp, practically a dorm. When he said the food was good, he meant there was enough to eat, but, truth be told, it wasn't the cooking he was used to.

"Well, hey, you know where I live don't you?"

Janos nodded.

"Tell you what, I'll start the pot a little late and you come on 'round after you shut down for the day. You can share a bowl or two with me so I don't have to eat alone."

"Are you sure, Mister Pennock?"

"I asked, didn't I?" Arch grinned. "See you tonight. Bring your appetite, there'll be plenty. I don't know how to make less than two gallons at a time anyway."

Arch walked back into the market to buy more milk. It was pasteurized and the heavy cream was skimmed off, mostly for butter, but it still separated out when it set. Homogenization was just a word in Grantville, which was all right with Arch. His grandmother had kept a cow and he remembered the difference between cow's milk and store milk. The younger generation didn't like it at all, claimed it just didn't taste the same. As far as Arch was concerned, the raw milk tasted better.

Meanwhile, he need the half gallon mason jar he used for milk full instead of half full. He was having a guest and wouldn't dream of having anything to drink with the chicken and dumplings except milk, even though Janos would probably prefer small beer.

When the market closed, Janos got cleaned up and ready to go. All day long his mind and his mouth had been busy remembering his home and the meals of his childhood. At Arch's home, he was again reminded of just how rich these people were. The table was set for nobility. There was a bright white tablecloth and expensive paper napkins from up-time. Janos thought they should have been sold. You could use the back of your hand or a cloth which could be rewashed and reused. The flatware was steel and the drinking vessels were glass. He knew from past experience that the up-timers had so much they just didn't think about how rich they were.

Arch was stirring a pot on the stove. "Hey John," he called when Janos knocked on the screen door. "Come on in and set yourself down. Everything's ready." Arch turned the fire off under the pot then he opened the refrigerator and poured two tall glasses full of milk after giving the jar a good shaking to re-mix it.

"I hope I got all the bones out when I cooked the chicken. I always think I have but then I always find at least one I missed when I'm eating, so be careful." The bread Arch bought at the market was sitting in a rack. He took an electric knife to it and set half a dozen perfect slices on the table next to the butter. At last, he set the pot in the middle of the table. "My ex-wife would have raked me over the coals for doing that. I should have put it in a soup tureen or at least a serving bowl before I put it on the table. I didn't even know what a tureen was until I married her. I haven't had one in years, not since she moved out. Besides, it's just us three chickens here anyway."

Arch scooped a healthy serving into the bowls and dug in.

Janos looked at the meal set before him and swallowed his disappointment before he started swallowing a rather tasty meal. Three bowls later, Arch brought out ice cream for desert. When he knew he had company coming, he'd gone home and grabbed a covered Tupperware dish, some ice from the ice maker and a small cooler, then walked back into town to the ice-cream store. Most of the ice cream was sold over the counter and eaten in a hand-made waffle cone or in dishes on site. If you wanted to take it home you bought a container or brought one with you.

"Well, John Ose, what do you think?"

"Mister Pennock, that hit the spot. Those were first rate noodles. They were the first real noodles I've had in Grantville. Thank you."

"That's what my grandmother called dumplings. I know it ain't what Yankee's call dumplings. I've had Yankee dumplings and it was what I would have called broth pudding."

Janos hurried to explain. He didn't want to offend anyone. "Mister Pennock, please, it was very good. I ate three bowls, did I not? You had more pepper than Grandmother used but the noodles were just like hers except yours were wider. I miss her noodles, too." He finished the serving of ice cream and sighed. "Mister Pennock, I have Sunday off. Could I use your kitchen Sunday after church and I will cook for you real Hungarian dumplings like my grandmother used to make."

"Well, John, it's my turn to host poker night." In the old days they would meet to watch sports on Sunday afternoons. Now they played poker. "I usually feed them sandwiches. But I tell you what, if you let me pay for it and you cook enough for twelve, you're on."

"You have twelve for poker?"

"Nah. There's five of us, and you'll make six. But I know how these guys eat."

"Can I bring things by on Saturday and put them in your refrigerator?"

Arch nodded. "How much cash are you going to need?"

"Twenty dollars ought to do it, unless you want me to pick up the beer."

"I'll get the beer." With the number of brewers in town increasing every time you turned around, Arch didn't think it was safe to let a foreigner pick up the beer. After all he liked it warm and dark, not thin and pale. "You sure twenty's enough?"

Janos ran through what he would need to buy, where he could get it and how much it would cost. Most of what he wanted, he could get in the market where he worked at a better price than customers could get. Of course, any chickens that were plucked at the end of the day went home with other vendors at live chicken prices. "Mister Pennock, I'm making dumplings. Twenty is more than enough; there will be money left over, unless I need to buy salt and ground black pepper at the grocery store." Importers usually sold wholesale, so if it wasn't locally-raised, the grocer was pretty much the only option.

"I've got plenty on hand," Arch said.

Sunday afternoon Arch had bowls full of crackers, dip, pickles, carrots, celery and green onions set on the card table. He was a bit worried about what he had gotten himself into. The idea of making enough food for twelve on twenty dollars had him a little worried, so he was ready with back-up food, and had plenty to snack on.

Kirby Frank showed up first. "Hey Arch, what's up? You getting fancy on us? We've always used the kitchen table before."

"John Ose, the kid who works in the chicken stall down at the market, is making dinner for us so we're playing out here."

"Oh, okay. What's he making?"

"Dumplings."

"Real dumplings or Yankee dumplings?"

"Hungarian dumplings, like his grandmother used to make."

Kirby got a sour look on his face.

"Hey, Kirby," Arch whispered, "don't sweat it. If it don't work out I've got head cheese and cheddar in the fridge."

Kirby smiled. "Hey, I came to fleece the flock, not feed my face," which was less than half true, in Arch's opinion. Kirby came out of habit for an afternoon of male bonding, but if he wasn't fed, he wouldn't stay. He had a closer bond to a growling stomach than he did to anything else.

About an hour into the game, Janos stepped into the room to announce that dinner was ready.

Kirby threw in his hand. "I was playing on a busted flush anyway."

"Well, bring your chairs and your glasses on into the kitchen and let's see what Hungarian dumplings are like," Arch said, getting up and taking his own advice.

The old five gallon canning pot was sitting, a bit over half full, in the center of the table, along with bread and butter and beer. Five bottles were out of the refrigerator and sweating drops of dew in the warm kitchen. The sixth one was room temperature. Janos started scooping servings into the bowls. Verlyn poked at it with his spoon, Kirby cautiously put one to his mouth and bit it in half. When his face lit up instead of him spitting it out, the others followed suit.

"Hmn." "This's good!" "Hey, it's the first time I ever saw ravioli served with something other than spaghetti sauce." "Best damn ravioli I ever ate." "It is not ravioli, I have had ravioli, they are dumplings." "I don't give a damn what you call 'em hand me the ladle." "This really is good." "Here, dip me another scoop." With the exception of Janos defending the national pride of Hungary against an Italian invasion, it was rather unclear as to who said what as they repeatedly slurped the bowls empty and then scraped the bottom of the pot.

When everyone was stuffed and the dumplings were all gone Verlyn said, "I've got the game next week. You think you could come over and cook this again?"

Kirby popped up about the same time, "I've got to have my brothers and sisters and their kids over to the house for a family dinner later this month. They always poke fun at my cooking. How about it, John?"

Before Janos could answer, Arch spoke up. "Verlyn, everybody else has folded and it's a hundred to me. I'll call and see your raise with a Hungarian dinner next week?"

"You're on."

"I'm serious," Kirby said. "I could use a pot that size for a family dinner. It's worth every penny of a hundred dollars."

"But when will I have time?" a rather stunned Janos asked.

"Kid, don't sweat it," Arch told him. "I'll take care if it. As of now, you and me are in the catering business." Arch could do the math. There was a lot of money sitting across the kitchen table. "You up for it?"

Janos grinned. "I'm up for it."

Thunder in the Mountains

Written by Richard Evans

Bern, Swiss Confederacy, Midwinter, 1634

The Inn of the Sleeping Mule

"Thomas, are you sure this'll work? Those illustrated magazines of yours may have been explicit enough for you, but I've never seen a cannon with two open ends before. How does it fire and what are we going to do with it?" Giuseppe Benito-Fransoni asked.

"I checked them myself, against the magazines." Thomas "Boom-Boom" Cahil chuckled. "I'll show the Americans that firing me for experimenting was a bad move. That I will."

Giuseppe knew that "I" meant "we" again. Sometimes the half-Irishman irritated him immensely, but other times Thomas amazed him with his wealth of knowledge from the future.

Thomas had the magazines and formulas to support his claims, but he didn't look like the type one would want assisting in an alchemist's lab or even blowing things up. Thomas' build was that of a born laborer, one only fit for grunt work, something Giuseppe was definitely allergic to, unless it involved cannons.

The two of them seemed to have a mutual fascination with the idea of blowing things up, and in the comics Thomas had lots of things got blown up. Including a pass filled with an attacking company of infantry covering a line of twelve tanks. Giuseppe had wanted a tank for himself, but he knew that was well beyond anyone's means.

But this "bazooka" in the comics-yes, that they could get built. The other, darker, comics about the vigilante with a skull on his body armor even had pages with detailed explanations about a similar weapon and a cutout drawing of the device. Those were Giuseppe's favorites, when he could pry them away from his partner.

Thomas had made the decision to simplify the design until they had something that could be built and that they could afford. The rocket parts hadn't been as easy. No cut outs, no formulas, just what Thomas said he knew and learned before he was invited to leave Grantville.

Thomas winked at Giuseppe. "Everything I learned in Grantville is still up here." He tapped his battle-scarred forehead.

Giuseppe mentally counted the months since Thomas had said he'd been discharged from the USE Army. It didn't leave him much time at the explosives factory that he went on and on about. Or with their dynamite and the magical RDX they had just started producing either, but apparently he'd been there long enough to copy the formulas and take note of the methods used to produce the explosives.

With the right alchemist, maybe we can do this, Giuseppe thought.

"What about the tasks I set you, Giuseppe?"

"That Austrian smith you had me find can build the 'zooka-tube.' It's not much more than a long pipe with a smaller tube for a sighting mechanism, and the other side has a latch and catch in the rear for this 'rocket-round' you've mentioned. And a lever-trigger for activating the battery."

"I've heard of batteries being made in Lucerne from passing merchants. Can we build one of those here?" Thomas asked, as if this were just another minor detail. Details that usually cost them money or another midnight shopping expedition.

Giuseppe calculated his own wealth. He had exactly twelve Italian copper pesetas and two silver crowns. It wouldn't last long, not the way his partner was spending money. At least Thomas was an adequate thief when he needed to be.

"If we can make one, it will be larger than what they are selling in Lucerne and it will have to be connected by copper wires to the launcher. That means it will take two of us to operate the 'zooka.' If we can't get one of those, maybe one of the smaller Elektrische Generators that are popping up in every store here in town might work."

"One of those Elektrische Generators will have sufficient power for our needs. We just need enough power for a spark to the launching charge." His partner once again had the answers before Giuseppe could ask the question himself.

"You've only shown me parts of the final rocket designs, Thomas. I

… we… need to be sure that all the parts we get made fit together properly so that when I load them with… you know what. .. we're sure they'll work."

Thomas nodded and passed him a sheaf of drawings and contracts. Giuseppe eyed the plans for the bazooka and the bits and pieces of the rocket they were supposed to be firing from this weapon.

If it worked there was no doubt everyone would want to build their own bazookas. That was why they'd had the parts built by different men, with strict tolerance requirements written into the contracts.

What that meant to them was that the contractors would never know what the parts they were making would end up looking like once assembled or what they'd be used for. Much safer for the two of them that way. Much safer. Giuseppe was sure he could put the various parts together easily enough.

He remembered the fateful words that night two months ago when word had come that the passes were closed for the winter. "I wish there was a way we could bring down all that snow hanging over the passes, let the mountains settle and the roads could be cleared." Then Thomas had smiled and pulled out the several comic books and two worn magazines he'd brought with him to Bern. Several buckets of cheap beer later, a plan was hatched. One that Thomas said he had the necessary knowledge for. Giuseppe would get his wish, and they'd be able to make money doing it too.

This bazooka wasn't going to be a weapon of war, but one to start controlled avalanches. From a safe distance. Giuseppe hoped it was a very safe distance. He was no math genius, but he did know how to load cannons. Loading and firing the "bazooka" should be child's play for him, but still…

"I used the last of our project money to buy enough of the explosives." Thomas grinned. "I think I got the mix right this time."

Giuseppe snorted. He hoped Thomas was right about the blend. Their first attempt had blown up their shack just outside of town, where all the new labs were being built.

Using a fulminated mercury impact fuse to set off the warhead was just a bad idea. They were down one partner from that mistake and the city watch never did find all of him either.

They'd finally decided to use a standard skyrocket time fuse ignited by the last gasp of the propellant as the rocket motor burned out to set off an explosive detonator inside the warhead. This one used a mix of one of Thomas' up-time formulas and old fashioned black powder, ground real fine, mixed with some other ingredients Thomas kept secret even from Giuseppe.

Mathematically, Thomas insisted, it would work perfectly. His math was much better than Giuseppe's. Thomas' drawings showed exactly how it was supposed to work, but still, Giuseppe's guts quivered every time he remembered their shack rising into a cloud of debris moments after they'd stepped out of it.

All the merchants caught in Bern had to go somewhere to spend their hoarded money and this was the cheapest of the cheap inns in town. It was a natural marriage with the stingy merchants who were waiting on the spring thaw and clear passes, not to mention safety from avalanches. The merchants were losing money with each day they were stuck in Bern.

While they waited for the inn to fill up with its nightly crowd, Giuseppe studied the drawings intently looking for any flaws and asking Thomas questions.

Between questions Thomas related his experiences with the Swedish Army and his time at the explosives factory. The story changed with each telling, but Giuseppe could tell some parts were true. His palms itched when he'd heard about the RDX and other explosives. Especially the dynamite. RDX was beyond their means right now, so they'd settled on a form of dynamite Thomas knew about and the alchemists could make if they were really careful. Something he would insist upon.

Giuseppe imagined what he could do with a pack full of this fabled dynamite and smiled.

Thomas Cahil stood up and straightened the "ball" cap that had some words on it in what Giuseppe thought was English. It simply said "Get-R-Done." Giuseppe wasn't sure what or who "R" was, but Thomas insisted it was a "Real American Relic," and to let him do all the talking. Giuseppe was happy to do so. He hated talking to crowds; they made him nervous.

Thomas stood up on his chair and got the attention of everyone in the bar by waiving his ball cap. "Gentlemen. Here we sit, while the snows pile higher and higher in the mountains and over what passes as our roads."

There were a few scattered chuckles. There was a reason the roads through Switzerland were nicknamed the Via Mala.

"What if these passes could be cleared of the threat of avalanches weeks, if not months, earlier than nature intended? What then of the trade profits you could be making by being the first through the passes? If you are interested, bring a bottle of good wine or some food, and an open mind, and join us as we discuss how BF amp;C Enterprises will make this possible! First investors will get shares at a discount and first word of when the passes are cleared!"

"Here we go," thought Giuseppe.

Late February, 1635

A Southern Swiss Trade Pass

"Any sign of those two con artists?" Sergeant Ulrich pulled his hooded cloak tighter about him. "They were last reported coming this way. Why anyone would come up here at this time of year is beyond me." This made six passes they'd visited in the last two weeks. The previous pass had nearly been their last. It hadn't been cleared-any fool could see that, but the lieutenant had to check it himself, until the snows had started to shift. At least no men had been left behind that time.

The sergeant eyed the edges of the pass to either side of the road. Strangely enough, they looked clear of the normal snow overhang that kept this road closed. Most roads that led from Bern were normally closed well into late spring.

"This pass looks to be clear too, Lieutenant. That's strange." Ulrich scanned down to the other side of the pass. "Look down there, sir. A merchant train, and it's a big one! And it's not even March yet! How did they get word that these passes were cleared?"

The lieutenant glared at Ulrich. "I don't care how the passes got cleared or what merchants are doing tempting the fates this early. We're looking for two murderers who buried an entire village near Thun. Playing with explosives in an avalanche zone! How stupid can two men be?

"No matter. When we find them, the executioner shall make good examples of them. Order another twelve men to station themselves here as guards, until the weather gets too bad for them to stay. And check everyone leaving the Confederacy. Make sure they have the wanted posters too. Oh, and be sure they collect the proper tolls when and if the caravan makes it up here." The lieutenant tittered.

Sergeant Ulrich bit his tongue on the angry retort that threatened to emerge. His command was now spread out all over the borders of the Confederacy because of the pass-clearing idiots they'd been sent after.

Secure the men for trial and secure their device and learn their methods at all costs. That's what they were supposed to do

Those merchant trains would be in for a surprise. Normally no one stationed a toll guard here until the risks of heavy snows and avalanches were long past.

It was a small comfort to Sergeant Ulrich.

Grand Hotel, Bern, Swiss Confederacy, March 1635

"We missed them, sir." Private Heugelmann scratched his ear. "There was nothing left in their rooms, even though the hotel had been paid in advance for a whole month just before the two suspects disappeared. The innkeeper is definite about that. There is nothing here that might lead us to where Thomas Cahil or Giuseppe Benito-Fransoni might have escaped to."

"No one's talking, sir." Heugelmann shook his head. "Not even the remaining merchants they purportedly spent several weeks with over at the Inn of the Sleeping Mule. Most of them left town as soon as word got out that the southern passes were open."

"We'll find those two, I'm sure. It's not like they can fly. It's still high winter." Sergeant Ulrich laughed. "And now that we have posters up everywhere, someone will turn them in for the reward. There are only so many roads in and out of the Swiss Confederacy. We'll get our men, don't you doubt it."

"Yes, sir. I'm sure we will." Heugelmann doubted it. Highly doubted it.

The boom of thunder echoing off the mountains and the terrible roar of an avalanche woke the bear from its winter sleep. The two frozen and broken corpses, half buried under the debris and snow near its den were a bounty of protein that made its early awakening worthwhile.

It ignored the crushed and bent metal tube that smelled of fire and smoke.

Mrs. December, 1636

Written by Chet Gottfried

Justus Corneliszoon van Liede's smile was all teeth. Big teeth. Broad teeth. Dazzling teeth. Many men would have wanted to punch in his teeth at first sight. Many women would have been tempted to do the same. Flo Richards was different.

"Have another piece of cake, Herr van Liede." She daydreamed about the cavities that the rich white icing could cause in those brilliant teeth of his.

The Dutch cavalier accepted the cake with a flourish that went well with his flamboyant clothing, from satin doublet to orange breeches and tall red boots.

"Thank you, dear lady. My ride from Amsterdam was well worth the opportunity to enjoy your most wonderful cake."

Flo watched Justus's goatee move back and forth like a metronome as he chewed.

"How long did it take to travel from Amsterdam to Grantville?"

Justus smiled. "Not long at all. A few weeks, dear lady."

Flo didn't trust the smile. "Call me Flo."

"Of course, Flo, dear lady. And you may call me Justus Corneliszoon."

She sighed. Justus was the most difficult person she had ever met. He combined seventeenth-century courtier with twentieth-century used car salesman.

"I'm flattered by the letter you sent: your invitation. I'm impressed by your mastery of written English." Flo paused a moment. She wasn't at all sure whether she wanted to tackle traveling anywhere except maybe Jena. It wasn't like you could just hop in the car and travel a hundred miles in a couple of hours.

"Thank you."

"But a few weeks in each direction means that you expect me to be away from my farm for over a month. In autumn. That's harvest time, and I'm pretty busy."

Justus swung his arms wide and his smile grew wider. "But think of the honor, dear lady Flo. To have your portrait painted by Pieter Paul Rubens is a privilege you can tell your children and grandchildren."

"There's a war going on."

"What war? There isn't any war, not in that direction. That was settled last year."

"There are thieves and looters on all the roads."

"You shall have a dedicated escort. I have already arranged to have good men accompany you."

Flo was beginning to feel desperate. "I've never been away from J.D. for over a month."

"You mean your husband? Yes, I know about J.D., and we expect him as well. Dear lady Flo, you and J.D. will love seeing Amsterdam. It is particularly beautiful in the autumn." He smiled.

"Well, maybe." Flo tried to recall the last time that she and J.D. went traveling. They hadn't been anywhere since the Ring of Fire. Before that, all she could recall was their second honeymoon to New Orleans. And that was that. "I'll have to talk it over with J.D. first."

"Of course. I would expect nothing less." Then Justus cleared his throat. "Pieter Paul Rubens made a special request in regard to you."

Flo was on her guard. "Yes?"

"He has a certain technique in regard to his portraits of women."

"I am not-most definitely not-going to pose naked for him. I don't care how many portraits he's done or how many women he's painted. I am not appearing naked for him!"

"No, no, dear lady Flo. Whether you are dressed or undressed is your own decision. Rubens' request is different: He wants to include a few symbols of yourself in the painting, such as your love of coffee. You would bring a pot in which you brew your coffee, as well as a few cups."

Flo settled. "That's okay."

"And he would like you to bring your wonderful ram Brillo."

When J.D. came home later that day, Flo cornered him and took him into their bedroom.

J.D. began undressing. "A little early in the day for this, isn't it?"

"Keep your pants on, J.D. It's not what you think. Have you been drinking?"

J.D. hiccuped. "Gerhart opened a new pub in town. Calls it the Hole in the Wall. It's a small place but quiet. He's studied a variety of cookbooks from the library and is going to serve light meals. But you don't want to try his pizza. He uses Swiss cheese. Some of the other dishes aren't bad, I have to admit. Gerhart is trying hard enough, and right now he's in the middle of decorating. Today, we were sampling some of his brews."

"Smells like you've downed a keg."

He sat on the bed. "Real ale. You used to pay extra for it, but here, it's all they have. No fizz, but it packs quite a punch. I wonder what the alcohol content is?"

"Whatever it is, it's too high. Now listen, J.D. Are you ready?"

"I'm ready."

"I have a surprise for you. What are you doing?"

J.D. had stretched out on the bed. "I can take surprises better while lying down, dear."

"You'd only fall asleep. Okay. How would you like to take a trip together?"

"Like to Amsterdam?"

Flo became suspicious. "What made you say 'Amsterdam'?"

"It seems as good a place as any. Besides, wouldn't it be good to get away?"

"Who told you about Amsterdam?"

J.D. grinned. "Gerhart, me, and a bunch of us were talking about how good a painting would look over the bar. You know, a naked woman. Every pub should have one. Something by Rubens, since Varga hasn't been born yet. I hear tell that he's pretty good for that sort of thing. So we were talking about who in Grantville would look best naked and who would be most willing to go to Amsterdam. Opinions were hot! It could have become an out-and-out fight, but in the end we made paper ballots and had a vote. Guess who won?"

He patted the bed, and Flo, blushing lightly, sat next to him.

"J. D., you're not telling me that your buddies would prefer me to one of the young lovelies we have in town?"

Hugging Flo, J.D. gave her a kiss. "You'd be surprised the reputation you have. For starters, maybe you should remember to button your blouse more often."

Flo rolled her eyes. "And here I used to wonder what you geezers talked about." Then she looked at him suspiciously. "Just a minute. Would one of your drinking companions be a piece of fluff known as Justus Corneliszoon van Liede?"

J.D. smirked. "Do you mean Corny? He's a right good fella and a fine drinking companion."

"Corny? Not Justus Corneliszoon?"

"It might have been something like that for the first glass or two. Then he let his hair down. He could certainly talk up a streak. And he has to have the brightest teeth in the world. It's like staring at a laser. Funny though. Gerhart wanted to punch Corny's teeth in. For no reason whatsoever. Well, before Gerhart could do anything, out jumps Corny's sword, and four cuts later, Gerhart's shirt is in shreds. Then they were friends, slapping each other's back and laughing. I guess Gerhart was happy to be alive, and Corny is willing to be friends with anyone. Good thing too. A guy that good with a sword has to be someone to have on your side."

"And he told you all about our going to Amsterdam?"

J.D. gave her a hug. "Why not? We've been working around the clock, helping the town settle in, helping the Germans settle in, helping our kids settle in. So why don't we take a vacation?"

"What about Ed Piazza?" Flo asked. "We'll be gone six weeks or more. Can he spare you that long?"

"He'd better. I haven't had a day off since the Ring of Fire, so I'm due. Don't forget Mike Stearns is a long-standing union man. Try talking to the unions about no one having time off anymore, and then you'll see explosions that'll make the Thirty Years' War look like a kid's game."

"Now, J.D. It's a good job. I don't want you to get into any departmental fights and jeopardize everything for the sake of a picture."

"I was going to resign anyway, babe. I don't want to move away from the girls. So I talked to Ed and then talked to the tech school. I'll be back teaching as soon as we return." J.D. grinned. "We're going, and we'll be having fun! And I'd like to get my hands on as many bulbs as I can. Tulips will help brighten our place, and we can sell them too. Not to mention it will be great to have a calendar."

Flo pointed to the calendar hanging on the wall. "What's that, J.D.? We already have calendars."

"But not a Rubens' calendar. Didn't Corny tell you? Sure, part of it is to go to have your portrait painted. But Corny is putting together a calendar of Grantville notables-as painted by Rubens."

"Grantville notables, huh? I suppose that's why he wants Brillo along. Do you think it's going to be easy to get that ram to Amsterdam? He's almost as stubborn as you are."

"Why shouldn't Brillo come along? He can walk part of the way, and Corny said that he was hiring an up-time wagon, should Brillo be his rambunctious self and prefer to ride. Rubens included Anne Jefferson's pom-poms and baton in her painting, so why shouldn't you have Brillo in yours? Not every ram has inspired a rebellion. And a Rubens calendar would be a collector's item. Did you know that Rubens has a whole flock of artists and printmakers working for him? They've been into prints for years, but this will be their first calendar. I wonder whether it is going to be Gregorian or Julian. I hope Gregorian, but you never know. Down-timers never cease to amaze me."

J.D. was going a little too fast for Flo. "I'm going to be in a calendar?"

"Sure, Flo. How does it feel to be Mrs. December, 1636?"

"Get one fact straight, mister. I'm not posing in the nude for anyone. Look at me! I'm a grandma! Who's ever heard of fifty-somethings posing naked?"

J.D. agreed. "Absolutely not. It's totally out of the question."

Flo got off the bed and looked into the mirror. "Totally out of the question? Are you trying to tell me something, J.D.?" She turned right and left and critically inspected herself. "I still have a pretty good figure. Or do you think I'm too heavy?"

"Rubens likes well-rounded women, dear. And so do I. I'm sure you'd look great however you posed. One thing's for certain. The boys would really love to have you naked-over the bar." J.D. grinned.

For a moment Flo was lost in her thoughts. Then she snapped out of it. "Come on. Let's get Johan, Anna, and the rest for a decent dinner. Lord knows what we'll be eating on the road." Naked, she thought. And snorted to herself: That will be the day!

A week later, a procession headed into Flo's yard: a handsomely painted wagon drawn by two horses, with two saddled horses tied to the rear of the wagon. Justus rode a high-stepping black gelding in front.

Flo, J.D., their three daughters, and their partners in running the farm, Johan, Anna, Wilhelm, and Ilsa, soon surrounded the wagon. Justus casually dismounted while giving a nonstop description of all the wonders of his preparation for the vacation to Amsterdam, not least of all the wagon, rented from an up-timer. It had a seat in the front for two drivers, and the wagon had benches on either side that could be dropped down. "Very convenient for sleeping, should you stop between cities or inns." The wagon also had bales of hay for the horses and Brillo.

"And allow me to introduce you to your noble escort. I present my brothers Frederik van Liede and Johan van Liede. They are brave men, wonderful shots, excellent drivers, and will see you through every obstacle anyone could encounter."

The two brothers slouched on the front seat. For each aspect of Justus that said dandy, the two brothers screamed despair. Where Justus had finely groomed hair, wisps of yellow stuck out in random directions from their heads. From his brothers' lifeless clothing to drooping expressions, they looked as if they had been dragged through every puddle from Amsterdam to Grantville.

Flo was shocked. "My God! Whatever happened to them?"

"Ah ha!" Justus declared. "You have noticed! All has not been well with my brothers. They were aboard the good ship Brederode in the battle along the English Channel, for which the English changed sides and attacked the Dutch fleet. The Brederode exploded, killing the entire crew except my brothers, who were thrown into the sea. They were fished up by the Spanish, and I, Justus Corneliszoon van Liede, had to pay ransom to release them. So, dear lady Flo, my brothers are in my debt. And until such day as they can repay it, they are in my service. It should only be another five years before they are free to return to the sea. And perhaps by then, the Netherlands will have another fleet, so that my brothers can be sailors again."

Flo asked, "What do sailors know about horses and roads?"

"My dear lady Flo, my brothers were farmers and often traveled these routes until several years ago. They would probably be farmers today if their joint farm hadn't burned to the ground. A pity we didn't know about lightning rods back then. Then they took to the sea. Or rather they were drunk and were taken to the sea. No matter, aboard the Brederode, they became crack shots, and between them killed twelve Spaniards before their ship went boom."

J.D. scratched his head. "Farmers? Sailors? They look more like flotsam and jetsam to me." The nicknames stuck, and thereafter everyone, including Justus, referred to the younger van Liede brothers as Flotsam and Jetsam.

Flo's one consolation was that however bedraggled Flotsam and Jetsam appeared, Justus knew his way around and was an expert swordsman. So her heart sank when she saw Justus mounting his horse.

"I've put together a farewell party with all types of meat, soup, and bread for us."

Justus took off his broad-brimmed hat and waved it with a flourish. "No, no, dear lady Flo. Business attends. I must ride on ahead, for there are other contracts to arrange. I leave you in the capable hands of my brothers. They won't let you down, for they know what will happen if they do. Farewell!" And he galloped away.

While watching Justus disappear, Flo had a brainstorm. She asked Flotsam and Jetsam, "Do either of you speak English?"

Flotsam looked at Jetsam, and Jetsam looked at Flotsam. After a minute of mute consultation, Flotsam shook his head.

" Nee. "

"But you do understand English?"

After another consultation, they both slowly nodded, as if any suggestion of speed would cause a head to roll off.

" Ja. "

Johan entered the conversation. " Konnen Sie deutsch? "

" Nee. "

It soon came down to the fact that the only language between the two Dutch brothers was Dutch, whereas they appeared to understand most other languages-to some extent. Flo turned to J.D. "I've lost my appetite."

J.D. patted her on the shoulder. "Remember, Rubens likes plump women. You don't want to be losing any weight."

She punched him on the arm and marched into the house.

The following morning saw intense activity while everyone helped load the wagon-except Flotsam and Jetsam. They stood by and sadly watched the load increase and increase and increase. Food, clothing, blankets, dry wood, coal, coffee, soap, books, yarn, knitting needles, and sundry items were piled high into the wagon.

Each of Flo's three daughters managed to speak to Flo alone.

Kerry gave Flo a small package wrapped in brown paper. "You'll bless me for this."

Turning the parcel this way and that, Flo asked, "What is it?"

"A clean queen-sized sheet. You'll want to strip any bed in any inn and put this on. You won't believe the fleas."

Flo laughed. "I'm sure it won't be necessary."

Kerry asked, "Mom, are you going to pose in the nude?"

"What ever gave you that idea?"

"If you did, what would I tell my children? What would happen if they saw their grandmother naked?"

Flo had to bite her tongue not to say that the children would hardly be scarred for life if that happened. Instead, she said, "I'm sure you can find something better to worry about. It's not going to happen."

Later, Missy trapped Flo in the kitchen and handed her a box. "Ma, here's something you'll really need."

The box was about the same size as the parcel. "Let me guess. It's a sheet."

Missy was surprised. "Did you pack any? Even if you did, I'm sure you could use an extra."

In the bedroom, Amy cornered and stared intently at Flo. "Mom, you're not going to pose naked, are you?"

Overall, Flo was starting to get a bit insulted by that question. She freely admitted that she wasn't as thin as Anne Jefferson, but it wasn't like she was fat. And she certainly wasn't old. She laughed uneasily. "Good heavens, no, Amy. What ever gave you that idea?"

"It's what the whole town is talking about. Everywhere you go, people are saying that Rubens wants you naked." Amy gave her mother a heavy package in a small backpack. "You'll need this. It's a revolver and a handful of bullets."

"Are you telling me to shoot Rubens?"

"Don't be silly, Mom. It's for the road. You don't know who'll you meet. And if you want to protect your virtue when you're being painted, that's okay too."

Outside, J.D. was also receiving gifts from the men around the farm. His sons-in-law gave him a second shotgun in addition to J.D.'s own, muskets, and a variety of knives. Johan gave J.D. something particularly valuable: a large plastic tarp.

"Do you think we're going to have picnics?" J.D. asked.

"No. You will be in an open wagon and want some protection for when it rains."

"But the tarp's red," J.D. complained.

"So?"

"Do you have anything in green?"

Johan laughed and slapped J.D. on the back. "You need a vacation."

Meanwhile, both men and women found time to talk to Flotsam and Jetsam. Each person promised that should anything untoward happen to either Flo or J.D., the Dutch brothers would lose their hands, fingernails, private parts, eyes, or whatever piece of anatomy the speaker preferred. Tone and body language supplemented the brothers' limited German and English. With each additional speaker, the two brothers looked sadder, more forlorn, and more crumpled.

Early the next morning, Flotsam and Jetsam hitched the horses to the wagon and tied the saddle horses to the rear.

By nine o'clock, J.D. had a pleased look on his face. He had arranged all their belongings in the wagon. "I guess that's about it. We're ready to go, and I've used up every square inch of space. How's that for packing?"

Flo put her hands on her hips. "What about Brillo?"

J.D.'s face sunk almost as low as that of the Dutch brothers. "You get the ram. I'll begin rearranging."

Chuckling all the way to Brillo's pen, Flo never noticed the enormous grin on Johan's face as he followed her.

"Brillo's gone!" Flo gasped.

"Relax, Flo," Johan said. "I put him with the ewes for the night. I thought that might make him more manageable."

"Good idea."

The two of them found Brillo peacefully dozing among the ewes.

Johan laughed. "He's in heaven."

They pushed and prodded the sleepy ram all the way to the cart, in which J.D. had cleared a space for him.

"It's not much room," J.D. admitted, "but there's bound to be more space as time goes by."

Brillo blinked peacefully until J.D. and Johan swung him aboard. Then the ram was wide awake. His first baa was somewhat weak, but each succeeding baa gained in strength and terror.

Everyone pretended to ignore the cries while Flo and J.D. were kissed and hugged. She and J.D. got into the back with Brillo, and Flo stood up and gave her farewell speech.

"We'll go, we'll see, and we'll return."

Everyone applauded, Flotsam shook the reins and clucked at the horses, and the wagon rolled away to various cheers and ever-louder baas.

Flo closed her eyes. "However long this trip takes, it is going to be longer than I had imagined."

That was at the end of August.

Three weeks, four sweaters, five caps, and seven scarves later, they were still in Germany. Flo had calluses on her knitting fingers, J.D. was working on a beer belly, and Flotsam and Jetsam were more ragged than ever.

J.D. lifted a stein of beer. "It won't be long now."

Flo was working on another sweater for J.D. "You mean when we reach the border?"

"No, dear. When they serve dinner." He burped again.

They were sitting by a table in a small inn a few miles west of Osnabruck. It wasn't the most desirable inn, but the weather was stormy, and neither of them looked forward to another day of being stuck between inns and sleeping in the open at night while it was raining.

A fat man wearing torn clothes staggered over to them. He had a large knife stuck in his belt, a patch over an eye, greasy hair, and various scars. He was the innkeeper, and Flo didn't trust him.

A young woman followed the innkeeper. She was somewhat better dressed and was carrying a large tray with bowls.

The innkeeper spoke and understood English in terms of single words. "Dinner."

Flo groaned. "Stew?" She thought of chunks of indigestible meat sunk at the bottom of a bowl that had a scum of fat floating on the top.

The innkeeper smiled a terrible smile, exposing black teeth. "Mutton."

She gave a little shriek and thought: Brillo! Jumping up, Flo ran outside the inn and into its stable on the side. There she saw one of the van Liede brothers leaning against a stall. He had a musket lying across his thighs and was staring blankly in the distance. Next to him, Brillo was peacefully chewing his cud. A strange warmth descended over her, she was incredibly thankful, and she wanted to hug the two of them. Then she felt guilty that she didn't know whether it was Flotsam or Jetsam guarding her ram. The two might have been identical twins.

"Hello," she said somewhat shyly.

" Goedenavond. "

"Excuse me, but are you Flotsam or Jetsam?"

"Jetsam."

The indignity of calling these two men after the debris of the ocean occurred to her, and Flo tried to apologize.

The corners of his mouth turned upward. It might have been a smile. " Nee, nee. Het Geeft niet. " Then he thought about it some more. "Good name."

"Would you like to learn to speak English? It would help to pass the time on the road."

Jetsam nodded.

Where do I begin, she wondered. Flo pointed to her nose. "Nose." Jetsam repeated after her. After Flo ran through her face, she started on her body and worked down to her thighs.

Jetsam put his hand on her thigh and smiled in earnest. "Thigh!"

Flo recognized the look of the predatory male and hastily stood up. "I think we've had enough English for one night."

Going back inside the dark inn, she sat down by her table. "J. D., you won't believe what happened. J.D.?" As soon as her eyes acclimated to the numerous people milling around, she saw that the serving girl was sitting on J.D.'s lap. His right hand held a tankard and his left hand was inside her blouse.

Looking at her with bleary eyes, J.D. burped. "Strong ale."

Flo said pointedly, "I don't know about the ale, but maybe you should take it easy on the milk."

The girl removed J.D.'s hand, curtsied, and, laughing, left the table. J.D. said, "I think she'd like to come to Amsterdam with us."

"Really?" Her voice dripped sarcasm.

What began as a nod ended in a plummet, and J.D.'s head rested on the table. Flo finished her cold meal in silence.

Three days later, in the bedroom at another nameless inn on the nameless road, J.D. complained, "I don't know why you aren't talking to me. It happens. I was drunk. I thought she was you."

Flo stripped the bed and put one of the travel sheets over it. "She was taller than me, had blond hair, a squint in one eye, and warts. So how in all hell did she look like me?"

J.D. began undressing. "She had your boobs."

After putting a top sheet over the spread one, Flo critically inspected the blankets for lice and fleas. "Maybe you shouldn't have mentioned her boobs. Maybe I was ready to forget."

"Honestly, Flo. You've a great body. I can see why Rubens would want to paint you naked. I mean, you'd be the naked one. Rubens would have his clothes on. Well, he better have his clothes on."

Flo warmed to him. "You think so?"

Nodding vigorously, J.D. got under the covers. "Let me show you."

She got into bed next to him. "I don't know, J.D. You're the only man who's ever seen me naked-if you don't count doctors. I don't know if I could do it even if I wanted to do it. What's that hand doing? Hmm." And the time for conversation rapidly slipped away.

By the end of September they had almost reached the border between the Netherlands and Germany. The problem involved a fork in the road and one of those rare occasions when there was no other traffic. J.D. and Jetsam had taken the saddle horses to explore the forks, as well as to buy some bread and other provisions. Flotsam was snoring in the wagon, and Flo was sitting on the driver's seat and stitching a ram needlepoint. She had drawn the design at home, and this was the first opportunity she had to finish it. Brillo was tethered nearby to a tree and was nibbling in the high meadow.

Half-dozing in the sunlight, Flo became aware of the large wagon drawn by a team of four horses when it drew near. She immediately recognized it as an up-time conveyance not only by the driver having a seat in the front but also by the "We Love Feet" logo and the "Eisenhauer Shoe Company" lettering on the side.

Flo waved to the driver. "Hello!"

The driver reined his horses to a stop. " Gutten Tag. " He took in her appearance and wagon. "You are an American."

"Yes, and are you ever a sight for sore eyes."

"Do your eyes hurt?"

"No." Flo reminded herself to avoid being literal with down-timers. "I meant that I didn't know that Eisenhauer had expanded this far so soon."

"Ja, Herr Eisenhauer's shoes are very popular. We will be branching into the Netherlands next year. Why wear wood clogs when you can have leather boots at the same price?" He jumped off his wagon. "I'm Siegbert Zuckertort, but everyone calls me Ziggy."

She got down and offered her hand. "I'm Flo Richards, and I wouldn't mind another pair of shoes."

They shook hands.

"I'm sorry, but I've delivered all the shoes. You see, I'm taking hides back for more shoes." He smiled. "We don't want any wasted trips, and Herr Eisenhauer insists on a full load in both directions. But I have a catalog. Perhaps you would like to order something?"

"Another time maybe. When I'm back in Grantville."

"Flo Richards, Flo Richards," he murmured. "Yes, I know you. You're the one with Brillo the Ram. You're famous. He's famous! I have seen the video Bad, Bad Brillo. "

"Really? How did you like his performance?"

"Brillo is one hundred percent ram. So what are you doing here? Where are you going? And who is looking after Brillo while you are away?"

"We're going to Amsterdam, and Brillo is right over here…" Turning, she pointed to where she had Brillo tethered.

He wasn't there.

Looking in the distance, Flo saw three men leading Brillo away. "My God! They're stealing Brillo!"

Ziggy reached into his wagon. "You're lucky that they haven't killed you." He pulled out a heavy cudgel and charged the thieves. Flo took her wagon at a leap and began looking in all the green backpacks for the one that had the revolver. Finding the gun, she jumped down and started running. She prayed the gun was loaded.

One of the thieves threw a rock at Ziggy. He missed, and then he was on them and hit the first bandit on the neck. The bandit crumpled, but the other two used their clubs and soon had Ziggy on the ground.

By that time, Flo was close enough. Standing in her stocking feet, at only around five foot one, she wasn't particularly tall even by seventeenth-century standards. Flo was also a tad on the plump side and not accustomed to running. For this occasion, however, she had no trouble screaming curses while racing at full speed. It was enough to make the two bandits hesitate. When she began firing the revolver in the air, they decided that they had had enough for one day and ran away. The third managed to get up and didn't do too bad a job in keeping up with his fellow thieves.

Panting, Flo helped Ziggy to his feet. "Are you okay?"

He was bleeding from a head wound and seemed a little woozy. "I have had better days."

Facing Brillo, Flo asked, "What's the idea, you big goof? You baa your head off day in and day out, but when three strangers sneak over, untie you, and lead you away, and you don't make a peep. What do you have to say for yourself?"

" Baa!"

Flo laughed. "I think he's gotten over his trauma of being ramnapped. I'm not sure about myself though. I could use a cup of coffee. Would you like to join me?"

"Ah, coffee! But of course!"

Half leading and half dragging Brillo, Flo walked alongside of Ziggy back to their wagons.

"You saved Brillo."

Ziggy laughed. "You saved Brillo. I performed a delaying tactic." He shook his head. "I have had enough of soldiering and prefer a quiet life. Deliver shoes and buy hides. That's a good life. I have already earned enough for a roomy cottage outside Bamberg. It has been two months since I have been home, and I look forward to seeing my wife and children." He sighed. "I miss them."

By the wagon, Ziggy nodded toward Flotsam. "I wonder how he managed to sleep through it all."

Flo sniffed. Flotsam's state of unconsciousness was due to schnaps. "Yes, he's a great bodyguard." She bound Ziggy's wound.

"Thank you, Flo. You are kind."

"That's nothing. Let's see if this sweater fits you. That's the least I can do for a friend of Brillo."

When J.D. returned later that afternoon, looking rather beat, he scowled at the picnic that Flo had set up for Flotsam and Ziggy. "I wish I could spend all my time eating and chatting."

Flo laughed. "Stop grouching. If you brought back any cheese or fresh bread, I'll let you enjoy the last of our coffee supply."

On a bright day in early October, Flotsam reined the wagon over to the side of the road. Approaching them was a sea of wool, a flock of sheep led by a young blonde girl of about twelve. She smiled and waved her shepherd's crook, in thanks to the travelers standing aside.

Flo waved back to the girl. To J.D.: "Look how those ewes follow her. We should be so lucky back home."

J.D. nodded toward Brillo. "He's beginning to become restless."

Tied to the wagon, Brillo was pulling and straining at his tether.

"Relax, J.D. Brillo can't get away. I know how to tie a good knot."

"Was it a slipknot by any chance?"

Breaking free, Brillo charged into the middle of the sheep. Following him were Flo, J.D., and Jetsam. Flotsam was analyzing the situation throughout somewhat bloodshot eyes.

From the rear of the flock, a middle-aged farmer joined the pursuit. He seemed very upset and was talking nonstop.

While Flo and J.D. held Brillo, who was baaing for all he was worth, Jetsam explained in broken English and gesture that the farmer was taking his ewes to a different pasture. He was also a bit that the spring lambs would look like Brillo.

"Brillo didn't do anything!" Flo declared. She kept a tight grip around Brillo's neck.

J.D. had a less ambitious hold around Brillo's middle. "Not yet."

The farmer did a Moses act, parting the ewes and giving Brillo plenty of clearance. However, one particularly cute ewe was more than ready to respond to Brillo's advances. The ewe began running around them and avoiding the farmer's best attempts to have her move with the other sheep.

While the ewe ran her circles, Brillo dragged Flo and J.D. after him.

The farmer was shouting, Jetsam was laughing, and Flo and J.D. shared curses.

"J. D., why don't we just buy the ewe?"

Standing tall, J.D. spoke with the voice of authority. "If we give in once, what happens when Brillo meets another ewe he wants?"

"Let's handle one crisis at a time," Flo panted. "We can afford a ewe. Besides, look at her. She'd be a good addition for the breeding program."

Brillo baaed in agreement.

Flotsam, whether drunk or sober, understood the fine art of negotiation and immediately got into the spirit of bargaining. The farmer haggled with equal enthusiasm.

The young girl walked over to see what was happening. After a few words from the farmer, she burst into tears.

"What's wrong now?" Flo asked.

Jetsam explained that the particular ewe happened to be the girl's favorite. She didn't want her father to sell it. She said that he should buy Brillo, but her father didn't want to.

Between the sheep baaing and the girl crying, Flo felt a headache stirring. But she persevered, and leaving Brillo in J.D.'s perhaps capable arms, Flo walked to the girl. "What's your name, sweetheart?"

Jetsam rapidly translated everything Flo said.

"Maria."

"Listen, Maria, you don't want money for your ewe, do you?"

She shook her head no.

"But what if you had something wonderful?"

Jetsam told her that Maria wanted to know what could be more wonderful than her ewe.

"Tell Maria to wait a few minutes." Flo got into the wagon and began selecting objects: a pair of scissors, strong thread, and the red tarp.

"You're not cutting our tarp!" J.D. said indignantly.

Flo cut a rectangle from the plastic tarp. "You never liked it." While the haggling continued, Flo worked wonders with needle and thread. "It isn't easy sewing plastic. You have to be careful or the plastic will crack and tear."

Fifteen minutes later, she was done, walked over to Maria, and held up a red plastic cape with a hood. "This is for you, sweetheart. It will keep you dry in the rain." She put the cape around the girl, who began to smile and talk rapidly.

"Maria is excited," Jetsam said.

Flo grinned. "I could have guessed that."

The farmer and Flotsam came to terms on the ewe's cost. Although Maria shed a few more tears over the loss of her ewe, she didn't make any more verbal objections. Maria and the farmer began moving their flock. The girl's step seemed lighter with her new cape.

"That wasn't so bad, J.D. And we've a good-looking ewe for our flock. What should we call her?"

"Pad?" J.D. suggested.

"Don't be foolish. That's a boy's name. I'll call her Pat. Or maybe Patty? Should we tether both of them to the wagon or let them ride?"

J.D. smirked. "I think they'll both want to ride afterward."

Flo saw what J.D. meant. "Honestly, Brillo, don't you have any self-restraint? Couldn't you have waited until we reached the privacy of a stable?"

Brillo baaed very contentedly.

The road to Utrecht was a traffic disaster. Carts, wagons, and what have you carrying fruit, wood, grain, and every type of dry good imaginable had ground to a standstill along the soft verge. Marching from the city, Spanish troops and cavalry dominated the road, and few people dared challenge the soldiers' right of way. Civilian opportunity arose between soldier formations, when everyone would go onto the firm grade and try to make some progress before the next group of soldiers appeared. Anyone too slow paid a high price: Earlier they had passed a smashed cart and its unhappy driver who didn't leave the road fast enough.

Perched on the driver's seat, J.D. idly held the reins. He snarled when a cart attempted to ride over the meadow next to them as a shortcut. But the cart didn't get far at all. It sank deep into mud hidden by the tall grass.

"And it serves you right!" he yelled. "Damned cheaters."

"What's that, J.D.?" Flo was busy giving Flotsam and Jetsam knitting lessons. It wasn't so much that they enjoyed knitting, but it was more comfortable sitting in the wagon than on the driver's seat. Whatever their interest in knitting, Flo was pleased with the progress that her students were making.

J.D. asked, "Do you think the Spanish are leaving the Netherlands?"

"Perhaps they intend to subjugate some other country?"

"They're subjugating us," he grumbled. "I hate sitting still."

"Do you want to try knitting? I'm sure Flotsam or Jetsam will let you have a turn."

"I hate knitting."

"Don't be gloomy. The traffic will clear. It always does. We should be in Utrecht by tomorrow. Then it's only a hop, skip, and jump to Amsterdam."

"Hop, skip, and jump?" J.D. grimaced. "And it's only mid-October. Some vacation."

"You shouldn't have taught them how to play poker. If you didn't owe them how many thousands of God knows what currency, you would be looking forward to a soft bed, a real bath, decent food, and warm water."

"Why are you so cheerful? Aren't you the same Flo who threatened Brillo yesterday with death and damnation? Something about sending him to a desert without a blade of grass for a thousand miles?"

"That was yesterday. Today I've made a decision."

"You mean like inventing an automobile for our next 'honeymoon'? Or putting in a train line?"

Flo stood up and put her arm around J.D.'s shoulders. "I mean a real decision, J.D. I'm going to do it!"

"Do what?"

"I'm taking my clothes off for Rubens. I've been debating that with myself every day since we set out from Grantville. Should I or shouldn't I? Don't interrupt! I want to say this straight. You tell me it's okay. Our daughters tell me they're aghast. So which way do I go? Well, what the hell. It's only skin, and it's not like I'm doing a bump and grind on the stage. It's art, and am I ready! As long as someone offers me a real bath, off they come!"

"All your clothes?"

"You got it, mister, every last scrap."

J.D. twisted around to give her a hug. As he twisted, he accidentally pulled on the reins and the horses reared, shifting the wagon into the road proper.

As fate would have it, an extravagant carriage passing in the opposite direction locked wheel to axle with them, tangling the two vehicles and jolting all the occupants. Flotsam and the coach driver began working to separate the two vehicles, and J.D. gladly gave the reins to Jetsam.

An official-looking head poked out the carriage window and began yelling alternately in Dutch and Spanish.

J.D. was in no mood to negotiate and cursed back at the official.

The personage managed to squeeze a fat arm out the window. The stranger shook his fist, and J.D. gave him the finger.

"I hope he understands that," J.D. muttered.

"No problem, J.D. Looks to me like you got your point across."

The door to the near side of the carriage was blocked by the wagon, and the carriage bobbed up and down while the person inside shifted his position. The far door was kicked open just as a cavalryman was passing, and the door swung out right in front of the horse. The horse performed various pyrotechnics and saved itself, but the rider was tossed head over heels.

After getting to his feet, the cavalryman threatened the fat personage, and the fat personage screamed at the cavalryman. The cavalryman pulled his saber halfway out of its scabbard, and the official puffed and postured while his face turned bright red.

"You see," J.D. said. "It's all sorting itself out."

As soon as the two vehicles were separated, Flo asked, "Maybe we should drive on?"

"Sounds good to me, but exactly how are we going to move?"

A crowd of curious onlookers had surrounded them.

"Rubberneckers," Flo moaned, "and in the seventeenth century."

"Makes you feel right at home, doesn't it?"

A Spanish officer rode up and dismounted. He silenced the angry official and cavalry trooper and then listened to each in turn.

"He'd make a pretty good traffic cop," J.D. said.

"I preferred it more when they were yelling at each other."

Flo's instincts proved correct. The fat official walked into plain sight and pointed at J.D. Then the cavalryman also came over and pointed.

"That's not fair," J.D. complained. "It wasn't my fault that the guy rode into the door. Fatty should have looked in both directions before opening it."

The Spanish captain approached them. Flo thought the captain's glare wasn't too cold. She didn't expect to be drawn and quartered for an hour at least.

In answer to the captain's questions, J.D. said, "Sorry, I don't speak Spanish. Or Dutch. I'm an American."

"Ah, American." The captain smiled, and Flo's heart fell to the subbasement. Somehow she knew that the captain was among the few soldiers who had survived the American attack on the castle Wartburg in 1632, during which the Spanish troops were not only killed by lead and fire but forced to listen to Wozzeck. To the present day, debate raged among the survivors about which was worse: to be honorably killed in battle or to suffer the torments of Berg's opera.

The captain continued to smile. "You will follow me." He pointed south. Away from Utrecht. Away from Amsterdam.

"I'm an American citizen," J.D. said.

"And you Americans are great believers in law. So. You have committed serious crimes against his excellency. You have caused much damage. All this must be sorted out. Fines must be assessed, damages awarded." The captain nodded his head thoughtfully. "Yes, all this must be thoroughly looked into. You will be made quite comfortable, for you will be with us a considerable time."

Flotsam and Jetsam, never too cheerful in the first place, became less than splinters on the seas of life. J.D. was speechless. Flo broke.

"Two months! We've been on the road for two months to go to Rubens! We were almost there. Almost. Just a few days more and now this. I don't believe it. I honest to God don't believe it. Why in all the world did I ever listen to Justus Corneliszoon van Liede? I must have been freakin' out of my mind. There are dozens of painters. Hundreds of printers. Why Rubens? Why Justus Corneliszoon?"

It was the captain's turn to become pale. "You are acquainted with Justus Corneliszoon van Liede?"

If Flo's traits were to be assessed, among those highest ranked would be paperwork and organization. It only took her fifteen seconds to find Justus's letter and put it in the captain's hands.

After reading it, the captain handed the letter back to Flo and bowed. He said very quietly, "Excuse me one moment." He stalked over to the cavalryman, who had been grinning with delight.

"You!" the captain yelled to him. "Why are you standing here? Where is your regiment? Get on your horse, and if you fall off it again and do not break your neck, I will personally break it for you." The captain whirled on the fat dignitary. "Pig! Why were you driving on the road? Don't you see the soldiers? What gives you the right to be among them? Do you have a uniform? A rank? There's nothing soldier about you."

The official protested and waved his arms and pointed at J.D.

The captain drew his sword. "I envy you, for you have a simple choice. Move or die. Which do you prefer?"

Fat does not imply slow. Personage and carriage were away before the captain could return to Flo and J.D., whose mouths had collectively dropped open.

The captain bowed again to them. "I sincerely apologize for any mistakes."

"You know Justus?" Flo asked.

The captain grinned and suddenly looked years younger. "Of course I know him! He asked me to watch for you. That was maybe three weeks ago. It was odd meeting him. At first I wanted to punch his teeth in, because he was that type of fop. But before I could even draw my sword, he cut my doublet to shreds. Imagine that! Well, there's only one thing to do with such a swordsman. We promised each other eternal friendship, and I agreed to help you the best I can. Now, how may I assist you?"

Flo looked at J.D., and J.D. looked at Flo. They were somewhat embarrassed to ask, since they weren't accustomed to favors that put them ahead of everyone else, but the captain understood those glances.

"Attend! You will bring your wagon on the road and proceed after me. I will arrange an escort to guide you to Utrecht." He glared at the onlookers, who immediately dispersed. He was that type of captain.

And they were on their way, and Flo sang, "Amsterdam here we come."

Flo slammed the door, and J.D. jumped a couple of feet skyward.

"Lord, woman! Don't I have enough gray hairs?" He waved the binoculars he was holding in front of her. "I nearly put an eye out. That would be a fine addition to this 'vacation.' You know, standing on a roof is perhaps the best way to see Amsterdam. Through binoculars. The tours are okay, but the canals stink. They're more like open sewers than waterways. I keep hoping to spot the Gretchen statue. Wasn't there talk of putting one up where she was on top of a building somewhere and waving a flag? We should be able to see it from here."

They were staying in Paulus Pontius' house, which was next to Rubens' studio. Between the two buildings was a large courtyard and stable.

J.D. noticed the expression on Flo's face. It was a cross between the Mother of Demons and Lucrezia Borgia, only not as pleasant. He asked innocently, "Didn't the first sitting for Rubens go okay? Did you have a place to change? Was the studio warm enough? Did Brillo do anything unmentionable?"

Flo grabbed J.D. by his shirt and shouted, "When can we leave?"

"Well…" J.D. was taken aback. He had never seen Flo so angry. "We'd have to send messages to Flotsam and Jetsam. They weren't expecting to be ready for another week. We need fresh provisions. What happened? What did Rubens say?"

"It's not my portrait!"

"Excuse me?"

"It's not my portrait. It's Brillo's. I'm not Mrs. December. It's Mr. December. I was only invited because they didn't think anyone else could manage Brillo. He has a reputation, you know. He's a one-ram revolutionary. What am I? Huh? I'm a frumpy housewife. That's all." She sniffed.

J.D. hugged her. "Those miserable bastards. I'm going to have a few words with this Rubens. I don't care who he is. No one can treat my wife like that. And after two months on the road to get here? They have their nerve."

Flo returned the hug with interest. "No, not a word to anyone. It's too humiliating. I just want to go home."

"We'll get started immediately."

She shook her head no. "I have to see this through. Brillo will be painted and get a month on the calendar. That's something. Then we'll have nothing to do with these people again."

"At least we'll have a fine portrait of your unfavorite ram."

"Not even that!" Flo wailed. "Someone already bought it."

"What? Has Richelieu been up to his old tricks? Sneaking and conniving among everyone?"

"No, it's some collector in Italy. I've never heard of him."

"Well I'll be damned. I wonder how whoever heard of Brillo?"

Flo smiled glumly. "We have the most famous ram in the world."

Listening by the half-opened door was Paulus Pontius, Rubens' favorite printmaker. Deciding not to join his guests, he quietly shut the door and left.

A week later, Flo and J.D. were busily packing for their return journey when someone knocked on the open door.

Flo straightened up and smiled. "What a pleasure to see you!"

"A pleasure to see you, dear lady Flo." Justus Corneliszoon bowed deeply. "Flotsam and Jetsam have loaded most of the wagon, and I have a present for you." He offered her a small cloth bag.

"Can I believe that aroma? Can I?" Flo opened it. "It is! It really is! Coffee! It's been weeks since I've had any. Let me heat a pot of water, and we'll have some."

"Not to bother, dear lady Flo. I left some beans with the kitchen wench, and she's grinding them to make a fresh pot for us even as we speak. Shall I meet you in the dining room downstairs in half an hour? We can have a farewell chat."

Flo hugged Justus. "That's a date!"

He laughed. "Then I shall see you shortly." Justus left the room.

"Thanks for noticing me," J.D. said. "I don't understand you at all, Flo. You didn't get your portrait painted, we didn't get Brillo's portrait, and you're all smiles. That is, you're all smiles after Corny reappeared. Do you have anything to confess?"

She was all innocence. "Who? Me? No, I'm only happy that the calendars came out so well. Who'd think that Paulus could turn out plates for printing so fast?"

"You sure were happy to see Corny."

"Well, at first I thought that he ran out on us. But, who'd think he'd spend so much time on the road marking a route for us, making friends, and eliminating brigands. It's like having Ivanhoe on our side."

"Can't you think of a Dutch hero?"

Walking over to a tall and narrow wooden box, Flo tapped it significantly. "Rolled up inside is a wonderful drawing by Rubens of Brillo. It's almost as good as a painting, and maybe even better. I think I prefer his drawings to his paintings."

What Flo didn't mention to J.D. was that rolled within the Brillo drawing was a second one, in red chalk and white washes, of Flo reclining on a sofa. In the nude. Flo thought it was very flattering, but Rubens had a flattering manner in general. Perhaps she would give it to J.D. for his birthday. Perhaps. But it wouldn't leave their bedroom back home. Some things were too private.

"I'm really looking forward to being home. You know what I think, J.D.? I think we're going to have a fine trip back to Grantville."

J.D. looked out the window. "Maybe."

It had started to snow.