"TITLE: Grantville Gazette.Volume XVIII" - читать интересную книгу автора (Flint Eric)

Quintessentially Blonde
Virginia DeMarce

Grantville, January 1635

"Why are you asking, Missy?" Debbie Jenkins asked.

"You know Pam Hardesty. In the going-to-be-a-librarian-someday classes with me. She's thinking about when she comes to get married. If she does. And what she's going to tell a respectable down-time man about that blank spot on her birth certificate. If she should marry one. A respectable down-time man, that is. Not that he's asked her, yet. If there was one on the horizon. So I thought, maybe… Well, everyone knows what Velma Hardesty was like, so maybe nobody knows. But I thought that maybe you and Dad had picked up some gossip back then. About who her father was, I mean. Or might have been."

"If even Velma knew." Debbie could be a little catty at times.

"Someone else had that tow-blond hair like Pam's," Chad Jenkins said.

Debbie raised her eyebrows.

"Cory Joe has it. Her brother," Missy pointed out.

"He's obviously not her father," Debbie said. "Cory Joe was only two when Pam was born."

"Besides Cory Joe," Chad said. "George Trimble."

"You're right." Debbi nodded. "George Trimble and all three of his sons, before they went prematurely gray. And George's mother. Mary Margaret Lang, she was. She just died last year."

Chad folded his newspaper and put it down. "Betty Mae Trimble's boys had it too-the Lunds, George's nephews. It ran all through those Langs. Harry and Tom Lund both had to get married. Either one of them would have been perfectly capable of it."

Debbie nodded her head. "I'd put my money on Rodney Trimble, though. If I were a betting woman."

"You know what?" Missy said.

"What?"

"They've all gone prematurely gray. Every single one of them. More like prematurely white. Pam is not going to be pleased at the thought that she's likely to have snow white hair by the time she's forty."

February 1635

Pam Hardesty climbed the steps to the assisted living center. She hadn't wanted to come, really. But after Missy told her what she had gotten from her parents, she couldn't seem to let it go. Mr. Trimble might be the easiest one to talk to. He hadn't married for, oh, years and years after she was born, and his wife was from California. She might not be so uptight about past history as Harry Lund's widow was likely to be.

If she didn't learn anything from Rodney Trimble, maybe she would screw up her courage and talk to Tom Lund next. His first wife had died in 1632 and his new wife was German. Past history for her, too. Harry Lund was dead. No way did she intend to tackle his widow Cheryl about it. Ever. She'd been in the same high school class as Jonathan Lund, Harry's son. His mom was a holy terror.

The only thing was that Rodney Trimble had been in the army. He might not have been around at the right time, no matter what Missy's mom thought.

But he might know something, even so. All the people who had this kind of hair were his cousins on the Lang side. And even if he got mad at her for coming, he was crippled up real bad, everyone said. So bad that he had to be in the center. His wife couldn't take care of him at home, any more. He wasn't going to hurt her.

But it wasn't that hard.

It was sort of like looking into a mirror, except that his hair was snow white.

When she said her name, he just looked at her for a while. Then he said, "Well, I guess Velma got it wrong when she decided to collect child support off the books from the lawyer who handled her divorce from Joe Lang."

Then he said, "I'm sorry I said that about your mother."

She answered, "I know Velma pretty well. I've been her daughter all my life."

"I'm not sure you know her all the way. We lived next door to each other. Ben was busy in the mines. Gloria Kay had to go to summer school every year to keep her teaching certification up because she only had a two-year degree. Velma was pretty much on her own. They counted on Irene to keep an eye on her, but she was six years older and had other things on her mind. We were fourteen when we did it the first time. We went steady all through high school. She thought that Gloria's 'keep your legs crossed' chat was a real scream, considering that it came two years to late. By then, we were doing it as often as most married people. Her folks were glad that I went into the army when I graduated. Looking back, they probably shouldn't have been. She missed it and started dating Joe Lang, Cory Joe's father. That marriage was okay for her while I was gone, I guess, but we started up again every time I came back on leave."

He looked a little uncomfortable at that. "I mean, that was what we did with each other."

This lay between them for a minute or two.

"When Joe found out, he got real mad, yelling that she was cheating on him. Velma pointed out that he wasn't missing anything-it wasn't as if she wasn't doing it with him, too, whenever he wanted it. Joe didn't see it that way and divorced her. Velma-well you should know the way she sees things, I guess. She thought that he was being just terribly unreasonable about it all."

Pam nodded. That was exactly what her mother would think in a situation like that.

"He wanted to take Cory Joe, but Velma realized that she could get back at him by keeping custody, so she did. Judges always favored the mother, her lawyer told her. He was from over in Fairmont. She didn't have any money. She couldn't pay his bill, so he wrote it off for nooky. Could have been disbarred, if he'd been caught playing those games."

Rodney Trimble looked at the girl. She was as white as a sheet. He'd never actually seen that happen, before. But she was so pale-complected to start with.

"Maybe she really did think it was the lawyer, the second time. She'd never gotten caught when she was doing it just with me, all those years through high school, but she got pregnant with Cory Joe real soon after she married Joe Lang."

Pam looked at him. "Thank you."

Rodney watched her leave, walking down the corridor from the sun room where they had been talking to the street exit. He hoped she was feeling a little better. He'd invited her to come back again if she felt like it. She seemed like a nice kid.

That's why he hadn't mentioned the other obvious possibility. People being people and Velma being the kind of girl she was. The one that had never seemed to occur to anyone but him. He'd adopted Laura Beth's two kids and given them his name before they came back from LA. They hadn't had any more of their own.

Joe Lang? He'd been awfully mad at Velma, but that probably hadn't stopped him from wanting her. And he'd been at her place twice a week, to pick up the boy for visitation and to bring him back.

If it had been Joe, who had been such a good father to Cory Joe and apparently had never given the girl a glance, well, that could really have hurt her feelings.

Himself, he sure wouldn't mind claiming a daughter like that one, if some down-time nutcase refused to marry her unless she had an official father.

He was a crock, of no use any more except to go to the sheltered workshop a couple times a week and sew pieces of leather together to make soccer balls. Dead beat for a full day after that little bit of work.

Laura Beth wasn't the kind to take umbrage about something he'd supposedly done a dozen years before they ever met. Just think how, stuck here in a town thousands of miles from her own home, his military disability payments gone with the wind in the Ring of Fire, two kids to support, she'd taken hold, gotten a job right away, then a really good apprenticeship learning to be an elevator mechanic. Not that there were many elevators in Grantville, but once old Howell Tillman died, she'd be the only person in the USE who really understood how elevators worked. In a few more years, Howell had told her, the country would be wanting a lot of elevators and people would be beating a path to her door.

Laura Beth was a great gal.

He wasn't going to last much longer. Maybe he could do this little Pam a favor before he went. It wouldn't be that far off the mark. He and Joe were some kind of cousins, after all.

Late March 1635

Pam sent Jean-Louis LaChapelle back to Haarlem with some forms that he was to get Velma to sign. Rodney Trimble wanted his name put on her birth certificate. Jean-Louis would have to get Velma to agree to that. Jenny Maddox had supplied a whole batch of forms for Velma to fill out.

He was also to get Velma to sign a notarized statement that both she and Rodney had been unmarried, neither of them married to anyone else, when Pam was conceived and when she was born. That seemed to be important to down-timers. In the year 1635, it seemed, if you had to be a bastard at all, it was a lot better to be a plain bastard than to be an adulterine bastard. Calvinists weren't any more modern about it than Catholics were.

Apparently Velma had forgotten to mention that one of her daughters was illegitimate when she married Laurent. Jean-Louis thought that they had better not mention it to his uncle.

Haarlem, Netherlands

The second run of lava lamps that emerged from the laboratories of the University of Leiden commanded prices equally extortionate with the first. At that point, Jean-Louis, with the receipts in hand, approached his uncle's wife in regard to the forms he had brought to Grantville.

Velma could scarcely believe that he was willing to transfer half of his shares in the project to her simply for signing some forms from Jenny Maddox.

As for Rodney? Why did he want to put his name on Pammie's birth certificate? He wasn't going to get anything out of it. It wouldn't have occurred to her at the time. By then, she had assumed that he was shooting blanks, not that he hadn't been good at it. Good old Rodney hit the target right on the button, most of the time.

Damned old goat of a lawyer, dying when Pammie was just two, after he'd promised child support if she didn't make it public. Well, maybe that had been better. Lots of little kids were real blonde, but not many of them kept that hair when they got older. He'd been her divorce lawyer, after all. He'd seen Joe lots of times. What the hell? She'd sign the papers. Joe was somewhere up-time and he sure would never have claimed Pammie.

Not that she wasn't happy to take the shares in exchange for doing it, of course.

She didn't mention the transaction to Laurent. He knew, of course that she had shares in the lava lamp project. That had been unavoidable, under the circumstances. She didn't expect to see any of the money from the shares that he knew about. These were another kettle of fish. Invested somewhere.

But why would Jean-Louis care who Pammie's father was? How had he gotten involved? She shrugged. No telling. Given that all she had ever seen of the price of the trailer in Grantville since she had handed the bank draft over to Laurent were quarterly interest statements, it couldn't hurt to have a source of some ready cash that she could stuff under the mattress, just in case.

A girl had to look out for herself.

Too Late for Sunday

Written by Michael Badillo

December, 1633, Grantville

"Roberta Allene Haggerty! Come here for a minute, please."

"What is it, Momma?" Allie answered, entering her parents' room. The "please" didn't fool her a bit. Nobody called you by your full name unless you were in trouble.

"We need to talk, honey."

"'Bout what?"

Her mother studied her for a moment before speaking. "I'm worried about you, honey. You ate three helpings of meatloaf for dinner, and you've been sick every morning this week." She fingered the rosary in her hand for a few seconds before continuing. "Are you pregnant, baby?"

"What?" Why would you even think that, Momma? I'm still a virgin."

"Because you've been eating like a horse," Momma said. "And because you've been so sick. I can't even see you under your baggy old clothes. Have you been gaining weight?"

"No, I don't think so."

"Haven't you weighed yourself lately?"

"Why? I'm skinny; we don't even have a scale in the upstairs bathroom."

"Well, use mine then." Momma stood beside Allie while she stepped on the scale and waited for the dial to stop.

"See," Allie said. "I ain't getting fat."

"My God." This came out as a shriek. "How can you weigh ninety-six pounds? Take off that baggy sweater so I can get a look at you. Why do you have to dress like a scarecrow, anyway?" Momma ran her fingers through Allie's unkempt chestnut hair. "You're so pretty."

Allie didn't much like to do it, but she took off her sweater.

Her mother's face paled. "I can see your ribs… Your collarbones are sticking out. You're going to see Doctor Adams tomorrow morning."

"I'm not pregnant. Why don't you believe me, Momma?"

"I believe you, baby. I'm just worried now, is all."

Allie walked back to her room and shut off the radio. She was worried now, too. She had never been overweight; in fact she'd always been somewhat on the thin side of normal. She'd lost a lot of weight.

Most people had shed a few pounds since the Ring of Fire, just from walking more often. But she hadn't lost any until just the last few months. Since September she had lost twenty-eight pounds, no small amount for a girl who stood five foot four and weighed less than a hundred and thirty pounds to begin with.

She was worried not just because the weight loss and the eating. She was always thirsty, and always cold. She was also slightly hurt that her mother would think she had strayed from God's plan and gotten pregnant. Even if, after their little talk, Momma said that she trusted her. It still hurt.

She changed into her nightgown and knelt beside her bed, rubbing her hands briskly together to warm them before placing them together to pray.

Allie had already finished her chemistry quiz and sat thinking. She really needed a good medical project, something with a lot of chemistry that would help her get ahead in nursing school.

The idea of a blood drive occurred to her. She thought it would be a good idea, if the supplies were available. She made a note to seeDoctor Adams about how to get started.

One problem solved, she turned to the next. Who should she ask to the prom? No one had asked her yet, but someone might still. She decided to wait.

The ringing bell startled her. She hastily gathered up her books and papers and stuffed them into a worn denim backpack. She chided herself silently for daydreaming. She could get by with it in chemistry, but history class was different. She couldn't memorize every meaningless date that ever got written down. Especially now with two different centuries of current events and the Thirty Years' War happening in Grantville's living room. She was making a low B in history and she didn't want her grade to drop.

Stopping by Mrs. Selluci's desk, she rooted through the pile of graded homework until she found hers. She scooped it up and deposited her ungraded work on top of the other pile. Ninety-one percent she noted, wondering what she missed.

"Allie, honey, go on in and have a seat." Allie smiled nervously at the nurse and followed her into the cramped office. She shivered as she entered the room.

There were three other people in the room besides her parents. One was Doctor Adams, her family physician. The second was his nurse, Sheila Baldwin. But she didn't recognize the elderly gentleman who sat in the far corner looking at her with what appeared to be great interest.

Their faces were frozen in a look of dread. She could tell her mother had been crying. Her father sat looking glum with his arm around Momma.

"Uh…" Allie looked around the room for a place to sit. Doctor Adams indicated a small folding chair. She took a seat and folded her hands primly into her lap.

Nobody spoke for a few seconds. Finally, Doctor Adams cleared his throat and began to talk. "Allie, we've done some tests. I've discussed the results with your parents." He paused. Allie looked at him and then around the room. All eyes were on her.

Momma stood. "Allie, honey… angel… you have diabetes." She began sobbing.

"But I'm only seventeen!" Allie understood the implication. She planned on being a nurse after high school. She was just months from graduating and her birthday was soon after. She didn't think this was fair. There was only one fate for a diabetic in the seventeenth century. "I'm going to die, aren't I?"

Her father stood up and started to speak. The nurse interrupted. "Maybe not, Allie. But it doesn't look good. At your age it's likely to be type I, insulin dependant. Before the Ring of Fire, it would have been more treatable. But we don't have the technology anymore. Some insulin is available again, but it's still experimental."

Momma jumped at that. "What? I didn't know that. It could save her life." She turned toward the doctor. "Doctor Adams, you've got to do something. You can't just let her die."

"Hold on, Bobby Jean. Sheila only gave you half the story. I'll get to the other half in a minute. But I warn you: It could be dangerous."

"But she'll certainly die without it, right?" Her father spoke for the first time. There was an edge of anger in his voice.

"Hold your horses, Ernest. I said there was another half. And that half is Zijbert." Doctor Adams indicated the man wearing a white lab coat and holding a cane. He had snow white hair and wore a white goatee and mustaches. The man stood. "This is Doctor Zijbert van Trumpe. He's the closest thing Thuringia has to an endocrinologist."

The man looked Allie directly in the eye and gave a slight nod. "How do you do, Miss Haggerty?" His English held a slight Dutch accent.

Allie thought he looked like Colonel Sanders. The thought made her smile in spite of it all. "I'm pleased to meet you, Doctor."

He smiled, showing beautiful white teeth. "Doctor Adams flatters me. I am more of an herbalist really, but I can treat your illness. Let us begin. This new insulin may save your life. You are a minor, but with your parents' consent, we can begin your treatment. I concur with Doctor Adams' diagnosis. Are you willing to undergo insulin therapy?"

Allie's answer was terse. "Rather than die? Of course."

"A year ago," van Trumpe began, "it would have been impossible to treat you. There are several things you can do about type two diabetes, but without insulin, hope for the type ones is slim.

"The insulin we are using is still experimental, as Doctor Adams indicated. Each batch is a different strength, so you have to undergo tests which allow the technicians to dilute it to a given strength. This insulin is weaker than up-time U100 or U500. It is about U10. The lower strength means we can use the larger syringes that are being manufactured now. I have set up a small clinic in the Three M complex. The insulin labs are there too. Your dosing schedule will be really complex and, for a while at least, we will administer your shots from my clinic. If you will come to my office on Monday, we can begin."

When Allie finally left the office, she was tired, cold and scared. But she wasn't too preoccupied with her own problems to notice the thin young man who sat alone in the waiting room.

"Allie, this is Hugo." Nurse Baldwin introduced the young man Allie vaguely remembered seeing at Doctor Adams' the other day. He was very skinny, with sunken eyes and his skin drawn tight over his cheekbones. She could see the hollow spots around his collarbones. "He has diabetes too. We thought you might like to meet him."

" Guten tag," said Hugo. "I am Hugo Sonntag."

"I'm Allie." She held out her hand. To her surprise Hugo took it and bowed deeply as he kissed it. She thought he would be cute if he could gain a few pounds.

Nurse Baldwin set a pitcher of water and two glasses on the table. "We're going to let you two get to know each other. Remember; support is really important. Don't give up hope."

"Is good to meet you, Allie. I also am type one." Hugo's English was stilted and halting, but understandable nonetheless.

She smiled at him mirthlessly. "I'm so sorry."

He shook his head tossing his wavy black mane. "Is the will of God. But I have been taking the insulin. Still, I am alive."

"How long have you had diabetes?"

"For three months." He shrugged. "I should have died, were it not for the medicine."

"How old are you, Hugo?"

"Nineteen."

They talked for hours, just getting to know each other. It turned out that they had some things in common. They had hopes, and dreams, and aspirations. They both loved school. And they both hoped to live long enough to finish it. Hugo dreamt of being an astronomer; Allie wanted to be a nurse. Both of these things required time-time they might not have. By about sunset, they had finished three pitchers of water and had gotten to know each other fairly well. Allie decided that she liked Hugo.

"This is the best we can do." Doctor van Trumpe held up something that looked like a tiny wine bottle. It contained a cloudy liquid with the slightest pink tint. "Three M extracts it from the organs-the pancreas actually-of slaughtered pigs."

Allie knew insulin came from pigs and cattle, back before human insulin was available, but she was no less squeamish for the knowledge. "Well," she said resolutely, "it's better than no insulin." She squeezed Hugo's hand. In the past week they had become quite close. He wasn't her boyfriend, but lately he was the only person she felt understood how she was feeling.

She looked to her parents. The chairs had been set up in pairs; one for the Haggertys, one for the patients.

"Doctor van Trumpe?" Ernest Haggerty asked, "will this work?"

"Eventually, of course, the product will be pure. It is natural, so it will work." He set the vial down on his desk. "It works now, but the question is how much to use. The concentration is weak and not entirely pure. The effects are not always consistent."

"It's better than nothing." Bobby Jean blinked back tears.

Allie tried to put herself in her parent's position; losing their daughter just as she came of age, but she couldn't.

The doctor went to his desk and took out a small box. He opened it and showed the contents to Allie. It held two glass syringes with huge evil looking needles that appeared to be made of brass. "These are the best syringes we have," he said, offering one to her. "They are large but with the new concentration, it should not be a problem. The needles are replaceable, but not easily.

"You will come here twice a day, before and after school, for your shot. You will not skip a day, no matter how ill you are. We will start by giving you your shots."

Allie relaxed slightly at that.

"But, you must learn to do it yourself someday. So, before you leave here today…" He took the other syringe and filled it with clear liquid from another bottle. "… you will have to give yourself a saline injection. Like so." He demonstrated on his own arm. Then he picked up the bottle of saline and handed it to Allie. "Your turn."

Hugo came to stay with the Haggertys shortly after Allie began to take the insulin. He was a down-timer and an orphan, so he didn't have any support net. He had come to Grantville seeking education. He was taking classes to pass the infamous GED when he fell ill.

Since he was so young he had no trade, no stake, and he was too sick to labor and learn one. Ernest and Bobbie Jean took him in. He got on well with Allie and God knew she needed an understanding friend.

They gave him the spare room. Hugo was immensely pleased. He'd never lived in such a fine building before. He lay in the comfortable bed, unable to sleep but not wanting to disturb his hosts. He had faith in American technology. Soon they would have better medicine and he could give himself the shots.

He'd seen the wasting sickness before. Those who got it as a child died, usually starving no matter how much they ate. It was a terrible thing.

Dear Lord, please let this work. Please watch over Allie for me, and the Haggertys. Please allow the medicine to work. Not just for us, but for everyone who has and will have the wasting sickness. Please bless us with your infinite mercy. Please bring us another miracle.

December 29, 1633

Allie's boots crunched in the new snow as she and Hugo marched through the empty cornfield. She was cold to the point of shivering. "Why are you bringing me out here?" She thought when he asked her to walk with him that they would walk hand-in-hand and talk about romantic things.

The only light around came from the pathetic bullseye lantern he carried. "I can't feel my toes, Hugo." He didn't answer. She scanned the horizon, but failed to see anything of importance. The town was behind them. She could see the lights but not much else. "The Moon isn't even out," she added.

Hugo stopped in the middle of the field. Holding the lantern aloft so that she could see, he smiled broadly and spoke. "We are here."

"Where, Hugo?" She knew there was a hint of irritation in her voice. "We are where?"

He swept the lantern around to indicate the field. "Here," he repeated simply.

"Hugo," she replied, the impatience mounting in her voice, "I don't see anything. What do you expect me to see?"

"Stars." He dowsed the lantern.

She looked up. "Oh, my God. They're beautiful. I've never seen the stars like this."Grantville was far from the major sources of light pollution in the twentieth century, but in seventeenth-century Germany, the town sat under an inky black sky. Impossibly bright stars burned in the sky like so many bale fires. "Hugo, they're amazing!"

"They are beautiful." He looked at the ground for a moment before gazing into her eyes. "Like you."

She didn't know what to say. No up-time boy had ever taken her out on a moonless night to show her the stars.

"The brightest one is Jupiter." He looked back to her to make sure she understood. "Is planet, not star. But star south and west, is Alpha Taurii. Mohammedans call it Aldebaran."

She leaned closer to him, snuggling for warmth, but also to see better. He wrapped his cloak over her shoulders.

"To south of Jupiter is Alpha Orionis. Is also called Betelgeuse. Is brighter than Aldebaran. It is point four magnitude, while…"

Allie placed a finger over his lips. "Shh. Talk about the stars, not the math." She grasped his other hand in hers.

He turned toward the eastern horizon and pointed to a small red light. "That is planet Mars. He has two moons, but we can't see them." He turned to her and gave a pleading look. "Up-time stories say you sent machines to fly there. Is true?"

"Yes, Hugo, it is true."

He was silent for several minutes. "Marvelous," he said at last.

Her watch beeped. "Oh my God, Hugo," she declared, suddenly alarmed. "It's midnight. We gotta get home. My parents will be worried."

He started walking toward the town, pulling her hand. "Come," he said chuckling. "Your parents will not worry. I keep you safe."

She laughed at this, but still they hurried.

Hugo looked over the cathode ray tube sitting face down on a blanket on top of the kitchen table. The television had gone out the week before during a program he'd really wanted to see, and the technician who diagnosed it said that the tube was bad. No replacement parts were available so it couldn't be fixed. Ernest gave him the set after it broke as a project. When it turned out it couldn't be fixed, Hugo sold the chassis-it still had many useful parts that could be cannibalized.

But he kept the tube. He had a plan, and the money he made selling the spare parts would make it happen.

He would take the twenty-five inch TV tube and make a telescope out of it. He had the parts, or most of them, and Mister Haggerty said he could use his tools. He'd even promised to help.

Hugo could buy what few special parts he would need. And hardware, of course. That would be expensive. And most expensive of all would be the silvering of the mirror. He sat down at the table and began to draw.

Oh my God, what am I gonna do, Allie thought. When she was eight years old and her grandmother was dying she had asked her mother why. "Because it's God's will," Momma had answered, "and you just have to do the best you can with what God gives you." That made Allie feel better somehow. Her mother had added, "that's all you could ask of anyone," to which her father replied "take it in the shorts and press on." That remark had her father sleeping on the couch for a week. Allie had never understood the quip until now.

She had several thick references out and was busy researching

"Allie?" came a voice over her shoulder. She turned to see Matt Tisdale standing behind her. He had his chemistry book in his hand. She recognized Michael Fritz and Kevin Norris behind him.

"Yes, Matt?"

"Could you help us? We're having some problems."

"Yeah," cut in Michael. "This stuff is hard. I don't understand."

Allie gestured toward the chairs around the table. "Sure, I'll help. Sit down, guys." She herded her papers into a neat pile. The three boys took the seats, opening their own texts and getting out their notebooks.

"What's the problem?"

After some discussion of the chemistry problem that had the boys stumped, Matt smacked his forehead. "Ah, now I get it." He turned and looked at his buddies.

"Right on, Allie." "Thanks." "All right" The boys started to leave. Allie let them, because she suddenly felt dizzy.

On the way out Michael blew her a kiss and called, "Allie, you're a genius."

The dizziness mounted. Allie stood up, then tottered a bit. Then she fell with alarming speed.

"Allie!" Michael called. Allie didn't hear him; she passed out before her head hit the table.

"Allie, how are you feeling?" Doctor Adams seated himself on a small stool and looked up at her from his new vantage point. "You had a little faint. Do you remember what happened?"

"Well…" Allie paused. Somehow she was in the doctor's examining room. She was still dizzy and there was a sharp pain shooting through her back. "I was in the library, studying when some boys came along and asked for some help with their homework."

Her mother seemed to appear out of thin air and handed Allie a glass of water. It wasn't enough. She drained the glass. "Can I have more please?" Then Allie turned back to Doctor Adams. "The guys were just leaving… I guess I must have passed out. I was really dizzy right before, but I just can't describe the feeling. I couldn't move. I was aware, but my muscles just wouldn't move. My body wouldn't obey." She shuddered. "It was the scariest thing that ever happened to me."

Hugo had heard of some of these men. Copernicus and Galileo were among his favorites, but the one who fascinated him most was Isaac Newton. He wouldn't even be born for ten more years, but the books said Newton would to revolutionize the world. He would invent many things including a new type of telescope. There were illustrations of his design and fantastically realistic photographs that showed the stars and planets as he'd never seen them. He was awestruck.

Hugo didn't remember a time when he wasn't fascinated with the sky. He idly copied the illustration of the Newtonian reflector into his notebook. When he finished he turned back to the text and read about a man named William Herschel. He stopped only to eat a snack and drink a glass of water.

Allie bounced into the room and Hugo smiled and sighed inwardly. She was so very pretty. But she was rich and above his station, although she'd always been kind to him. She even smelled intoxicating.

"Hugo, would you like to go to the prom with me?"

He couldn't believe his ears. She was a high school student soon to graduate and with a future. He was an orphan, abandoned from day one, and poor as a church mouse.

"Hugo? Are you okay? How is your blood sugar?"

"It is not that. I never expected… surely someone in your school has asked you."

"I'm asking you, Hugo."

"Of course." Hugo blinked back tears. "I just wasn't sure you liked me."

"I like you, Hugo."

"No," he blushed. "I mean like that."

"I do like you like that, Hugo." She leaned forward a little bit further and kissed him.

February 14, 1634

Allie stopped and leaned over panting, her hands on her thighs. "Hugo, I'm tired."

"Just a little farther, Allie. I promise."

"But you can hardly see the stars. There's a full moon out."

"Please," he smiled immensely. "Indulge me." Dim light lit his face.

She didn't reply, but held out her hand again and let him pull her along. He led her into a copse of trees and stopped at a fallen log. He kicked over the log, and luminescent fragments of wood sprayed across the ground.

"You brought me out here to show me foxfire?"

"No. Not quite." He spoke softly but tugged her arm. They continued for another several yards. The thick undergrowth of the glen gave way to a clearing. He watched as Allie walked into the clearing, looking at the glowing debris set out along the ground. She stared at it momentarily, confusion evident on her face. Then she backed up a little, moved around the perimeter of the clearing until she'd lined up the figure that Hugo had spent all morning drawing. "Hugo," she gasped. "That's so sweet."

She stood at the foot of the giant heart picked out in foxfire. The words " Be Mine " were spelled out in English, but in a Gothic font. He'd spent some considerable time making this. "Happy Valentine's day, my sweet."

"You've given me the stars." He could barely see the light from the foxfire illuminating her tears. She squeezed his hand. "You couldn't show me the stars in the sky so you brought them down here for me." She seemed deeply touched, but paused as if working something out.

"But how did you know?" Confusion was evident in her voice.

"Your friend Michael. He told me." He stooped and picked up a bunch of wildflowers, cut and bound with a ribbon. He offered them to Allie. "For you."

"Flowers! At this time of year?"

"Hothouse." He stepped closer again.

"But that's so expensive." He gave a noncommittal shrug.

They were now standing face to face, with only the flowers she held tightly in both hands between them.

He leaned forward so that his face was just inches from hers. "I like you."

When they kissed, she dropped the flowers.

"How's it going, sport?" Ernest looked up from the tiny lenses he was polishing. "You need a snack?"

"I'm fine." Hugo answered amiably. "I'm almost done. The mount works well, but I'm going to have to find a way to make fine adjustments."

"What about a worm gear?"

"Please?"

"A worm gear," Ernest repeated. "It's like a long screw that turns a gear; very useful for small adjustments. Here," he said, showing him the action of a crescent wrench. "It works like this."

After a moment, Ernest muttered, "I sure could use a cold beer right now." He said the words cold-beer, as if it were one word, then added, "It's a sad thing to have a German son who can't drink beer." He switched back to his normal voice. "Do you want some water, Hugo?"

" Ja, bitte."Hugo went back to the hand-copied references and discovered that another way to make the necessary adjustments was something called a friction brake. He had no idea what one was, but wrote the words in his notebook in case one of the up-timers at the library could tell him. They were getting used to seeing him by now. He'd spent many hours there, copying text and illustrations and asking endless questions.

He was astonished with how much work was necessary to grind the glass blank just to make it spherical. He had yet to make the circle into a parabola, but that could wait. The only thing left to do now was silver the mirror.

"Soon," he said aloud, "it will be done soon."

"What's happening to me?" Allie demanded of Doctor Adams.

"At first, we thought it was inconsistent batching, but other patients would have had a problem as well. Zijbert thinks it might be

MODY."

"Motie?" Allie asked. "Like the novel?"

Doctor Adams didn't react to the reference. "MODY," he repeated, somehow, against all logic, pronouncing it in all caps. "Mature Onset Diabetes in the Young. Sometimes a patient presents as a type one but in reality is another type altogether. Typically, MODY patients require less insulin. We may even be able to treat you with other drugs. The up side is that your prognosis looks much better than a type one."

"What about Hugo?"

"Now, Allie, you know I can't discuss another patient with you."

"But he's my boyfriend."

"I'm sorry, Allie, but I really can't say. It's too early in any case, but I have to tell you, you both look much better than you did. How are you feeling?"

"Fine." Her answer was flat and somewhat cold.

He patted her on the back of the hand. "I'm sorry, Allie, we all are. I know it's not fair but there is not much we can do…" His voice trailed off weakly.

She stood mute, staring at him for several minutes. The silence continued until Nurse Baldwin came into the examination room.

"Hey, sweetie," she said, looking at Allie and smiling. "Congratulations."

Allie gave her a look. "For?"

"Graduating high school, hon. It's one of the most important things you can do in life. Besides, it keeps your mind busy. You gotta plan your future; when you beat this thing…" She stopped when Allie stiffened. "Hey, and you'll be eighteen soon. You'll be an adult."

"Yes," Allie paused. "I will. Which brings us back to the point." She turned to Doctor Adams and gave him a serious look. "If you can take me off insulin, it will mean more available for Hugo. I think he could use more. I will quit taking the injections if you think I should."

"I think we should try it." He wrote his recommendation in her chart. "But don't worry about Hugo. The insulin is working well enough for him. You've surely noticed how much he's filled out in the last six months."

"Yes," Allie said. Indeed I have.

May 22, 1634

"Happy birthday." Allie's mother handed her a small package wrapped in brown paper. "It's not much," she apologized, "the insulin is so expensive."

"Oh, Momma," Allie was overwhelmed. The reminder that they had been paying for her and Hugo's insulin made her feel deeply obliged. "You didn't have to."

"We want to," her father cut in. "We love you." He turned to Hugo. "Both of you."

This made Allie cry until her mother stopped her.

"Come on, baby, open it."

Allie tore into the wrapping and recovered a small jeweler's box. She opened it and gasped. She set the box down beside her tiny slice of birthday cake and took out a silver locket on a chain. She opened it and smiled tearfully. There was a small painting of Hugo set inside.

"Oh, Momma, Daddy…" She sniffled, kissing both of her parents. "It's beautiful."

Hugo took the locket and fastened it around her neck. He kissed her lightly on the nape and whispered into her ear. "I have a surprise for you, as well."

He picked up a small decorative bag, the kind used before the Ring of Fire for last minute gifts. This one was well used and worn. "Happy birthday, my love."

She dug into the tissue paper and produced a silken scarf in emerald green. "It's lovely," she said taking it by the ends to tie it around her neck. Hugo took it from her instead and tied it over her eyes.

"There is more, mein Engel," he said when he was done blindfolding her. "This way."

Allie strained her ears in a vain attempt to tell what Hugo was up to. He had something planned-something big. It was about ten o'clock at night and the rest of the family followed closely, whispering excitedly amongst themselves. When Hugo stopped her in the middle of the yard, her parents cooed in delight over some unseen wonder.

When he removed the blindfold, she saw the wonder itself. He had made a telescope.

"Surprise, sweetie," her father sang out. "We've been working on it for months. Hugo wanted to keep it a secret, for your birthday."

She circled the instrument, regarding it with unbridled curiosity. It sat on a three-legged mount about three feet high. The body was a large octagonal wooden box about five feet long and was attached near the middle by a t-shaped pivot on top of the stand. One side of the "t" held the instrument; the other held a counterweight. At the top end, there was an eyepiece and another little tiny telescope that looked like a rifle scope. It was a striking medley of future and contemporary technology. She thought it was quite beautiful.

"Here, let me show you." Hugo gestured to the scope. "It is a fifteen-inch spherical reflector. The focal length is two-hundred inches, but I've put an aperture stop at fifty inches to reduce the spherical aberration."

Allie had no idea what all that meant but she smiled and nodded.

He continued, "I meant to regrind the mirror to a parabola, but I didn't have time. I wanted to show it to you on your birthday. When I get time, I will finish it."

He stepped up to the telescope and peered through the spotter scope. He made a few adjustments and peered into the eyepiece of the main scope briefly before stepping aside for Allie. "That's Jupiter. See, those three dots are Europa, Ganymede and Io."

It was chilly outside, even in the spring. Allie shivered and Hugo threw his cloak over her and snuggled her close. They took turns peering into the eyepiece, Hugo explaining the significance of thing they looked at. He told her stories of the stars and named them in Arabic. They stayed until the wee hours, long after her parents retreated to the house, and made love for the first time under a sky full of blazing stars.

It didn't occur to her to feel guilty. She didn't feel she'd done anything wrong. She felt God would understand that two lonely desperate souls needed each other.

Hugo collapsed suddenly five days later, while walking home after having morning shot. He passed into a coma on May 27, 1634, Gregorian and died seven days later, on a Saturday. He had been taking Duncan Cunningham's insulin preparation for nine months. The intensive therapy, which had originally been so successful in his case, failed and his condition suddenly worsened for no reason Doctor Adams could figure out. But regardless of the cause, the smell of ketones on his breath told Jeff that he was losing his battle for life.

Doctor Adams could do nothing and felt the helplessness that haunted the families of his patients when all had gone wrong. The autopsy proved nothing conclusively but he was pretty sure that the cause of death was ketoacidosis. Why Hugo quit responding to the insulin, he would never know.

There was a small funeral service, attended only by the Haggertys and Doctor Adam's medical staff. They respected Allie's wishes. Hugo was buried next to her ancestors in the Haggerty family plot. His headstone was granite, simple, bearing only his name, the dates, and a simple epitaph- Too Late for Sunday- in German and English.

July, 1635

Allie walked briskly along the sidewalk, passing storefront after storefront, ignoring them all until she reached the clinic. She stopped and checked her scrubs, patting down her seams and flicking away a piece of unwanted gray lint. She liked the pink and white candy stripers that were the virtual livery, to choose a down-time word, of nurse interns.

She was already half way through nursing school. She had sent a letter to Mrs. Cunningham of Three M Labs explaining that she wanted to carry on Duncan's work. And she'd gotten a reply. They'd offered her a job, contingent on her finishing school-something she had every intention of doing.

She sighed deeply and looked up at the facade of the Ancel van Trumpe Diabetes Clinic, then entered the foyer and passed the row of memorial plaques to the patients who had died. The first was of Hugo. It was a good likeness of him, smiling as always. She stroked the locket with his portrait. She still wore it and had promised herself she always would. A tear rolled down her cheek as she reached the plaque dedicated to Doctor van Trumpe's son, who'd died of diabetes also. It was an excerpt from Alfred, Lord Tennyson's Ulysses, Allie's favorite book. It had become the de facto motto of the clinic:

Come, my friends,

'Tis not too late to seek a newer world.

Push off, and sitting well in order smite

The sounding furrows;

For my purpose holds

To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths

Of the all the western stars, until I die.

Allie swallowed the tears and squared her shoulders. Then she stepped into the noisy room full of patients and crossed over the threshold of adulthood, into a newer world.

Dark as a Dungeon

Written by John Zeek

Henry Johnson was happy to see the three horses the family owned in the field. That meant that Anse and Hagen were back from the medical center. Maybe, just maybe the waiting was over. Henry pointed the horses out to Wendel Schultz and Suse Eckhard who were seated across the tram's aisle. "When we get to the house, I want some time to talk with your Uncle Anse and Hagen before you start asking for stories about the war. If you'll leave us alone for a bit, I promise not to interrupt when Hagen gets to the good parts. Deal?"

Suse looked a little hurt, Henry knew she had a bit of a crush on Hagen, and she tried to monopolize his time.

"No more than an hour, Suse. You and the boys will have Hagen all evening. Wendel grab your brother." His brother, Gerd, as usual, was seated directly behind the tram driver.

Henry was glad to see Hagen sitting alone on the porch steps when he walked up the driveway. Better to find out what had happened before he had to face Anse.

"Hi, Hagen." Henry sat on the steps beside Hagen. "How was the trip to the medical center?"

Hagen smiled. "I passed. My leg is completely healed. When my leave is over in two weeks, I can return to the TacRail Battalion.. . no, I mean the TacRail Regiment. The word came in the mail this morning. We're a regiment now. "

"And Anse? What did the doctor have to say about him?"

Hagen's smile disappeared. "Not so good, Herr Johnson. The doctors will not clear him to return to service. In fact, they were talking about a medical discharge."

"Damn," Henry muttered under his breath. "Was it the eye chart again?" Anse was blind in his left eye from splinters.

"No. The chief has a waiver for the eye chart. It was the bucket of sand." Seeing Henry's questioning look, Hagen continued. "You have to be able to pick up a fifty pound bucket of sand. You have to do it twice, once with each hand. Herr Hatfield can't do it. The wound in his arm tore out too much muscle. His hand won't close completely, either."

Henry knew Anse was going to have problems with a nasty wound in his bicep and most of three fingers gone from his left hand. But this was worse than he had expected. "How's he taking it?"

"Not good Herr Johnson. Not good at all. The worst part was the ride home. The chief was not able to hold the reins in his left hand, and I had to drive the wagon."

Yes, Henry thought, that had to be bad. Anse never likes anyone to do things for him. "Where is he? I need to talk with him."

"He is in the living room. He just sits and looks at the television. It is not on; there is no program. He just sits and stares at the blank screen. I am worried about him. I have never seen the chief like this."

"I'm worried too, Hagen. But it is up to us, his friends, to pull him through this. He is a strong man inside; it'll work out." Henry stood and started toward the front door. "Hagen, I want a bit of uninterrupted time with Anse. Why don't you entertain Suse and the boys? Keep them outside for a while."

Henry wondered why he was thinking of gladiators and lions. As Hagen had said, Anse was sprawled on the sofa looking at nothing. He looked terrible. He was wearing his oldest coveralls; almost worn out at the knees. There was even a small rip in the leg. It was very obvious that he hadn't shaved for a couple of days. He had wrapped a bandana around his head to hide his ruined eye. It looked more like he was pretending to be a hip hop gangster than anything else. Henry walked over and sat in the easy chair. There was a long enough period of silence for him to start to fidget.

"Hello, Anse," Henry said.

Silence.

"I said 'hello, Anse.' The normal response is 'Hi, Henry. How was your day'?"

Anse looked around. "Sorry, Hank. I didn't hear you come in. How was your day?"

Anse sounded like a puppet just going through the motions. "My day was fine. How was yours?"

Silence was his answer. "Come on, Anse. Talk to me. I know you went to the medical center. I talked to Hagen so I even know what they told you. So talk to me."

"You wouldn't understand."

" I wouldn't understand?" Henry banged his cane on the floor. "I've walked with this stick since 1968, and I wouldn't understand. Wake up, Anse. This is me you're talking to."

Anse looked up. "Sorry, Hank. I guess you would understand part of it. But you always worked with your head, being a school teacher and all. I've always worked with my hands." He held out his ruined left hand. "Now look at me. What good am I now?"

"So are you going to sit around feeling sorry for yourself or are you going to do something about it? Hagen told me about the bucket of sand. Do you want to get out that old set of weights in the basement and start some physical therapy? Give it a couple of months and we can build up the strength in your arm." Henry could see Anse was struggling not to lose his temper. Good. Maybe a good mad is what he needs.

"I don't have time to do any physical therapy. They're throwing me out of the Army."

"I doubt that. Maybe you won't be a field man any more, but surely Colonel Beth will need you to train engine drivers. You're a good trainer. You trained all the drivers in TacRail, and you helped train all the brakemen. Shoot, you even trained the loaders and loadmasters. That new transportation school in Magdeburg sounds like the perfect slot for you."

"I don't want to be a trainer any more, Hank. I trained Hagen and the three other boys from TacRail who were wounded at Ahrensbok. But I was there with them. I don't want to send boys that I trained out to get killed or wounded when I can't go myself.. It would tear me up if they got hurt."

Henry understood. He had sent men into combat, those many years ago. He tried reason. "Anse, you're fifty-four years old. You had to expect this was coming. You can't go running around playing Alvin York forever."

"Charlie Swartz is still in TacRail and he's almost seventy. I was hoping to last a few more years."

"Charlie Swartz works behind a desk. Do you want a desk job?"

"No desk job."

Henry was getting angry with Anse's stubbornness. "Okay. What if you are forced out of the Army? It's not like you're going to starve. You'll always have a roof and a plate here, and how many companies have you invested in besides Pat's gun factory… six or seven? You'll have a good income to retire on."

Anse gave Henry a pitiful look. "That money is for my old age. And I want to leave something to Wili's kids and Suse."

"So you want to keep working. I can understand that. All right, let's look at the possibilities. With all the new industry starting up there are a score of places for a man like you. You have proved you can supervise and lead men."

"It's not the same and you know it. I don't want some charity job. And that's what they'd be. 'Oh, look at the poor wounded soldier.' Bah. I might as well get a lawn mower and go back into the lawn care business. That, at least, is honest work."

Henry tried a joke. "I don't think that would work, Anse. Most people have goats or sheep to do their lawn mowing."

Anse gave him a look that would freeze water. "You're not helping, Hank. Besides, that was just an example. I want real honest work."

"Okay. You want real work; you could always go to Suhl. Ruben Blumroder offered you a job running his gun shop. Since he was elected to the state legislature he needs someone full time. Or, Pat needs an assistant in his factory. It would be a bit like your old job as a foreman for Ford. Shoot, Gary Reardon offered you the same job in his bolt factory. There are three jobs in Suhl alone, and they aren't charity jobs. You know, I think the change of scenery might do you good."

Anse slouched lower on the sofa. "I'll think about it."

Henry had to work to keep his temper under control. "Anse, at least clean yourself up. You can't mope around the house all day every day. You are starting to worry me and I know you're worrying Dora. Besides, it sets a bad example for the kids. You know how Gerd worships the ground you walk on."

Anse was still staring off into space. "There's another thing. When Wili joined TacRail, I promised Dora I'd take care of him; now look at me. If anything were to happen to him…"

"Dora would understand. She knows you and Wili are closer than brothers. Shoot, Anse, she treats you like the brother she never had. So how about cleaning up a little for her? You've even got Hagen worrying. We're all family here, including Hagen, so for your family pull yourself together."

"Hank, I know you're trying to help, but leave me alone. I have to work this out for myself." Anse got up and walked into his room.

Dora Schultz looked up when the door slammed open and Henry stormed into the kitchen. She had never seen him this angry with anyone, much less Anse.

"I'm getting tried of this shit," Henry muttered. "He can't spend the rest of his life just loafing around feeling sorry for himself." Then he looked around and saw Dora. "Sorry, Dora. But Anse got to me."

"Ja, Henry. He is getting to me too. He insists on wearing that ugly bandana and refuses to wear the eye patch I made for him. He wears the same two sets of coveralls; they are the oldest he has. I must have washed them twenty times since he came home. He has stopped shaving. And worst of all, he doesn't do anything. Before he was always busy. What are we going to do? This is not good for him."

"I'm calling out the big gun." Henry waved away any question Dora might have asked and went to the telephone.

Dora had no idea who he was calling, and the one-sided conversation she heard gave her no clue. Henry described Anse's condition and actions. Then he finished with, "Yes, he's here now. He is just staring at the wall in his room. Would you? Thank you, I'm sure it will help."

When Henry hung up the phone, Dora started to ask but he held up his hand. "Don't ask. If this goes wrong Anse can only blame me; you had nothing to do with it." With that cryptic comment Henry walked off, heading for his shop in the basement. Dora's questions were answered forty-five minutes later when the door bell rang.

Dora had never had any dealings with Captain Leonore von Wilke, but knew who she was. The captain commanded the communications people in the TacRail Regiment. She had also been the main subject in many of the gossip sessions at the Twirl and Curl Beauty Salon. The Twirl and Curl was like the village well in her Dora's old home. It was better than Cora's Cafe for gossip.

Leonore was, if the stories were true, a nobleman's daughter, a former camp follower, a thief and looter, a former madam in a bawdy house and finally a CoC organizer before joining TacRail. Dora wasn't sure if she quite approved of Leonore, and had worried when Anse had acted as her escort to a number of dances in town.

To add to her disapproval, Leonore was not dressed properly for visiting. Dora could have understood if the captain were wearing a uniform; pants were part of the female TacRail uniform after all. But Leonore was wearing what looked like a locally-made copy of an up-time pants suit. A copy made from what looked like green velvet. Her trousers were tucked into high black leather boots. The handle of what had to be a dagger protruded from the right boot. She was also wearing a rather large revolver. Dora had definite ideas about women carrying a pistol; it should be hidden. She always carried her own revolver in her pocket. But she would be polite. "'Allo, Captain von Wilke. May I help you?"

"Good afternoon, Frau Schultz. I am here to see Herr Hatfield. Is he in?"

Dora nodded. "In his room. I will get him."

"Don't trouble yourself. If you will just point the way, I want to surprise him."

Dora pointed across the living room to the door of the home office Anse had converted into a bedroom. "He is in there."

"Danke, Frau Schultz."

Leonore walked to the door, twisted the doorknob and kicked it open. "Andersen Hatfield, your manners are terrible. You're supposed to stand when a lady walks into the room. And you're supposed to call your friends when you get into town."

Then she slammed the door.

For the next twenty minutes Dora could hear Leonore telling Anse his bad points. She started with his uniform and worked her way from there. She included his manners and his attitude. Then she started on the way he was dealing with his wounds. She never descended into profanity and never repeated herself. Her voice never became shrill but was loud enough that the whole house heard.

Finally the door opened and Leonore stepped out, turned and added in a conversational tone, "I expect you to be shaved and dressed in a clean uniform in fifteen minutes. I'm only going to be in town for a week and I want a handsome hero to walk with me while I shop. Move it, Andersen. I'm waiting."

Leonore walked over to where Dora stood gawping in amazement. "Frau Schultz, I want you and any other TacRail wives and girlfriends to know I am returning to Magdeburg in a week. If you want to send mail to your loved ones, I would be happy to see it gets delivered. And for your personal information, it looks like I'm going to be assigned to the transportation school in Magdeburg. I intend to ask for your husband as a trainer for brakemen."

Dora could barely whisper her thanks. What was this woman?

Fifteen minutes later, by the clock, Anse came out of his room. Dora was surprised to see that he was dressed in the new dress coverall she had made for him. The one with the embroidered rank and unit badges. The very coverall he had refused to wear because it had copies of his ribbons, both from Vietnam and his current service. His hair was combed and his goatee and mustache neatly trimmed. He was wearing the neat black eye patch she had made. He looked splendid.

Leonore held out her hand. "Well, Andersen, you look passable. I have a carriage and driver in the drive way. Would you like to take me shopping and to dinner?"

Anse took Leonore's hand and walked her to the door. Dora wasn't sure exactly what magic she had just seen worked, but she knew that she totally approved of Leonore von Wilke.

Anse was smiling, but it wasn't his familiar grin. "Andersen," Leonore said, "don't pretend with me. I can see right through you. You may be here with me, but your mind is still on that battlefield."

Anse looked startled. "No, I was just thinking about the future and how I was going to fit in to it. The battle is over."

"Bullshit, to use a fitting American phrase. That is pure bullshit. Your wounds are not the problem. And you know it. Talk to me Andersen."

"Leonore, you don't know what you're talking about." Anse held up what was left of his hand. "Pretty, ain't it?"

"If you're trying to shock me, you failed. I've seen worse. I stood over the body of my dead husband, torn apart by a cannon ball. I prepared him for burial. Do you really think an injured hand is going to shock me? Ha."

"It is not just injured. It's half gone."

"So you work with the other half. But the hand is not the problem; it is how you're dealing with your experience of the battle where you were injured."

"You keep saying that and it simply isn't true. I've been in battles before."

"Wholesale killing battles, like Ahrensbok? I doubt it. You Americans did not fight like that when you were in your up-time army."

Anse puffed up with anger. "First off, lady, I was a Marine, not in the Army when I was up-time. Second, we fought some pretty nasty battles and they never bothered me."

"Bullshit. I was a soldier's wife. I know about the nightmares and cold sweats when you remember the men you have killed. Did you see some of the Vietnamese for years afterwards? And you are still seeing Ahrensbok every night. You would not be the man you are and not see it. The hand is just an excuse."

"Not every night."

Leonore knew he was finally going to open up.

"Leonore, if I hadn't of pushed so hard we wouldn't have even been in that battle. I had to show everyone what TacRail could do. Then I teased Frank Jackson and got him angry enough to put us in the battle line. If I had stuck to my job I wouldn't have gotten my men wounded and killed. And in the end we weren't really important. The real battle was on the other end of the line."

"I've read the reports of the battle; you weren't totally useless. You had one man killed from your original party. The two Jaegers you lost might have been killed whether you were there or not."

"Don't try to rationalize it. It won't work. I know I've tried."

"Andersen, the problem is you are not a warrior." Noting Anse's reaction, Leonore quickly added, "A warrior would puff himself up and strut around shouting about the glories of war." Leonore reached out and touched the decorations sewn on Anse's chest. "These mean nothing to you, do they?" She touched the rank emblem on his collar. "And this means even less."

"Well, I like the rank."

"Oh, to be sure. You like to be able to talk to both officers and common soldiers as their equal. But you would be happier in a set of faded coveralls with grease stains, as long as they had the train crew patch." Leonore touched the red circle on Anse's sleeve.

"Well, yes, I am proud of the train crews."

"Andersen, you are not a warrior. A warrior would bask in the glory of his awards. And lecture on the honor of combat. No, Andersen. You are a soldier. You see war as a necessary job, a dirty job, but a job that needs doing."

Anse thought about her words. Finally, he broke the silence. "You're a pretty smart lady. Did you just figure that out?"

"I knew you were a soldier the day you and Sergeant Rau came to teach my telegraph girls self defense. You didn't talk about honorable fighting or fair play. You said they were to use anything they had and any method that worked. You told them to fight in pairs and to shoot without warning. To backstab and cheat; anything to keep them alive."

Anse smiled a real smile. "Hey, they're all good kids. They needed a touch of the real world."

"Yes, they are good kids… and some of them will live to be a lot older because of you."

They rode in silence for a while. Then Anse gave a sigh. "You're right. I do see the battle some nights when I try to sleep."

"Will it help to tell me?"

"There was this one French sergeant that stands out. He was the bravest man I ever saw. He walked across that field with nothing but a little spear. He was following the orders of fools and he knew it. He was an older man. We were tearing the French line to pieces and this sergeant just kept leading his men. He made it across three hundred yards of pure hell and I killed him."

Leonore waited to see if there was more. Then she touched Anse's shoulder. "If you had not shot him, would he have reached your men? Would he have continued to fight, maybe killed or wounded some of your people?"

"Sure. You could tell he was a fighter. He wouldn't have surrendered without orders."

"Then I am glad you shot him. It was the right thing to do. Brave or not, he was the enemy."

Leonore could tell her words had affected him. "Andersen, what would your Johanna have done if you acted like you have been?"

"Leonore, that's fighting dirty. But she would have kicked my ass."

"Yes, it is fighting dirty. But I had a good teacher. Consider your ass kicked. You are too tall and I had the cobbler put steel caps in the toes of my boots."

Anse grinned. It was almost the old Anse grin she remembered.

Henry was surprised to find Anse and Hagen at the table for breakfast the next morning. Hagen being there was not the surprise; he had been having breakfast with Henry since he had arrived more than two months before. But Anse had been sleeping in for most of the same period. Sleeping in until noon, if the truth was told. Anse was not only up, but dressed in a neatly ironed chambray shirt and blue jeans. Even more surprising, Anse had dug out the old manual typewriter from the basement and was banging away on it one handed.

"Good morning, Hank," Anse said with a grin. "Just a minute and I'll clear this stuff out of your way. I'm just finishing up." He rolled the sheet of paper out of the typewriter and signed his name to the bottom of it.

"You're bright and chipper this morning for some one who came in as late as you did. I was up getting a drink at two and you were still out."

"Yeah. The meeting ran late."

"Huh?" Henry said. "What meeting? I thought you were out with Leonore?"

"I was, but we went to a meeting with Ruben Blumroder and some of his cronies. You know what they say, once a political organizer always a political organizer. And Leonore was a good organizer."

Henry was still trying to make sense of this. "So you went shopping and after dinner you went to a political meeting?"

"Naw. We skipped the shopping and we ordered dinner in. We ran into Ruben on our way to town and the meeting just grew."

"It sounds like an interesting evening."

"No, it doesn't. It sounds boring as hell, but it wasn't. Ruben and Leonore know a lot about the politics behind this war we're in." Anse picked up the typewriter and carried it to the cabinet, then started to gather his papers.

Henry looked at the papers. He knew Anse was a slow typist when he had both hands, now… "Did you get any sleep last night?"

"Not really, I fell asleep about four. Woke up around five thirty and have been up ever since. I started on this about six, after I got dressed." Anse waved the papers.

"May I ask what was so important you started typing at six o'clock in the morning?"

Anse smiled. Henry could tell that he was bursting to tell his secret, but wanted to act mysterious. "My future, Hank. It's my future."

Hagan stood up and started walking to the door. "Herr Johnson, Chief, if you will excuse me I am going to watch the morning news. I have already heard this. Twice."

Henry waited until he was sure Hagen was gone. "Anse you were pretty down yesterday. This is a big change. Are you sure you're all right?"

Anse's grin faded. "I'm getting there, Hank. I know I'll have some bad days ahead, but I am getting better. I appreciate you and Dora trying to help. I know it was hard on you guys."

"Hey, we're family. We care what happens to you."

Anse's smile was back. "Still, I was making it rough on you. I guess it took Leonore to make me really look at what I was doing to the people around me. The people I care about. She has a way with words."

"That she does. She surely does; I could hear her down in the shop. She has a very good vocabulary too. Now what is this about your future? What are you planning?"

"That's why I was reading too late last night. I was reading military regulations; I wanted to get this right." Anse flipped over the first sheet. "This is my application for medical retirement. If the army ever gets around to paying some kind of pension, I'll be eligible."

"Okay. That's a good first step. What are the other papers?" . "This is a letter to the Suhl City Council. I am applying for citizenship. I took your words about a fresh start seriously. I'm moving to Suhl."

Henry would be sorry to see Anse go, but anything was better than the funk he had been in.

Anse continued, "This is a letter to Pat about his job offer; saying thanks but no thanks. And this is another to Gary Reardon saying the same thing.

"So you took Ruben's offer? You're going to take over his shop?"

"Sort of," Anse answered. "Just until I get my Suhl citizenship, then Ruben is going to have one of his cousins come in and run the shop."

Henry decided to sit down. This was going to get complicated and Anse was dragging it out. "Okay, cut to the chase. What are you going to do after you quit working for Ruben? And don't string it out. I want to know now, not to hear a long shaggy dog story."

Anse grinned. "I'm going into politics. We worked it out last night."

Henry was flabbergasted. Anse was one of the most non-political people he knew. This was bad. "We worked it out… as in you, Leonore and Ruben?"

"I did mention there were a couple of Ruben's friends at the meeting, didn't I? One was one of Francisco Nasi's people from intelligence. Another was Jorg Hennel, the CoC guy I met in Suhl."

Henry had to set his coffee down. This was worse than bad. One of Nasi's spies, the CoC, and Anse going into politics. This was really bad. He waved for Anse to continue.

Instead of continuing, though, Anse got up and went to the door. After opening it a crack and peering out, he closed it and turned back to the table. "I didn't tell Hagen this part. He doesn't need the worry. What do you know about the gun trade in Suhl?"

"Just what you and Pat have told me. And, of course, there was your trip two years ago to investigate the illegal gun trade. That whole 'mutiny' business has been the talk of the town ever since." Mutiny, hell. Anse had legalized an uprising that left a body count near a hundred.

"Yeah. Well, selling guns to the Austrians wasn't really illegal then, just stupid as hell. And it wasn't really a mutiny, just a couple of idiots using some hotheads to cause trouble. That got straightened out. Ruben and the big dealers have all stopped trading with the Austrians, and when he was on the city council, Ruben got it made illegal to sell guns to enemies of the USE. But according to Jorg there are still guns moving out of Suhl that are not going to our people."

"What does that have to do with you and politics? Don't tell me you're thinking of running for office?"

"Not right now, maybe in a few years. No, the gun business is why I'm going back to Suhl. Hank, I am going to be an intelligence agent for Nasi. I was hired last night. It's a real job, a job I can do. The CoC in Suhl is just going to be my cover story. Ruben's shop, Pat's gun factory and Gary's bolt factory are all hot beds of CoC activity and Jorg wants me to help coordinate them. Can you think of a better spot to watch for illegal gun trading than a gun shop and a gun factory?"

"So you're going to be a spy?"

"An intelligence agent," Anse corrected. "Us spies prefer to be called intelligence agents. Besides I'll be more of a counter-spy."

Henry could almost picture it; Anse, with his usual "bull in a china shop" style, would set the CoC's political agenda for Suhl back five years. And he couldn't think of a more unlikely spy. He had to try to talk him out of it. "Anse, don't get me wrong… but an intelligence agent needs subtlety and the social graces. Neither of them are your long suit."

"That's not a problem. No one will suspect me of being an intelligence agent. I have a reputation for honesty and straightforwardness. Plus, there are a lot of people in Suhl who like and respect me."

"And there are a lot that hate your guts and spit when they hear your name. Your time as military commander of Suhl wasn't all sweetness and light."

"Don't try to talk me out of it, Hank. My mind is made up. I'm moving to Suhl."

"Okay, where does Leonore fit into this plan?"

Anse looked a bit sheepish. "Hank, you know I love your daughter, Jo, and will always love her. I'll always think of you as my father-in-law and, more importantly, as my friend, my best friend. But we aren't going home to West Virginia. I plan on asking Leonore to marry me when her enlistment runs out."

For a minute Henry felt like Mickey Mouse in the cartoon with the magic hat and the brooms. He had started this by calling Leonore, but now it was out of his control. Some times you just had to stand back and watch the train wreck. And be ready to help pick up the pieces afterward. He extended his hand. "Anse you'll always be my friend. And you'll always be family. If I can help with your plans, let me know."

The Bloody Baroness of Bornholm

Written by Kerryn Offord

May 1634, 0430 hrs, in the shadow of HammershusCastle, Island of Bornholm, the Baltic

"Get ready to jump," the man at the rudder called.

Jesper Hansen tugged his cap down tight and slung his duffle bag over his shoulder. There was a gentle bump as the boat brushed the rocks and Jesper leapt for the shore. Safe on land, he waved the fishermen on their way and headed for the castle.

He was panting before he reached the top. It was barely a hundred yards from the shore to the castle wall, but it was a climb of nearly two hundred and fifty feet. His destination was the signal line hanging below the guns. When he got to it he jerked it several times, listening for the ringing of the sentry bell.

"Who goes there?"

Jesper squinted at the face looking over the wall. "That you, Jorgen? It's me, Jesper. Drop the ladder. I have an urgent message for the Lensmand. The Swedes are coming."

"The Swedes? Stand clear, I'm letting the ladder down now."

Hammershus Castle, the office of Lord Holger Rosenkrantz of Glimminge, Lensmand of Hammershus Len

Lord Holger Rosenkrantz paused at the door of his office. Two men were looking at a map on the table. One of them was a competent officer he could trust – a man who had served with the Swede for several years before King Christian decided to join the League of Ostend. He wasn't so sure about the other man. Captain Lord Niels Gyldenstjerne was one of his wife's kin. So far the man hadn't screwed up… but then, he hadn't been given much opportunity. Holger didn't have high expectations of anybody from that family and kept a close eye on his every move. "The messenger says the Swedes intend gathering their invasion fleet at the Ertholmene islands. From there they can strike at the Hammershus, Melsted and Svaneke."

Holger shook his head, and pointed at the map. "Then again, they might make for the beaches to the south beyond Nexo." He turned to his wife's kinsman. "Niels, send a messenger to instruct the militia commanders to deploy their companies to protect the beaches at Melsted, Svaneke, and Nexo. They'll have to defend their areas with what they have. We can't spare them anything. The Hammershus is the seat of my power as Lensmand of Hammershus. If I lose the castle, I lose the island." He looked pointedly at Niels. "And more importantly, I lose the income from the tenants."

Holger waited until Niels left before turning to Mads Friis, his artillery officer. "Now Mads, how best can we defend the Hammershus?"

The next day, Christianso, one of the Ertholmene islands, twelve and a half miles east of Sandvig

Johann Fabricius leaned his rifle against a rock and sat down to eat. All around him men were already engaged in the important task of feeding their faces. He let a chunk of bread soak up some hot gravy while he cast an eye over the anchorage between the islands of Christianso and Frederikso. The natural harbor was packed with small boats, transports, and the escorting frigates. "How big did you say the beach at Sandvig was, Matthias?"

"Well, you've got to remember, I wasn't more than eight when I was there, but I guess it must be a couple of hundred yards wide."

Johann turned back to contemplating the flotilla of small sailing smacks and barges. "It's going to be a mess with all those boats trying to find somewhere to land."

"Yeah, a right mess."

"Mind, it's not our problem."

"No, not our problem," Matthias Delp agreed.

"We aren't paid to worry. That's what sergeants are for."

"That's right. Let Sergeant Fels worry."

Johann glared at his friend. "Matthias, I get the feeling you're not taking me seriously."

"Oh, I'm taking you very seriously, Johann. Let the sergeant worry about finding us somewhere to land. We can worry about the fact our boat draws over four feet. That means we'll be jumping into water at least that deep."

"That is something to worry about. How deep will the water be at the back of the boat?"

Matthias shrugged. "I told you I was only eight when I was last at Sandvig. I don't know. It could be anything up to five or six feet."

"Matthias, none of us are tall enough to jump into five or six feet of water with a full war load."

"That's my point. Worry about something you can control. I'm planning on being near the front of the boat."

The next day, 0530 hrs, Hammeren hills, Bornholm

On a good day, through a good telescope, a person on the heights of the Hammeren hills could see the fishing boats sailing in and out of the anchorage at Christianso. Sergeant Knud Lauridsen watched the Swedish fleet set sail for Bornholm. He watched long enough to get an idea of numbers and their probable heading before securing his telescope. Then he grabbed his rifle and ran down the hill to warn his captain.

1000 hrs, off Sandvig, aboard the Holmsund

Back in basic training Sergeant Major Hudson had said that battle plans never survived contact with the enemy. Right now Johann wasn't sure he wanted to be around when they finally did make contact. First there had been the layover on Christianso waiting for the forces to gather. That had gone two days over schedule. And now, in spite of the day having started out in bright sunlight, it had started to rain. Worst of all, the wind had moved around to the south. Instead of a relatively straightforward passage of two hours the fleet of shallow draft boats now had been forced to keep changing tack to make headway. The journey to Sandvig was taking forever, and the constant rolling and pitching of the flat-bottomed Holmsund was taking its toll. Johann had joined the USE Marines to get away from the dull tedium of the army. Right now, with his head hung over the side of the boat and loosing what was left of breakfast, he'd love to have to deal with dull tedium. So far the world was staying faithful to another of the Sergeant Major Hudson's favorite sayings, "if anything can go wrong, it will."

"Fix bayonets. Loosen tampions," Sergeant Fels called.

Johann jerked his body upright. He felt light-headed and sick. Matthias, seated beside him, looked green. It took several repeats of the order from Sergeant Fels before Johann figured out what was happening. He stared landward. Unfortunately, he had an uninterrupted view of Bornholm. The Holmsund was at the front of the flotilla heading for the beach.

He licked the rain dripping down his face and ran his tongue around his suddenly dry mouth. The rain reduced visibility, but not enough that he couldn't see the clouds of white smoke that suggested that people on Bornholm were shooting at him.

He fumbled to fix his bayonet to his rifle and then he loosened the plug that kept rain from running down the barrel. He didn't want to remove the tampion just yet. It was the only thing stopping water getting into the barrel. Loosening it meant it could easily be removed when needed, or in an emergency, shot off.

There was a bump and scrape as the boat hit the beach. Johann was into the water before Sergeant Fels finished his call to start the attack. As he sank into the chest deep water he shuddered. It was cold. Holding his rifle high above his head he started for shore.

His first step was painful. He'd stepped into some branches under the water and discovered that they'd been deliberately sharpened. He could feel the men behind crowding him, threatening to push him into the obstacle. "Quit pushing. There's something in the water."

He lifted his right foot high before stepping forward this time. "There're obstacles under the water. You're going to have to step high," he called over his shoulder.

It was slow and painful, but eventually he made it to shore. He glanced behind to check that he wasn't alone. He wasn't, but there were a lot of bodies floating in the sea.

The first objective was the Danish position behind a low stone wall about a hundred yards inland. He removed the tampion, lowered his rifle, and joined everyone else advancing on the Danes.

Over to his right Johann could see Swedes fighting to cross the wall. They were opposed by men with pikes and were having trouble. He angled toward them.

Suddenly a dozen armored Danes stood up behind the wall. They were pointing small handguns at the Swedes. In seconds there were clouds of smoke and over a dozen Swedes lay dead in front of the wall.

"My god, revolvers. Where did they get those?"

"The same place everybody else does. Burke's catalog has been selling cap and ball revolvers for nearly two years now," Matthias answered.

"But the Danes are our enemies. You aren't saying Burkes have been selling to the enemy. The up-timers have laws against that kind of thing."

"But the Danes weren't our enemy until late last year. That leaves plenty of time for people to have bought them."

Johann looked back to the Danish lines. The wall was now a mass of Danes all pointing muskets at the approaching Swedes and Marines. "Oh, shit!"

At less than fifty yards the whole Danish front became a cloud of gunsmoke. The Swedes charged. Immediately Captain Finck led the Marines in their own charge.

"Fuck." The hole was knee deep and Johan pitched forward, wrenching his knee, while the weight of his pack knocked the breath out of him. For a moment he was stunned. He'd stepped into a pit about two feet square with several sharp wooden stakes sticking out of the bottom as well as some stuck into the sides, point down. "Thank God for Calagna and Bauer!" He could even feel the indentation in the metal insole of the C amp;B combat boots, but it hadn't penetrated. If it had-Johann dry-retched at the thought-his foot would have been speared right through.

"Hit the deck!" Sergeant Fels yelled.

When a Marine sergeant told you to do something in that tone of voice your body reacted before the mind realized what was happening. Johann was flat on the ground with his hands on his helmet when there was a massive roar from the Danish lines.

Johann tipped his helmet back into position and looked around. He could see Marines and Swedes lying on the ground whenever the white gunsmoke swirled away. Some men were obviously injured stepping into the same kind of trap as he had, while others had been torn apart by the explosion. To his front there were Marines kneeling behind the stone wall firing at targets in the field beyond. Even as he watched he saw a Marine shot while reloading his musket.

Johann struggled to his feet and made for the shelter of the wall. He settled beside Matthias, then peeked over it. "What's happening?"

"The Danes made a run for it."

"I can't see any bodies. Didn't we hit anybody?"

"Yes, but they were carried back by their friends."

Johann looked down at the crater at the base of the wall. "Was that what exploded?"

Matthias nodded. "The Danes had the whole fence line mined with fougasses. Dig a hole, put in some gunpowder, and then cover it with stones and stuff. Then you wait for people to stand in front of it."

Johann looked at the remains that were scattered around. "Yeah. It looks like they've been hit by an enormous shotgun. I don't like this. Traps in the water, concealed pits, sharpened stakes, now this. It's like they have an up-time military manual."

"Not really. The fougasse is so last century, and as for the obstacles in the water and the concealed pits, they go back to the Romans. Rather than a modern military manual, I think we're facing a classical historian."

"Modern, classical, what does it matter? Someone seems to know what they're doing, and it isn't anybody on our side." Johann looked across the field. Straight to the east a line of trees ran south-east into the distance. That was where the Danes had run. To the south there was open ground for nearly quarter of a mile. Right up until it reached a hill towering above the field. "We're going to have to take that hill."

Matthias grimaced. "I hope you're wrong. That's Langebjerg. I remember rolling rocks down that hill."

"You worried about a few rocks?"

"It's a pretty high and steep hill, Johann. A big enough rock rolling down that slope could kill a man."

Sandvig

It'd been nearly three years since Colonel Axel Gustafsson Lillie lost his leg at the siege of Mainz. Since then he'd learned to get around on his artificial leg, but he was slow. He wanted his horse. A man on a horse could be seen by his men. He could also see the battlefield. A man on a horse could also easily keep up with marching soldiers. "Erik, where's my horse? Why hasn't he been landed yet?"

"It's the obstacles in the water, Axel. I'd detail some men to clear a channel, but the Danes are being difficult," Erik Wachtmeister answered.

Axel glared. He didn't want to hear excuses, even reasonable ones. He wanted his horse. He needed his horse. He turned his attention to the Danes causing Erik's trouble. They were firing from a redoubt high up on a hill three hundred yards back from the beach. As long as the redoubt remained in Danish hands it wouldn't be safe to remove the obstacles in the anchorage, and as long as the obstacles remained, they couldn't risk bringing in the horses. "I want that redoubt taken."

"I'll get on it right now."

Axel cursed his missing leg again. It should be him walking over to lead his men up the hill. He was going to take casualties, but he was already taking casualties every time those cannon fired. He wiped away the rain collecting on his face. That was another problem. The rain meant his muskets were useless. Fully two-thirds of his men were reduced to mere swordsmen. Well, it was something he'd have to live with.

He returned to his pacing, waiting impatiently for Erik to lead the men up the hill. It was a rocky hill, and the rocks and grass were going to be slick from the rain. He was going to suffer casualties just because of the conditions. He accepted that but he didn't have to like it, just like he didn't like this whole hasty, ill-conceived expedition. He'd been ordered to take Bornholm. It occupied an important strategic location in the Baltic he'd been told. Well, he knew that was true, but what harm could it do with the siege of Luebeck broken by the up-timer admiral and his iron ships? It was all just politics, a chance to grab a little glory for Sweden.

Axel spat on the ground. So much for glory. He'd lost a leg for glory. And he hoped the rumor he'd heard was just that, a rumor. He hoped the king wasn't really intending to make the American, Sharon Nichols, Baroness of Bornholm. He knew something of Bornholm's history, and after the abuses the islanders suffered when it was mortgaged to the city of Luebeck, he sincerely doubted they would accept even the suggestion of a foreign overlord without a fight.

The Swedes, led by Erik, flowed up the hill. Axel winced when the Danish cannon fired. It had to be canister. It's what he would have used. The lead balls came out like a shotgun blast, killing and wounding dozens of soldiers. However, it'd been a last gasp from the redoubt. He could already see men running out the back way. It was only a matter of time before his men took the position.

Axel started toward the hill. When he got to the low stone fence he felt Sergeant Rambo, his bodyguard, hovering, ready to help him over. "I don't need any help, Sergeant. I'm not a cripple."

Axel sat on the wall and swung his legs over the other side. He searched through the light rain, looking for sign of his second in command.

"I see the lieutenant, sir. He's coming this way."

With renewed energy, Axel made his way up the hill.

A Swedish soldier walking around the back of the redoubt tripped over a braided string…

… Inside the redoubt the string pulled the trigger of a snap lock. The hammer fell onto a large percussion cap, and twenty-eight pounds of finest quality Danish gunpowder exploded.

Hidden in the heather fifty yards away Sergeant Anders Lauridsen cursed all clumsy Swedes. Another few minutes and he could have had caught another couple of dozen men in the blast. He reeled in the braided string and escaped through the heather to where his men were waiting.

Axel opened his eyes. Fragments of barrel stave gently smoldered a couple of feet in front of his nose.

The heavy weight of Sergeant Rambo rolled off his back and a helping hand hauled him to his feet. All around debris from the redoubt littered the ground. "What happened?"

"The redoubt blew up, Colonel."

Axel glared. He didn't need the obvious stated. Nobody could miss the smoking ruin that had been the redoubt. "What about Lieutenant Wachtmeister?"

"He's inspecting the damage, Colonel."

Axel let out a sigh of relief. He'd feared that Erik might have been caught in the blast.

Axel took one look at the carnage around the redoubt and left it to the surgeons. To the north the ground fell gently away right up to the coast, where high cliffs stood over the sea. To the east there was a steeper slope right down to the sea. To the southeast the ground rose maybe fifty feet in a quarter of a mile. Except for the low heather there wasn't a lot of cover. "I don't think we can be surprised here, Erik. Leave a small garrison and get the rest of the men down with the main force. We'll move on the Langebjerg next."

"Shouldn't we wait for your horse, Axel?" Erik asked.

"We can't afford to wait. Every minute we delay means another minute the Danes have to raise reinforcements. We strike now."

"Very well, but what about the Germans?"

"They wanted their Marines blooded. Well, they'll get their chance, but not in this battle. Their rifles are useless in this rain. At least my musketeers have swords. Order the Germans to clear a safe channel so we can land the horses and guns."

Johann watched the Swedes approach. A third of them had pikes, the rest muskets. Matchlocks, he noted. That meant mostly green troops from Sweden with a few veterans as sergeants. It looked like the Swedes were finished with the redoubt and were going to assault the Langebjerg. Johann wished them luck.

Then he saw Captain Finck walking with the senior Swede. "Oh, shit. The glory hound is trying to get us killed."

"He might just be asking what the Swedish commander wants him to do," Matthias said.

"Five bucks says Captain Finck is volunteering us for something."

"We'll know in a moment. Here he comes now."

Captain Finck called to his lieutenants and sergeants. There was a bit of hand waving and pointing. After a few minutes the meeting broke up. Sergeant Fels headed Johann's way, collecting the rest of the section as he passed them.

"Delp, Fabricius, on your feet. The Swedes have decided they want all the glory. We've been ordered to clear a channel through the beach obstacles."

Johann struggled to his feet..

"What's the problem, Fabricius?" Sergeant Fels called out.

Johann pointed to the ground in front of the wall. "I stepped into one of those pits and wrenched my knee, Sarge."

"Medic!" Sergeant Fels called out. "Take care of this man."

Hans Fleischer hastened to Johann's side and wrapped a support bandage around his knee. "Right. How does that feel?" he asked.

Johann tried to walk. "That'll do it. Thanks."

"Get your pack on and get into line, Fabricius. We've wasted enough time already," Sergeant Fels shouted. "Let's get moving."

1200 hrs, Sandvig

Johann had a good view of the anchorage. He could see seagulls walking on bodies and pecking at them. Not that they had everything to themselves. There was movement in the water around some of the bodies. The Marines had worried about working in the water, but Sergeant Fels had assured them that is was probably just eels, there being no sharks in the Baltic. As the rain clouds moved on he could hear the sounds of ravens moving in. And then there were the flies. He waved his hand to scare away the flies that were buzzing around his face and injuries. The acid smell and taste of gunpowder was struggling to combat that of blood and death.

The Marines were rotating the hard work of hauling in the branches the Danes had laid in the water. Johann was exhausted. This was the first real break he'd had since boarding the Holmsund at first light.

Like a good Marine should, the first thing Johann did was set to cleaning his rifle. Not that he'd actually fired it, but with the rain and everything it was best to reload with fresh powder and priming because you never knew when you might need to fight. Then he turned to the second most important thing a Marine could do during any break and dug something to eat out of his pack. Chewing on some sausage and cheese, he pulled out his first aid kit and turned his attention to his various cuts. His legs were a mess. The cut branches-abatis, Matthias had called them-in the water had cut deep gouges in his flesh. He waved off the flies that had landed on his legs, tipped a bit of water into his tin cup and added a few drops of bleach to make an antiseptic lotion. Then, gritting his teeth, he sponged his injuries before wrapping the worst of them in bandages.

Hammershus

Holger Rosenkrantz had started out with three militia companies totaling fewer than three hundred men between them-the regular garrison of just over a hundred men under Niels, and Mads Friis' gunners. The Swedes had already landed over two thousand regulars, including about a hundred strangely garbed men with rifles and bayonets. "Have you heard from Sergeant Knud, Niels?"

Captain Niels Gyldenstjerne shook his head. "No, but his platoon and the gunners did get to their fallback position above the quarry. I know they were firing into the Swedes when they stormed Langebjerg."

"That was a good bit of work on Langebjerg."

"Thanks, Holger. It helped that their match was wet and they couldn't use their muskets. That gave us plenty of time to fire or throw everything we had at them and still have a chance to run before they crossed the boundary fence. The slopes were littered with their bodies."

Holger grinned. His wife's kinsman was turning out to be much better than he'd ever expected. Maybe he wasn't a true Gyldenstjerne, but a cuckoo in the nest. That would explain the unexpected competence. "That's good. Come. Now that the rain has cleared and he can see his spotter's signals, Mads will be preparing to fire on the Swedish fleet."

Hammershus, outer courtyard

Mads Friis had served under the master himself, the Swedish chief of artillery General Lennart Torstensson, for over four years. He'd been at the battle to cross the river Lech. He'd seen the newfangled improvements of the up-timers. He'd watched carefully and learned. When Denmark joined the League of Ostend he'd regretfully left Torstensson's service and returned home, bringing with him all his experience, knowledge, and new ideas.

New ideas such as using large percussion caps to fire the cannon, elevation screws to better control elevation of the barrel, and last, but not least, the idea of indirect fire.

Sandvig anchorage, at nearly twenty-eight hundred yards would normally be beyond range of his twelve-pounder cannon. But the Hammershus, at nearly two hundred and fifty feet above sea level, and the several extra degrees of elevation he had added to his cannon meant it was well within range.

He compared the reports from his spotters with his plotting chart and ordered a few final small adjustments. Then he was ready. "Full charge, ball, load guns."

He stood back while his gunners loaded the cannon. Then he signaled his gun sergeant.

Sandvig

The first salvo landed among the lighters servicing the anchored transports. The Marines stopped whatever they were doing to watch. Mild interest turned to horror as they watched waterspouts approach the Stromsbruk, then bracket her. This was something they'd heard about in Basic. Area fire. Worse still, it was observed area fire. There was nothing they could do but watch while cannon balls dropped out of the sky around the Stromsbruk. Not all of them hit, but the men could see the excitement on the deck whenever one did. Then they saw smoke.

"Red-hot shot," Matthias announced.

"Is that bad?" Johann asked.

"Fire on a wooden ship? What do you think?"

The Stromsbruk unfurled her sails and slowly start moving. Then men started diving into the water, men who on the whole probably didn't know how to swim. For them to take to the water meant something was badly wrong. Johann crossed himself and prayed for the souls of those aboard.

Langebjerg

Colonel Axel Lillie's sharpshooters were exchanging shots with the Danes above the quarry on the other side of Lake Hammers. He couldn't tell if anybody was being hit, but the Danes were a nuisance.

And, as if the harassment wasn't bad enough, he took another look at the report sent by Sea Captain Arvi Creutz, the naval commander attached to this operation. "Arvi reports that the Stromsbruk and all the stores aboard her where lost when hits from Danish cannon caused fires." He passed the report over to his second in command.

Erik skimmed the report and passed it back. "Red-hot shot apparently. But how? You can't see the Hammershus from the anchorage.

Axel looked to the south-west. Somewhere in that direction was the Hammershus. "No doubt we'll find out when we take the Hammershus. Meanwhile, let's just remember they can." He turned his telescope back onto the Danes across the lake. "Send an order to Captain Finck. Tell him I want his men to clear the Danes out of those hills."

Hammeren Hills

"Shit!" Johann backed up and tried to unhook the heather caught in his webbing.

"Here, let me," Matthias offered.

"It's a bloody good thing we aren't carrying our packs or we'd never get through this stuff."

"Which is why the sergeant told us to leave our packs behind and only carry what we absolutely had to."

Johann patted a hand against one of the pouches on his webbing. It contained the few valuables he'd found amongst the dead he'd helped remove from the water. There was no way he'd been going to leave that behind.

They reached the edge of the heather and he peeked out. The Danes were about a hundred yards further up the hill and were busy firing on the Swedes on Langebjerg. The Marines were on their left flank, which meant the cannon couldn't be easily turned upon them. Johann pointed toward the Danes. "You take the one by the left wheel, the closest cannon. I'll go for the one on his right."

Matthias and Johann took aim at their targets and waited for the signal to open fire.

Sergeant Fels fired first. There was a momentary lull before the rest of the Marines fired. That was just enough time for some of the Danes to drop to the ground.

Johann jumped to his feet and joined the other Marines charging up the hill, yelling and screaming all the way. After what seemed a lifetime he topped the rise.

"Where the fuck are they?"

"Over there!" Matthias pointed.

Johann could see men running away. He aimed his rifle and cocked the action.

Click.

"Shit, the bastards are getting away." In the heat of the moment he'd had forgotten his rifle needed to be reloaded. He felt in his pouch for a fresh cartridge. The Danes would escape this time, but next time, he'd be ready.

His rifle reloaded Johann looked around for his fellows. He could see dead and wounded Marines being tended to by the medics down the hill they'd just charged up. He left them to their grisly task and looked around for Matthias. He discovered his friend near the edge of the cliff.

"How are you, Matthias?"

"Knackered. Yourself? How's the leg?"

Until now Johann hadn't noticed anything, but the knee was starting to throb. "Starting to hurt a bit now." He looked around. "What happened to the cannon that were up here?"

Matthias pointed down toward the lake. "Down there. They pushed them over the edge before they ran."

"Well, at least that's two cannon that won't be shooting at us. Where to now, do you know?"

"All right, men. Fall in. We haven't finished our job yet. There's another third of these hills we have to clear," Captain Finck called.

Johann swore. He could have done without Captain Finck's little reminder.

1600 hrs, Hammersholm

Colonel Lillie's new headquarters were located in a farmhouse about half a mile north-east of the Hammershus. The farmhouse had been evacuated in good order, as if the owner just expected to be away for a few hours before returning.

Axel stared at the line of trees that blocked off any view of the Hammershus. He wouldn't be surprised if some ancestor of the owner hadn't deliberately planted the trees to block the sight of the seat of power on the island. Right now he hoped they meant he was safe from the Hammershus' guns. His thoughts were interrupted by Sergeant Rambo.

"The lieutenant is back, Colonel."

"Send him in."

"Captain Finck reports the Hammeren clear, Axel," Lieutenant Wachtmeister said.

"About time. Now we can finally move on the Hammershus, although without the siege cannon there isn't a lot we can do."

"Captain Arvi insists he can't risk offloading them until dark."

Axel snorted. "Handling siege cannon at night… that'll be a sight to see. If we could see, that is. Tell Arvi I want him to bombard the Hammershus from the sea"

Erik shook his head. "He won't do it, Axel. Not while those cannon can fire on him. Losing the Stromsbruk was bad enough, there's no way he'll risk his precious frigates."

"Damn. Without cannon the only way to take the Hammershus is with a frontal assault, and I'm not prepared to take the casualties that would involve. We'll wait for the cannon to be landed."

"The Danes aren't going to just sit around waiting politely for use to bring up the cannon, Axel."

"I know, Erik. The Bornholm militia companies could arrive at any time. We'll have to split our force. I want a battalion to hold the Danes in the Hammershus while the rest block the approach roads."

1700 hrs, the road to Olsker

Johann pushed the shoulder straps of his pack a little farther apart, searching for an area of shoulder that wasn't hurting from the strain of carrying his still very wet, weighs-a-ton, pack. His feet hurt, and his knee was killing him. He looked enviously toward the coast where a line of Swedes were marching on the flat country of the coast road. The Marines were on the Olsker road, and it was anything but flat. He leaned farther forward as the track steepened.

Dr. Nicolai Koefoed, a retired university teacher and noted historian, had reported late last year that King Gustav had promised estates in Bornholm to the betrothed of Hans Richter, the dead German hero of the battle for Wismar. The islanders had spent the long winter nights discussing what it could mean. Obviously, the Swedish king intended trying to take the island. If there had been even the slightest chance that a Swedish Bornholm would subjugate directly to the king of Sweden, with no lord between, then the islanders would have gladly left the pig Rosenkrantz to his fate. However, by naming the woman Baroness of Bornholm, Gustavus Adolphus had tipped the balance the other way. The islanders had decided that they had to fight the Swedes if they attacked.

At nearly sixty-five years of age Laurids Andersen was a bit old to be chasing around with the militia, but he was still one of the best shots on Bornholm. He could still do his bit to defend his home.

He watched the men in the strange garb slowly walking up the track toward his hide. He tried to pick out the man in charge, but there was little to differentiate them. And then he saw it, a flash of white on an arm. He selected his target and waited for the man to move closer. His range marker was a fence post precisely two hundred eight paces from his hide. He knew because he'd paced out the distance. The man with the white armband was getting closer to the fence post. Laurids cocked the hammer and took up the first pressure on the trigger.

Hans Fleischer crumpled and fell to the ground. The rest of the Marines dropped to the ground immediately, rifles pointing in the direction of the gunshot.

Johann crawled over to Hans. He placed a finger across his carotid artery, searching for a pulse. Nothing.

Stephan Bohm, a company medic, crawled up alongside. "Is Hans all right?"

Johann shook his head.

"Why'd they shoot Hans? Couldn't they see his red cross armband?"

Johann looked at the white armband with the red cross on Stephan's uniform. The white on the camouflage pattern Marine uniform stood out. It was just about the only thing about the medics' uniforms that did. "Get that band off, Bohm. It marks you as someone different."

Stephan was outraged. "I can't do that. The armband marks me as a non-combatant."

"Does whoever shot Hans know that?"

Stephan looked down at Hans, then back at Johann. "Are you saying they shot Hans because of his armband?"

"It's possible."

Stephan swallowed, hastily ripped off his armband and shoved it into his thigh pocket.

Together they dragged Hans' body back to where Sergeant Fels was waiting for them.

"Bohm, what the hell happened to your armband?" Sergeant Fels demanded.

"Private Fabricius told me to take it off, Sergeant."

"Since when have you started taking orders from Private Fabricius?"

"He said the armband might be why the sniper shot Hans."

Sergeant Fels looked from Bohm's bare sleeve to Hans' well-marked sleeve. "Medics, get those arm bands off. Now!"

Sergeant Fels waited until he could see the medics were obeying his order before turning his attention to his new problem. "Corporal Muller, take your fire team and go to the right. Fabricius, Delp, Dinckeler, Kierstead, follow me. We're going sniper hunting."

Anders Lauridsen watched the Swedes spread out. It was a pity the gunsmoke had revealed his position. It was also a pity he didn't have an up-timer repeating rifle. He could easily have dropped a dozen more of these invaders. As it was, all he had was his old snap-lock rifle, and currently it needed to be reloaded. He did that before setting off to warn the people of Olsker that the Swedes were coming.

Johann cautiously popped a head over the top of the hill. There was nobody there. He crawled over the top of the hill before rolling around so he could sit up. About a half a mile away to the south he could see a village. The ground between was farm land with open fields. To the west the ground fell away gently until it met another hill. To the east, at the foot of the hill, there was a small hamlet on the Olsker road, and then there was nothing but fields all the way to the coast, about a mile away.

Matthias sat beside him. "That's Olsker to the south. Beyond the village there's the round church. It dates back to when the Knight Templars ruled the island. I remember thinking it was a castle when I first saw it."

"Why? I mean, why did you think a church was a castle?" Johann asked.

"Well, it's round, like a tower, with lots of firing slits in the walls, and the walls are six feet thick. It certainly didn't look like any church I'd ever seen before. There are four of these round churches on Bornholm. The best is at Osterlars."

"Are they defensive positions?" Johann asked.

"The Templars built them and they have firing slits. What do you think?"

"They're defensive positions." Johann scowled. "I'm not looking forward to trying to wrinkle defenders out of something like that. Not without heavy cannon."

"What! You're not thinking of destroying the round churches of Bornholm? We can't do that. They're unique."

"If the Danes fight from them, there's not going to be a lot of choice."

Matthias shook his head in disbelief. "Sacrilege."

1900 hrs Olsker

Olsker was a small village of barely two dozen structures grouped around the main north-south "road." All were stone structures, with grass growing on the turfed roofs. The low eves and narrow streets provided plenty of cover.

Johann and Matthias were walking point, the rest of the company following behind. Dashing from scrap of cover to scrap of cover, the pair made their way through Olsker. Finally they made the southern edge of the village. Johann poked his head slowly around the last house. For a moment he froze, and then he jumped back. "Shit. Danes, about a hundred yards away, and heading this way."

"How many?" Matthias asked?

Johann poked his head around the corner again. There were lots of them, well over a hundred. He pulled back. "About a hundred and fifty. Muskets and pikes."

He signaled that he had located enemy to Captain Finck.

Captain Finck joined Johann and Matthias at the edge of the village. He peeked around the corner. Then he turned to face his men. "Fall back by sections. There's more than two hours until dusk. Sergeant Koppe, send a runner to warn the Swedes. We'll have to hold them here in Olsker.

Captain Finck deployed most of his force along the southern edge where the road entered Olsker, and where the main thrust of the Danes was expected. Another platoon, including Sergeant Fels' section, was assigned to the western edge of the village.

The houses had few windows, certainly none facing to the west. That left the turfed roofs as the only cover with a good field of fire. Johann and Matthias crawled up to the ridge line of one house and looked over the top. The Danes were coming, and coming fast. Johann took aim and fired. Immediately he rolled behind the ridge line and started reloading. All around him he could hear the sounds of rifle and musket fire.

He crawled back to the ridge line to see the Danes getting close. He tried to follow a running figure, taking up the pressure on the trigger. Then a bullet hit the turf just under his nose and he flinched, discharging his rifle. The Danes were running straight for him. If he could get up on the roof, so could they.

He slid back behind the ridge line and hastily dropped in powder and a new bullet. There wasn't time to ram it home. "You ready, Matthias?" he asked as he primed the pan and cocked the hammer.

"So this is it, then?"

Johan nodded. Their chances of surviving the coming battle were low.

Matthias turned away and threw up. Johann would have, but his gut was already empty.

They knelt just behind the ridge, ready to repel the first men up the roof.

Four men were heading for their roof. Johann and Matthias shot at them before starting down the turf to repel anybody trying to climb up.

Johann cursed. They had swords and pikes. In the hands of a competent soldier either was more dangerous than a bayonet on a rifle. He had to get to them before they were ready.

He lunged at the first man to gain the roof, but the man twisted and jumped down. Then Johann felt something slam into his injured knee. It buckled and he fell. On the way down his head hit the timbers of the eves that held the turf in place. He was unconscious before he hit the rocky ground below.

Three days later, Olsker

Johann gradually came to. He was in a bed. Where he didn't know. He heard a sound to his right and tried to turn his head, but the pain made him cry out.

"Back with the living are we, Private Fabricius?"

Johann recognized Stephan Bohm. He could see he was wearing his red-cross armband again. "How badly am I injured?"

"Your helmet saved you from cracking your skull open like an egg. You broke a bone in your left arm, dislocated the left shoulder, and you've got extensive bruising from where you hit the ground. The local bone setter reduced the break and put your shoulder back, and the local medicine man says regular application of his special liniment should help with the bruising."

"Medicine man? You didn't let a doctor work on me?"

"Of course not. I didn't let one of those butchers near any of my patients. The man's the local farrier. He's got quite a good reputation for healing horses. Anyway, you should be back up on your feet in another couple of days. Unless your head isn't as hard as I think it is."

Johann relaxed. Horse doctors knew how to get results. Then he started thinking of the others. "Did Matthias make it?

Stephan shook his head. "He caught a pike in the gut."

Johann choked. That was a lousy way to go. "He joined the Marines in some misguided burst of patriotism, you know. Silly bugger. He should have stuck with university. Did we win?"

"Yes… and no."

"What do you mean 'yes and no'?"

"Well, when he realized there was no chance of getting away Captain Finck appealed for quarter. It was a close run thing. If we'd been Swedes, I don't know what would have happened. Anyway, they gave quarter. So we lost."

"So we're prisoners?"

Stephan shook his head. "No. Because, you see, the war was already over before we invaded, so really we won."

"You mean Matthias didn't have to die?"

Stephan shook his head. "Neither did Hans. And Bornholm is still Danish."

"What?" Johann shot up in his bed. Then the pain hit him, and he fell back.

"It's the peace settlement. As I understand it, in return for Denmark joining a new Union of Kalmar as the junior partner, the Danes get to keep everything they had when they entered the war."

"If they were going to let the Danes keep Bornholm anyway, why did we invade?"

Stephan shrugged. "I think whoever ordered the invasion thought King Gustav wanted the island. After all, he is supposed to have talked of making Sharon Nichols baroness of Bornholm."

"Fuck the bloody baroness of Bornholm."

And That's How the Money Rolls In

Written by Terry Howard

Hours later, after the poker game broke up, Janos was still waiting in the kitchen. Arch Pennock thought he'd gone on home after all the dumplings had been finished by the ravening horde that was his poker buddies.

"Mister Pennock," Janos said, "I don't mind cooking Sundays, I really don't. But going into catering, well, I do not know if it is a good idea. When would I do it? I've got a job." He'd been having second thoughts… lots of second thoughts.

"John Ose, how much is that skinflint paying you to pluck chickens?"

"I am well paid, Mister Pennock. I make two hundred dollars a week."

"Kid, if you were working forty hours that would be five dollars an hour. But I know better. You're putting in ten and twelve hour days. You give your boss a weeks' notice tomorrow."

"Beg pardon, Mister Pennock… what means 'give notice'?"

"Tell him you're quitting and he's got one week to find and train your replacement."

"I can't do that! I need a job to pay my rent. And eat. Besides, if I tell him that, he'll fire me on the spot."

"Good. Listen, you're getting half the profits. We'll put you on a two fifty a week draw."

Janos was a bit confused. Mr. Pennock often had that effect on him. "Two fifty a week draw?"

"It means that each and every week you collect two hundred and fifty dollars starting next week… or this week if the skunk gives you the boot. We deduct it from your half of the profits and if there aren't any profits, I'll eat it."

Janos wasn't sure he understood every thing Arch was saying. "You will pay me two hundred and fifty dollars a week to make dumplings?"

"Well, if you want to put it that way, yes."

"Mister Pennock, I will start tomorrow!"

"No, you will start next week. You will give your current employer a weeks' notice. Of course, you don't have to be overly polite about it and if the idiot cans you, then the draw starts this week. And another thing, how old are you?"

"I am twenty-three years of age, Mister Pennock."

"Well, kid, you're way too old to be calling me mister all the time, especially if we're going to be partners. Call me Arch." Arch stuck out his hand, thinking everything was settled and Janos understood and agreed to what was going on. He was soon to find out different.

Monday morning, not long after dawn, Arch stumbled to the kitchen door in his robe and slippers, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. The knocking on the door was reasonably polite and entirely insistent.

"Good morning, Arch. I gave notice like you told me and now I am no longer employed as a chicken-plucker."

Arch looked at the horizon. About half of the sun was showing over the hill top. He closed his eyes and rubbed them hard. "Come on in, John. Have you had breakfast?"

"Yes. I ate a heel of bread while I walked to work this morning."

"Well. I haven't had my coffee yet. Do you know how to make coffee?"

"Yes."

"Well, I'm going to take a shower and shave. Why don't you make us some coffee and maybe some breakfast.? Then when I'm awake we'll figure out what we're going to do."

When Arch was finally awake and dressed for the day and back in the kitchen, wondering just what he'd gotten himself into, he found Janos patiently stirring a pan of grits. As soon as Janos noticed Arch he pushed the lever and dropped the sliced bread into the toaster. The electric knife and the cutting frame were back on the shelf and the half-loaf of bread was back in the refrigerator. Grits and toast was not what Arch had in mind for breakfast, unless he added a couple of eggs and some bacon. But the grits were in a bowl and on the table before he could say a word and the young man was hovering over the toaster waiting for the toast to pop up.

Arch sat down and picked up the cup of coffee.

"Mister Pennock, we will need to go to the store to buy what we need to make dumplings."

"Not today, John. We don't have any orders to fill."

"But you are paying me to make dumplings."

Arch could hear the worry in the young man's voice. He had just quit his job. What if Arch backed out on the promised two fifty a week? What if he had misunderstood?

"John, slow down and take it easy. Don't get your dander up. If it will make you feel better, I can give you the first weeks draw today. But we can't be making dumplings unless we can sell them. I've got to figure out how to get the orders coming in. If I know the guys from poker last night, they're busy telling everyone just how good your dumplings are, and how you are willing to make them to order, but it will a few days before we've got any business."

"I can sell them down at the market," Janos said, putting the toast on a plate and setting it on the table.

"Grab me the butter out of the 'frig, will ya? You think you can sell the dumplings down at the market?"

"Sure. If I take a pot down there around noon and give a free bowl to Greta, she will tell everyone. And then everyone who works there will be coming to buy." Janos caught himself and pointed out the short fall. "As long as I am not charging too much."

"Humm," Arch said. "Sounds like a good advertising scheme to me." He pulled his wallet out and handed Janos some money, thanking his lucky stars that he had his retirement funds deposited in the local bank. "You go buy what you need. I'll see what I can do in the way of a push cart."

The money was barely in the boy's hands before he was heading for the door. "John, make sure you get a receipt," Arch called. "This is a business now, so we've got to keep track of expenses."

"I will get a receipt, Mister Pennock," Janos called over his shoulder as the door closed.

Arch wandered out to the garage where his new car and his 1932 model Ford Roadster were up on blocks to keep the tires from going flat and rotting where they touched the ground while he waited for the oil industry to get up and running so people could put their cars back on the road. He looked around and started talking out loud to himself. Years ago he'd realized it helped him think things through.

"The wheel barrow can hold the pot and if I line it with a sheet or a table cloth it can hold bowls and spoons, too. But, it could tip too easily and there would be no way to keep it warm. I could put a tub of hot water in the wheel barrow to keep the pot warm but then there wouldn't be room to hold the bowls. And it could still dump too easily. Naw, what I need is a two-wheeled cart, like the one Dave built for his niece for that flower show. Now, there's an idea."

He looked at his watch. It was still shy of eight o'clock. If he wanted to catch Dave, he'd better call right away.

Janos left the house in time to get set up at the farmer's market by noon. Arch figured that they'd give most of the dumplings away the first day, just to get demand up. If they could get demand up, that is.

"Let them know you'll be back tomorrow. And when the pot gets cold come on back to the house," Arch called when Janos left with the loaded cart. The five-gallon canning pot, which was sitting in a tub of hot water, held about four gallons of dumplings.

At two o'clock Janos was back.

"Did the pot go cold that quickly?" Arch asked. He was gearing up to ream the lad out for not staying until the pot was cold. They had to stay the course if they were going to make a go of pushcart vending.

"The pot is empty, Mister Pennock."

"You gave away four gallons in two hours?"

"No, Mister Pennock. I gave away maybe one gallon. Then I was too busy selling dumplings to give any more away. I had to take the pot out to use the warm water to wash bowls and spoons. Greta sold me soap cheap since I gave her a bowl and I rinsed the bowls in the public water spigot."

Arch could feel his jaw about to hit the ground in surprise.

Janos continued, "I stopped at the store on the way home for what I couldn't get at the market. Please, Mister Pennock, give me a hand carrying things in. I have to have five gallons of dumplings back down to the market by the time it closes. What do you have to hold a gallon of dumplings in, so people can take them home?"

"You've got an order for five gallons?"

"No, I have five orders for a gallon each. And, please, we must hurry and you must help if we are to get done in time."

"Uh, John, how much are you getting for a gallon?"

"Well, you bet George three gallons for a hundred dollars. You paid twenty dollars for me to make it, so you had eighty dollars profit on the pot. I can make four gallons for twenty dollars so if we get twenty-five a gallon, you will have eighty dollars profit per pot. But twenty-five was high and they bargained me down to twenty. I hope that is enough, Mister Pennock."

"Let's get you into the kitchen and get started. What do you need me to do?"

When the three different meats were browned and the vegetables were boiling to make the stock, Janos was ready to start on the dough. "Mister Pennock, what are we putting them in to send them home with the customers?"

"If you don't need me, John, I'll run down to the tinker's shop and pick up five beer cans." Down-timers were used to buying milk or beer, tapped from a keg, into their own bucket. So even when the glass industry was turning out cork-able pint, quart, half gallon and gallon bottles, the tinker was still making and selling gallon cans which were often mistaken, at first glance, for paint cans by up-timers.

"But they cost a lot of money."

"John, at twenty a gallon we can afford it. Besides, you tell the customers to bring them back and, if we have to, we can think about charging a deposit later." The idea of getting twenty dollars a gallon for fast food seemed outrageous to Arch until he figured out how many bowls were in a gallon and what the per bowl cost was. Then it almost seemed reasonable.

Then too, inflation was eating people alive. There was always more demand than there was product and more work than workers. Grantville was still a boom town and if that wasn't a recipe for high prices and inflation then one didn't exist.

Arch stopped on his way out. "John? We need a sign. I'll stop and order one, but what should we call our business?"

Janos grinned. "It's my grandmother's recipe. In my language, grandmother is ' Nagyanya.' And dumpling is' Nokedlik.'"

By the end of the week Arch had purchased the cart from Dave. The first thing he added was an awning to keep the weather off. Then they added a small propane tank and heating element out of an old water heater to keep the water bath warm. Next Arch added a small pot for hot dogs and a box to keep bread and buns warm. He tracked down the paper maker who was making paper plates for Grantville's Fine Food and put in an order for paper bowls. It was there he heard about someone who was steaming and pressing horn spoons. Someone approached them about selling potato chips in paper bags. The first day they had potato chips someone asked if they would want to sell corn chips.

The next Monday, Janos started selling bottled beer at just above cost to keep his customers happy. And to keep them from buying from the other two food carts that had started selling bratwurst on buns and-incredibly, tacos.

In the middle of the third week Janos asked, "Arch, can you make a second cart? I think I can do even better down at the train station but I hate to give up the business we've got in the market. Adolf, my friend, took my old job plucking chickens. He needs a better job."

When he had the second cart built by a wheelwright, Arch quit worrying about inflation eating up his savings. He knew he wouldn't be forced to make an apartment in the garage and rent out the house just to survive. For a while, they were adding a cart every two or three weeks. After they added the third cart, Janos didn't have time to do anything but cook. Shortly after that, they hired a kitchen helper and Arch was thinking about opening a dumpling restaurant.

The cars came out of the garage to make room to store the push carts out of the snow. That was when Arch knew he was a rich old boy. After all, isn't that the definition of a rich old boy in West Virginia; a man with two cars up on blocks in his front yard?

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