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

Feng Shui for the Soul
Kerryn Offord

Grantville, 1633

Kurt Stoltz ignored the rumbling of his stomach and continued his careful scanning of the pages of the newspaper. He well knew that they censored everything. So one had to read everything to detect the tiny inconsistencies that hinted at what they had removed. He knew there were censors about, especially in Grantville. There was no way that they would allow easy access to all the information from the future, no matter what they claimed.

He turned the page and started reading the advertisements.

The ad in the "situations vacant" column practically leapt off the page. Kurt stared at it in disbelief. The Gribbleflotz Spirits of Hartshorn facility in Grantville was looking for multilingual people with fluent English (preferably up-timer English), Latin, and German to work in the research department. He could do that. He was fluent in Latin and German, and had spent several years in England. As for up-timer English, he was a regular user of the various libraries around Grantville. Not that he was well known of course. Anybody growing up in the Stiefel-Meth sect learned the value of keeping their head down and being inconspicuous.

He placed a hand inside his satchel where his notebooks resided. His personal notebooks, with all his notes about the research being undertaken by the great Herr Dr. Gribbleflotz. The doctor was publishing information that Kurt couldn't find in Grantville's libraries. Did he have a source of information the censors hadn't gotten to? This advertisement suggested a way to find out.

A position as a researcher with his company, even if it was in Grantville rather than in Jena, was an opportunity not to be missed. Kurt copied the address for applications, and for the first time since arriving in Grantville to see the truth of the Corona Conflagrens miracle nearly two years ago left a library early. He needed an early night if he was to get to the Gribbleflotz Spirits of Hartshorn facility before any other applicant tomorrow.

HDG Enterprizes, Jena, 1634

Dr. Phillip Theophrastus Gribbleflotz glared at his special aluminum pyramid with the strategically placed faceted gems. He picked up his pen and dipped it into the ink. The pyramid wasn't working, but the world's greatest alchemist couldn't just write "it isn't working" in his note book. That kind of comment lacked any hint of scientific credibility.

Phillip paused in thought, idly chewing on the wooden shank of his pen. Then he remembered how the Americans would record the lack of results. He dipped his pen again and wrote "No invigorations of the Quinta Essentia of the Humors were observed." It was nice. It described the lack of observed results in suitable language, but then, why couldn't he see anything? Phillip started worrying his pen again.

The obvious answer was that there was nothing to see, but that couldn't be right. Maybe… Phillip sat up straight. Of course! The changes in the Quinta Essentia were invisible to the human eye. What he needed was some method of detecting the invisible forces.

He'd found it. Photography. More specifically, Kirlian Photography. With Kirlian Photography one could record the image of a person's aura. All one needed was some simple electrical equipment.. . and some photographic equipment. That last brought Phillip back to earth. What was the availability of up-timer photographic equipment?

He went to the door of his office and called out. "Hans. I need you."

The normally reliable Hans Saltzman didn't answer. Phillip went searching. The first person he found was Ursula Mittelhausen, the housekeeper for HDG Enterprizes.

"Frau Mittelhausen, have you seen Hans?"

"He is in Halle helping set up the Oil of Vitriol facility, Doctor."

Phillip stifled an unsuitable exclamation. Just when he needed his personal assistant, Hans had to make himself unavailable. Well, when everyone else failed you, there was only one person left to do the work. "I need to make a trip to Grantville. Please book a seat on the train."

"Of course, Doctor. The evening train? Do you wish for me to also book accommodation?

Phillip considered the work he had backing up, and the expense of accommodation in Grantville. "At the Higgins. I don't know how long I'll be. I need to ask about 'photography.'"

Ursula perked up. "Michael's sister, Maria Anna, sent a photograph of herself that one of the up-timers took. Are you going to be working on photography now, Doctor?"

"I wish to investigate the application of photography to the detection of the invisible forces of the invigoration of the Quinta Essentia of the Human Humors."

"So you'll be taking photographs, Doctor?"

"Purely for science, Frau Mittelhausen."

"Oh!" Ursula was crestfallen. "I was hoping that I could have my photograph taken so I could send it to my sister in Leipzig.

Grantville

Phillip had the choice of talking to the dreaded Frau Kubiak, or to Maria Anna. It wasn't that difficult a decision to make, so he caught the bus to Grays Run. He easily found the property where Frau Mittelhausen said Maria Anna worked. There was a sign declaring the house to be the head office of Brennerei und Chemiefabrik Schwarza. He looked around. It was vaguely similar to the property of Frau Kubiak-a large house on a few acres of land with a number of outbuildings. Obviously it was only a small company.

The door was answered by a little old lady, an up-timer.

"I am Dr. Phillip Gribbleflotz. I believe Maria Anna Siebenhorn works here?"

The little old lady shook her head. "Oh dear, I'm sorry, but Maria Anna's not in at the moment. She's in charge of the new explosives division at the Schwarza Gewerbegebiet and won't be home until late. .. Gribbleflotz did you say? The Aspirin King?"

Phillip grimaced. "The Aspirin King" was not something the world's greatest alchemist wished to be known as. They could at least get the name right. "Yes, I am the Gribbleflotz behind Gribbleflotz Sal Vin Betula."

"Do come in, Doctor. Your people were most helpful when Celeste and I wrote asking about photographic chemicals."

They were? Phillip hadn't seen a letter from this company. "You wrote asking about photographic chemicals?"

"Yes, and we got such a nice letter back from your Mr. Saltzman."

Phillip made a mental note to remind Hans just who was in charge in Jena. So, the next question was, had they done anything with the information? "Did you take Maria Anna's photograph?"

"Oh, yes." The woman fluttered a bit. "Would you like me to take yours?"

Well, it seemed he'd come to the right place. "Yes please, Frau. .."

"Sebastian, but everyone calls me Lettie. Come on in."

Several days later, the Spirits of Hartshorn Facility, Grantville

Dr. Gribbleflotz was doing what he did best, pontificating on his latest hobbyhorse. Michael Siebenhorn glanced over at his sister. She smiled back and shrugged. When one worked for the doctor, one learned to put up with his little foibles. He didn't force them on anybody, and the open disbelief of most of his senior laborants only made him work harder to prove his theories.

Michael shuddered. One of the consequences of the doctor's continued failure to invigorate the Quinta Essentia of the Humors in test subjects was Kurt Stoltz being authorized to work on artificial cryolite so he could make pure aluminum. Dr. Gribbleflotz had theorized that the impurity of the materials might be why his experiments weren't producing the results he expected. Well, Kurt was welcome to the task. Even the stink of ammonia that hung around the Spirits of Hartshorn facility was preferable to being around hydrofluoric acid.

"I have been unable to observe anything happening when I use my pyramid to invigorate the Quinta Essentia of the Humors in test subjects. I believe the reason I can't see anything is because the actions taking place are not detectable by the human eye. However, a special photographic technique I have read about should allow me to observe the otherwise invisible forces at work and help me progress my research. The diagram you are looking at is taken from a reputable up-time source, and both Frau Sebastian and Frau Frost believe that such a device should produce the Kirlian images I desire."

Michael dragged his attention back to what Dr. Gribbleflotz was saying. At least this wasn't going to be anything as dangerous as hydrofluoric acid. The diagram was a simple electronic circuit, easily understood by anyone with knowledge of the up-timer science. Of course, actually making the device needed a level of expertise he knew the doctor lacked. For that matter, so did he. What was needed was a specialist, someone who knew how to make a transformer. Fortunately, such people were relatively easy to find in Grantville. "Where are you intending to use this…" Michael paused to think up a suitable name the doctor would enjoy. "Kirlian Imager, Doctor?"

"Kirlian Imager… I like that, Michael. Yes. I will of course use the 'Kirlian Imager' in my laboratory for my research, but also, I am running short of the aluminum for my Candles of the Essence of Light demonstrations, and I hope that I might be able to add the Kirlian Imager to my seminars."

Michael grimaced. He suddenly had an idea where this meeting was heading, and an explanation for his sister's presence. It wasn't going to be a simple request to make a Kirlian Imager. No, nothing that easy. "That will require a lot of the new photographic materials. Can Brennerei und Chemiefabrik Schwarza supply your needs?"

Maria Anna, Michael's little sister, answered. "Lettie Sebastian knows a lot about photography, but not a lot about chemistry, and while Celeste Frost knows a lot about chemistry, she doesn't know a lot about photography. Together they make a competent photographic chemist, but neither of them understands production on the scale Dr. Gribbleflotz requires."

Michael sighed. He'd guessed right. "So you want me to develop the information your friends have into procedures to produce photographic chemicals?"

"Yes." Phillip smiled. "I've already talked to the Frau Kubiak, and she is happy to make the necessary funds available. I'm sure you'll have no trouble recruiting additional workers for a new production line."

Michael struggled not to swear. He shot his sister another look. She was smirking quietly in her corner. The little witch. He knew why she was smirking. She'd been trying to get him to produce the chemicals her friends needed for their photography project for weeks. Well, it looked like she'd succeeded this time. One didn't turn down Dr. Gribbleflotz. Not when he had taken you, starving and desperate, off the streets and then trained you in the new alchemy. It wasn't even as if the doctor was interested in the potential fortune Maria Anna insisted photography could bring in either. For someone who must be one of the richest men in Thuringia, the doctor displayed a sometimes distressing disinterest in making money.

Michael tried a last desperate rearguard action. "Doctor, I am currently running not only the Spirits of Hartshorn facility, I'm also running the production for the new fuel tablets. Couldn't you find someone else?"

Phillip shook his head. "There is no one else, Michael. Hans and Kurt are both occupied getting the Halle facility up and running. With Hans in Halle I've been forced to not only waste my valuable time supervising operations in Jena, but I've also been forced to endure the illiterate fool who is Hans' temporary replacement.

Well, that hadn't worked. Michael could well imagine how his boss might be suffering in Hans Saltzman's absence. Hans had developed from a scared teenager into one of the four best alchemists at HDG in the three years he'd been the doctor's personal laborant. That was why he was helping Kurt Stoltz, the last of the four, set up the new Oil of Vitriol facility in Halle. Remembering Kurt stopped Michael's train of thought in its tracks. He grinned. "Doctor, I think I might know of someone suitable as a temporary replacement for Hans. He's a hard worker here at the Spirits of Hartshorn facility. He has steady hands, and he lived in England for a few years and has been living and working in Grantville for nearly two years, so he has a good command of both written and spoken English."

Phillip looked interested. "English is good. Frau Mittelhausen has been unable to find anyone suitable who can comprehend the up-time material. But is your man literate?"

"Of course. I wouldn't suggest him if he wasn't fluent in Latin."

"So, who is this paragon?"

Michael grinned. "Kurt Stoltz."

"What? But Kurt is running the Halle operation. He can't be… oh! Another Kurt Stoltz?"

"Yes, Doctor."

Michael watched Dr. Gribbleflotz worry his goatee and then polish his spectacles. Both well known signs that he was deep in thought.

"Would he be willing to move to Jena?"

Michael nearly burst out laughing. His Kurt Stoltz had been bothering him for months about a transfer to head office. To actually work as the personal assistant to his hero, even just for a few months until Hans returned, would be more than he could ever have hoped for. "There should be no trouble persuading my Kurt to move to Jena as your temporary personal laborant, Doctor. He has read everything you've written about your exploration of the invigoration of the Quinta Essentia using your special pyramid."

"He is interested in the invigoration of the Quinta Essentia?"

Michael wasn't surprised by Dr. Gribbleflotz' reaction. The doctor was well aware that a number of his senior laborants were non-believers. Kurt Stoltz the Second though, he was as close to a true believer as Michael could believe existed. Apparently he had been a follower of Johann Valentin Andreae, and was into spiritual alchemy . "He is most interested in your work, Doctor."

Michael returned from seeing Dr. Gribbleflotz out of the office and glared at his sister. "Are you happy now?"

"It won't be too bad, Michael. Lettie and Celeste have done all the hard work. All you have to do is take their production methods and increase the volume. Your biggest problem will probably be making the Kirlian Imager. "

Michael glanced down at the drawings. "It doesn't look too hard. I'll get Kurt to help. If he knows something about the apparatus he'll be more useful to the doctor."

"And with an expert right there in Jena, Dr. Gribbleflotz won't need to ask you to travel to Jena to help every time something goes wrong," Maria Anna suggested.

Michael grinned at his sister. She knew him so well. "The thought never crossed my mind."

A few weeks later

Michael looked down at the finished prototype Kirlian Imager. Things had not gone smoothly in its construction. First, he'd been unable to procure a suitable transformer, so he'd been forced to improvise. That had resulted in a decision to build a big Wimshurst generator, which of course produced its own problems. The main one being that they didn't have any of the special discs large enough for the task. Fortunately, one of the laborants at the fuel tablet division had been experimenting with some of the surplus waters of formalin. Georg Heinz had been able to reproduce an up-time material with useful properties by using a cheat sheet and chemicals from the gas works. He'd been making "bakelite" insulators for several weeks now. Learning how to make suitable bakelite discs had taken over two weeks of expensive experimentation. However, the imager was finally ready for testing.

"Kurt, switch over to the safe light, please."

With just the red safe light to see by, Michael took a sheet of photosensitive paper out of its light proof envelope and placed it on the thin sheet of rubber that covered the small sheet of copper that was the main electrode. Then he attached an earth to the specimen to be examined and placed it on the photosensitive paper.

"All right, you can start the generator now."

While Kurt pumped away at the treadle of the Wimshurst generator Michael counted the sparks snapping across the air gap until he thought there had been enough discharge to make an image. "Stop! That's enough." If the theory was right and the Kirlian Imager was properly constructed, the photosensitive paper should now contain an image of the aura of the object on the paper. Michael removed the coin and took the paper next door where a simple photographic laboratory had been set up. He could feel Kurt breathing over his shoulder as they watched the images appear.

Michael didn't see the fascination the Kirlian image had for Kurt. It was just a simple photograph of a coin. The books had much better pictures. Maybe it was the fact that he'd helped make the image.

Kurt looked up. "Could we try making a Kirlian image of a human hand?"

Michael had a quick look at his pocket watch. There was time. "Sure. I assume you're willing to donate the use of your hand?"

Kurt smiled and rolled up his sleeves. "Which one would you like? Or, better, why not both?"

Michael looked at the images of Kurt's finger tips. They were, to put it mildly, disappointing.

Kurt sighed heavily. "It doesn't look as good as the images in the up-time books."

Michael nodded. They didn't look very good. That was probably due to a lot of things. "The paper probably isn't sensitive enough."

"The books say an earthed subject's image is stronger. Maybe if we were to earth me?"

"Kurt, the books also say that you shouldn't earth a live subject."

"But, Herr Siebenhorn, I am willing to take the risk. What harm can it do? You have said yourself that you have been stung by the lightning from the generator, with no ill effect."

Michael bit his lip. He didn't like going against safety warnings, but Kurt was right. Most of the laborants had been stung by sparks when playing with the doctor's Wimshurst generator, with no ill effect. However, the new machine was significantly larger. It generated more electricity with a higher voltage, and could make much longer sparks. Further it had a huge capacitor. It was entirely possible they could electrocute someone. Michael thought about the description of the up-timer Benjamin Franklin killing a turkey with a similar device. "Very well." He quietly adjusted the spark gap to make it smaller. The zaps, while more frequent, would be less dangerous.

Zap!

"Ouch!" Kurt jerked his hand off the imager.

Michael stopped spinning the generator and removed the wasted photosensitive paper. "Kurt, are you sure you want to do this?"

Kurt nodded. "It was just the surprise, Herr Siebenhorn. I'll be ready for it next time."

Michael sighed. He wasn't sure this was a good idea. He made a minor adjustment to the spark gap and drew another sheet of photosensitive paper from the light proof envelope. "Right, let's try again."

When Kurt put his hand on the paper Michael started the generator spinning. He could see Kurt twitching as the current hit him again and again. "For God's sake, Kurt! Hold still or we'll never get an auroral image. The coin didn't move. Neither should you."

Kurt was still rubbing his hand as he examined the damp photograph. "It looks much clearer."

"Yes, it does. Would you like to try the left hand now?"

Kurt nodded. "Yes, Herr Siebenhorn. Herr Siebenhorn, could I please keep the images of my hands?"

Michael suppressed a sigh, Kurt, for all his experience with English, didn't seem to understand the concept of the rhetorical question. "Of course, Kurt."

A few weeks later, HDG Laboratories, Jena

Kurt still couldn't quite believe he was actually working as his hero's personal laborant. Even if it was just until his regular laborant returned from an important job. When Herr Siebenhorn made the offer, Kurt had been overcome with emotion.

He gave the safety glass of the fume cupboard a final polish to remove the last speck of dust and stood back to admire his handiwork. The fume cupboard was sparkling clean. Now to collect the various items for Dr. Gribbleflotz' next experimental session. Kurt's eyes lit up as he read the requirements sheet. Another experiment with the Kirlian Imager.

Phillip walked into the small laboratory and nodded in Kurt's general direction "Are we all ready to proceed, Beta?"

With two Kurt Stoltz' being employed by in important positions there had been several instances of confusion. Phillip had solved the problem by telling Kurt that, as the late comer, he was to no longer respond to the name Kurt Stoltz. Instead, he should only respond to Kurt Stoltz Beta or Kurt Beta. Or, as it turned out, just "Beta."

Kurt had no problem with this. If learning not to respond to the name Stoltz, and answer to Beta was what it took to remain as Dr. Gribbleflotz' personal laborant, he was willing to adapt.

"Yes, Doctor. The envelope of the big sheets is in the top drawer on the table. The trays in the darkroom have been filled with chemicals and are at the correct temperature. All is ready for your experiments."

Several weeks later, the public seminar room, HDG Enterprizes, Jena

Phillip held the static-charged rod close to the stream of water. There was an "oh" of astonishment from the audience as the stream of water bent away from the rod. Phillip started recharging the rod on the handful of wool in his other hand and smiled at his audience. He really enjoyed it when he got that reaction of amazement. "That was a demonstration of the repelling force of an electrical field. It is interesting to note that the same charged rod can also attract." Phillip passed the recharged rod above some small pieces of paper on his demonstration table. The paper leapt up to the rod.

The audience applauded the demonstration. "You have seen me use inanimate materials to make my electric fields, but did you know your own body also generates electricity?" He looked around his audience sympathetically." I see a number of heads shaking. Yes, it is true. And now, using the wonders of the up-timer science of Kirlian Photography, I shall prove it."

Phillip nodded to Kurt that he was ready. While Kurt made preparations Phillip returned to his audience. "A gifted up-time philosopher, Semyon Kirlian, continuing the work of the great Nikola Tesla, discovered that he could photograph the life force, or aura, which surrounds all living beings, as I shall now demonstrate. Could I have a volunteer from the audience, please?"

Phillip stood back while Kurt hung the wet prints to dry. Each was carefully labeled with the volunteer's name so that they could take their own Kirlian image home with them, and they were crowding Kurt so they could see the images.

Once the images were hung up, Kurt opened the heavy blackout curtains and turned out the red safe light. Phillip waited for his audience to return to their seats.

"As you can see, the Kirlian Imager can detect forces invisible to the human eye. Proving the existence of a field around our bodies.. ."

"Yes, but what use does it have, or is it just another useless party trick?"

Phillip froze. Was someone suggesting his Candles of the Essence of Light demonstrations were nothing but a "party trick"? He stared at the speaker. Could he be an agent from the university sent to try and discredit him? There was a gentle cough from his assistant. Phillip looked over at Beta. It appeared he had something he wanted to say. Well, Beta had spent a lot of his own time experimenting with the Kirlian imager. Maybe he could silence the critic. "Would you like to explain, Beta?"

Kurt nodded enthusiastically. "Yes, and I have a number of Kirlian Images that I would like to show everyone."

Phillip turned to his audience. "My assistant has made a personal study of the uses of the Kirlian Imager. If you will wait patiently for a few moments while he gathers some materials from the laboratory, he will attempt to answer your question."

Kurt approached the rostrum with his folder of notes and Kirlian images. This was his opportunity to impress his hero with his level of scientific knowledge and comprehension. He coughed gently into his hand to clear his throat and looked around at the curious faces and took a last steadying breath before starting his very first public presentation.

He held up an image of a modern coin so everyone could see it before passing it around the audience. "In this image of a coin we can see how the Kirlian image of the corona is regular and symmetrical. The life force follows the curvature of the coin." He passed out a second image. "This is the image from the same coin a week later. Notice how the 'flames,' those fine short lines radiating out from the edge of the coin, are the same."

He held up a new image. "And this is a Kirlian image of an old, well-used and abused coin. Notice how the corona is not symmetrical, showing the damage inflicted on the coin. Again, although I don't have a second image available to show you, the corona from this coin doesn't change.

"However, when we examine a living being, things are different." Kurt passed around some images of his own hands. "Look at the coronas around each finger. Compare the same finger on different images. Notice the variation. That is evidence of the life force interacting with the world. We as human beings have the greatest variation in our Kirlian images, clearly demonstrating the greater complexity of the human spirit.

"It has been my privilege to investigate many Kirlian images. In the course of my investigations, I have determined that no two images, even of the same person, are ever the same. I have found that the variation is due to several things. First, just like the stream of water can be moved by the charged rod in Dr. Gribbleflotz' demonstration, other life forces can influence your aura. Second, what you eat, drink, or even wear, can influence your aura.

"My investigations suggest that the flames of the corona should be symmetrical around the surface being photographed. This would indicate a spirit in its ideal state. By carefully analyzing the placement and the ratios between various lengths of the flames of the aura, one can analyze what is required to transform an individual's aura to its ideal state. Not, of course, that it is possible to actually achieve a true ideal state, not as long as there are other life forces able to wield influence. But my investigations have shown that one can 'manipulate' the forces acting on one's aura to arrive as closely as possible to the ideal state, where one is truly in balance with the universe, even by such simple things as changing the color of the clothes one wears on a given day."

Kurt held up his left hand so the audience could see the chased copper bracelet he was wearing. "Of course, sometimes a little more effort is necessary to bring a person's aura into balance. But since I have been manipulating my aura towards the ideal state I have improved not only my health, but my prospects. Clearly, an unbalanced aura is an indicator of poor health and vitality."

Kurt could feel that he had his audience in the palm of his hand. So this was why Dr. Gribbleflotz continued to give his seminars. The feeling of euphoria as everyone listens attentively to one's every word. "Of course, just looking at the fingertips doesn't tell us a lot about how our life force interacts with the world. Fortunately, Herr Dr. Gribbleflotz has a special Kirlian Imager that can record much larger images." Kurt unrolled a large Kirlian image and stuck it to the seminar back board using magnets. With Dr. Gribbleflotz' pointer in hand he stepped aside so everyone could see.

"This is a Kirlian Image of my head." He ran the tip of the pointer around the corona surrounding his head. "We can clearly see the 'halo' which is present around all of us. Obviously the head is not round, so the flames are not symmetrical, however, by analyzing the ratios of the length and density of the flames we can draw some conclusions as to what the individual must do to move their aura to the ideal state."

Kurt wasn't sure where the words were coming from, but he let them continue to flow. Anything to maintain the interest of his audience and the feeling of euphoria.

Phillip wasn't sure what to think. Beta had made a most enthusiastically received presentation. Even that dissenting voice was currently begging Kurt to interpret his Kirlian Image and explain what he had to do to return his life force toward its ideal state. He shrugged. It seemed Beta had things well in hand. Meanwhile, he had papers to read and write. So Phillip left Beta to deal with the people crowding around him.

Kurt knocked diffidently on the door. He had a request that he hoped the doctor would approve.

"Enter."

Kurt pushed the door open and stepped into Dr. Gribblefltoz' personal office. He passed an envious gaze of the shelves of books that lined one wall.

"Ah, Beta, a most impressive presentation."

Kurt flushed with pride. Dr. Gribbleflotz had been impressed. "Thank you, sir."

The doctor gestured toward an easy chair. "Take a seat. What is it I can do for you?"

Kurt gingerly lowered himself into the soft easy chair. Previously he'd only been invited to sit on one of the hard wooden seats. He must have really done well. Maybe Dr. Gribbleflotz would be receptive to his request. "After the seminar today, sir, several of the attendees asked if I could take Kirlian Images of their halos, and then interpret them so they could move their auras towards the ideal state. I was wondering if you would permit me to use your large Kirlian Imager to take the required photographs, and also allow me the time to interpret the images."

"The photosensitive paper isn't exactly cheap, Beta."

Kurt nodded his head rapidly. "I realize that, Herr Doctor. I expect to charge people a small fee."

"For the image and the interpretation?"

"If it is permitted, Dr. Gribbleflotz."

"Well, the Kirlian Imager isn't giving me the results I hoped for, so I don't see a problem letting you use it. However, I still need a personal laborant until Hans returns, so I can't really spare you."

"I wasn't thinking of performing the imaging when I should be working for you, sir!"

"You weren't? Very well. Make arrangements with Frau Mittelhausen."

"Thank you, Herr Doctor."

Two months later, Grantville

It was Michael's first visit to the explosives factory and he was curious. He paused at the door of his sister's office to look around. It was crowded with filing cabinets and wall charts. There was a good up-time typewriter on the desk and-wonder of wonders-a computer. Maria Anna was currently engrossed with the computer screen. "How come you rate your own computer, Sis?"

"Michael.! Long time no see. I get the computer because I handle the books. What can I do for you?"

Michael had been so busy over the last couple of months he hadn't been able to spend much time with his sister. "I've got an order from Jena for some more Kirlian imagers and photographic chemicals, and I was wondering if Celeste's daughter and her friends can get me some more milkweed latex."

"You could have phoned."

"Sure. But then I couldn't have shown you this." Michael tossed a booklet and covering letter over to Maria Anna. He was interested in how she reacted. He'd nearly fallen over laughing himself. "Kurt's calling himself Beta these days. Dr. Gribbleflotz was having too much trouble with two Kurt Stoltzs on the payroll."

Maria Anna gingerly picked up the booklet and looked at it. Her head shot up. "'How To Manage Your Aura For Personal Health and Gain.' By Kurt Beta. What the hell is happening in Jena?"

"Read the letter. It explains everything."

Maria Anna dropped the booklet and opened Kurt's letter. "He's been teaching others to interpret the life forces made visible by the wonders of Kirlian photography. Is he for real?"

Michael shrugged. "I think so. That's why he needs the additional imagers. He needs them for his students. Frau Mittelhausen has authorized the order."

Maria Anna grimaced. "Kurt's students? What's he trying to do?"

"Franchise auroral interpretation, of course."

"Franchise what? He's selling snake oil."

Michael shook his head. "No, snake oil is a total fraud. What Kurt Beta is doing is merely pseudo-science, like the doctor and his pyramid. Frau Mittelhausen says people in Jena are lapping it up."

"You know what I think of the doctor's pyramid."

"Sure, but it's harmless. Think of what Kurt's doing as being Feng Shui for the soul."

"What the hell is Fung Shway?"

Michael paused to consider an answer. Feng Shui wasn't one of those things that were easy to explain. "I think I need to lend you the book I read."

Several weeks later, office of Boots Bank, Jena

Marguerite Lobstein called over to her partner. "Johann Diefenthaler wants a loan to take the new photographer course in Grantville and buy a camera obscura photographer equipage. What do you think?"

Catherine Mutschler looked at the photographs of her and Marguerite's family displayed around the room. "Where does Johann hope to operate?"

"He wants to operate in Bamberg. There hasn't been anybody else saying they want to work there. Most of them want to operate in Magdeburg."

Catherine chewed on a lock of hair while she read the detailed loan application. "He's got a reasonable business plan. I think we can make the loan to do the Certificate in Photography at Brennerei und Chemiefabrik Schwarza's school in Grantville easily enough. Tell him the rest is dependent on his passing the course."

"Right." Marguerite made a note on Johann's folder and tossed it into the yes basket. Then she pulled out another folder. "Oh, dear!"

Catherine took in the grimace of distaste on Marguerite's face. "What's the matter?"

"Another Kirlian Imager application."

"Just because you don't believe in the interpretation of the human spirit doesn't mean it isn't a sound business proposition."

"Are you suggesting that you believe in that mumbo-jumbo?"

Catherine shook her head. "No. Of course I don't believe it, but I know there are lots of people who do. If your applicant has completed Herr Beta's course and has a good business plan there is no more reason to deny the application than there was to deny Johann Diefenthaler's. Remember, the only criteria we use to determine whether or not to make a loan is whether or not they can pay it back."

Marguerite tossed the application across to Catherine. "Very well, you sign off on the loan. I don't want to touch the thing."

A couple of weeks later, HDG Enterprizes, Jena

Ursula Mittelhausen smiled at the photograph her sister had sent her. It wasn't as good as the one she had sent to Margarethe, but her portrait had been taken by Frau Sebastian using a proper up-time camera, not one of the new manual exposure Camera Obscura Photographer machines that the traveling photographers were using.

Phillip shook Kurt Beta's hand. "Are you sure you have to leave, Beta? There's plenty a man with your talents can achieve here at HDG Enterprizes."

Kurt shook his head. "Thank you for the offer, Doctor. But my time as your personal laborant has opened my eyes to a world of new opportunities. I intend spreading the science of interpreting Kirlian images. I already have a number of lectures scheduled in Magdeburg, and I have to see my publisher about my new book."

"Your new book?" Phillip asked.

"Yes. 'Feng Shui for the Soul.' Herr Siebenhorn gave me the idea for the title. I had previously missed the obvious connection between the ancient Chinese science of Feng Shui and the new art of interpreting Kirlian images, but as soon as Herr Siebenhorn made the comparison, the relationship was obvious."

Kurt paused to consider just why he'd missed such an obvious connection. The Censors had been hard at work indeed. They'd hidden the truth with careful use of misdirection, surrounding the truths of Feng Shui with claims only the gullible could believe. It had taken him considerable time and effort to sort through all the up-timer material to discover the truth, but now he knew and it was going to make him rich.

Ghosts on the Glass

Written by Tim Roesch

The first time Mary saw the ghosts she was transfixed.

In the beginning, they had frightened her, the ghosts. Now she found them before they found her. She knew where to look and how. With a clever smudge here or a bit of pigment there, she could enclose them or set them free or leave them completely alone.

She looked across the street in the early afternoon sun, and was again struck by the ghost on the glass. She looked at the ghost, watched it as the sun moved in the sky. Mary could tell this one needed help, needed her to touch it, embellish it, bring it to life. This ghost, of all the others, was special.

Mary sighed and felt in those wonderful things called pockets for the small piece of chalk she had borrowed from school and kept for moments like this. She would be late getting home again.

With a simple mark on the ground it began again.

Mary had learned not to fight beginnings. She would look at the glass and the ghost would tell her when she had done enough.

"Look at it! Just look at my windows. I've had enough, Julie."

Julie Drahuta tried really, really hard to see what it was that had made Audry Yost this upset. A dirty window shouldn't cause Audry to lose her cool like this. Sure, it looked someone had smeared her window with colored snot and dirt but a little Windex, or the 1633 equivalent, would clean it right up.

"What am I looking at, Audry?" It was best, in situations like this, to maintain a professional demeanor, regardless of the circumstances. After all, it was probably a child; a child who liked to eat sherbet with their bare hands then wipe them on Audry's window.

"Look!" Audry pointed angrily at the large, smeared plate glass window.

In Julie's experience very little made Audry this angry. She took two very considered steps forward, her eyes scanning the glass and trying not to look at the potted plants on display on the other side.

Audry might not have access to flower networks but what she had and what she could do with what was available was truly a sight to see, smeared windows or not.

"See? Smudges! Smudges all over. Look!"

"Glass gets smudged, Audry." Julie tried not to sound amused. "Hell, I press my nose against your windows from time to time. You have a green thumb and it shows."

"She does it on purpose! And not with her nose! Every day, I turn my back for one second. One! Next thing I know I have to chase her away and the glass is dirty. She stands there, right in front of my face, Julie, and messes up the window. She does it on purpose. She used her tongue once!"

"Her what?"

"Then she smeared it with her nose."

"With her nose?" Julie leaned in and scanned the glass more closely. Yes, indeed, it was… smudged. No, smudge wasn't a good enough word. There almost seemed to be a pattern…

"With her fingers too, Julie. Can't you see? Sometimes it's so thick you almost can't see through the glass. I think she sticks her hands in stuff just to dirty the glass. She has to and it isn't random. It's like she looks for clean places to mess up. Look at it. .. every day I have to clean the glass. Every day she smears a different part. If this keeps up, I'm going to wear the darn stuff out!"

"Just on the outside?"

"She'd never dare come inside and do that! I've never been this mad at a child, Julie. You know that… but, it's so… so… blatant. She's doing it on purpose!"

"Do you know who she is?"

"I'm guessing she's a German kid, a down-timer. She's blond and blue-eyed and she has that look. She understands me when I yell at her though, so she at least knows some English. She glares at me then she's off like a shot. Bam. Sometimes she runs that way or that way. .. if I see her I'd recognize her but… I just want it to stop, okay? Can you talk to her parents or something?"

"About what time does she do this?"

"Lately? Usually about midday. She should be in school, right? I mean she looks like she's about ten or so. Sometimes it's after school or before. Some parents need to be reminded to have their kids in school. Schools are for kids… not my window. If she wants to finger paint, she should do it in school."

"About how tall?"

"She's a bit tall… maybe close to five feet. Look at the glass. That should tell you something. She leaves enough fingerprints."

"We don't have an FBI fingerprint database, Audry."

"I know… just… make it stop, okay? It's really annoying and I'm… more annoyed that I'm annoyed. I like kids, Julie, you know I do. We adopted two, remember?"

"I'll see what I can do."

Audry went inside her store. The tinkling bell drew Julie's attention back to the window.

There was something odd about the smudges. No, smudge just wasn't the word for it. Finger painting didn't describe it either.

Julie stepped back and struggled. The light didn't seem right.

Nothing on that glass seemed right.

It was almost like there was something… ghostly on the glass, an image that was almost there.

The light just wasn't right.

Julie looked over her left shoulder to see where the sun was.

Nope, not quite right.

Mary scowled at the glass from the beginning place she had marked across the street from the flower shop. The words painted on the glass were like rocks in a stream or trees in a breeze. The ghost simply used sunlight to make itself part of the letters.

The ghost flowed around the letters on the glass; changing as the sun changed. Mary had learned that the sun was never in the same place in the sky at the same time. It changed its position slightly each day.

It was hard to understand, like Grantville and the events that had stolen her family, left them scattered about the burned rubble of her home and memory.

Mary would understand though. She would work hard and understand. Like Grantville and this ghost on this glass, it would all work itself out.

All she needed to do was be patient. This ghost would wait for her and she knew another one would appear and it would not be happy if she failed to help this one.

Her new parents loved her and cared for her. There was food on the table again and it was warm and safe. She might even find another dog to replace the one she had taken for granted until she had found it, like her family, dead.

She would make this ghost she saw on this glass warm and safe like Grantville made her feel warm and safe. It was the least she could do.

This particular image reminded her of some place, some event, some person in her past life, the life before Grantville, the life she had tried so hard to forget. Maybe this ghost was all of those things. Ghosts could be whatever they wanted to be.

This ghost was trying to tell her something. All she had to do was follow the sun behind her and find the right pattern to clothe the ghost, surround it, enhance it.

Enhance was a word she would have never known before Grantville. Just as she knew she would never have seen this much glass before Grantville.

But if she hadn't, would there have been ghosts? Mary calmed herself.

Remembering was not enough; just as forgetting had been too much.

The ghosts reminded her to live. The dead didn't make memories. They were memories. She was alive and she made memories.

It was all complicated but it would all work out.

She would need to come earlier now. She wouldn't be late for chores but she would have to leave school early again.

The ghost didn't care. It would appear about noon now and she would have to be here to enhance and embellish it.

Julie made it a point to be somewhere nearby around midday. For three days there was no sign of a tallish, blond, German female between ten and twelve years old lurking about a flower shop at midday.

For three days Audry said nothing about smudges though she did wave when Julie walked by. Walking by Audry's flower shop was always a treat even if Julie "had" to because she was on duty. The chief was always interested in potential child abuse or neglect cases. Protecting kids and families was always good PR.

"Get her blond ass back in school," Chief Richards had said. "But do it nicely. It's probably just some kid who's never seen that much glass before and she likes to touch it or something. Make Audry happy and me happy; get her back in school."

So, here she was, watching the flowers and plants through Audry's clean windows. Clean so far.

It was day four into the investigation that yielded results. Patience and perspective are everything in police work.

This particular day Officer Drahuta was late. There were other issues in Grantville of more import than a glass window smudged by some truant girl. It was slightly past midday when Julie appeared. She noted her reflection on a glass window she passed and smiled.

Julie was just turning the corner when she heard the yell.

" Get away! Get away from the glass!"

Julie ran the twenty or so yards to the florist shop and was confronted by a fuming Audry, a smudged window and the faintest glimpse of running feet turning a corner.

"She did it again!" Audry pointed. "I went in the back to see how Mrs. Hardegg's miniature roses are doing and when I came out there she was… smudging my window! Where were you?"

Julie turned and looked at the window. There was still something. .. odd about the smudges. A barely discernible pattern of some kind.

"Can you leave the window just like it is, Audry?" Julie asked, stepping back.

"Sure, why not? If kids can draw on the sidewalk, why not smudge my windows? I can have another installed! Plate glass is just all over the place, isn't it?"

"What?"

"Look!" Audry pointed at the ground near Julie's feet.

There were a series of marks; lines drawn with a thin piece of chalk or maybe dry wall. There were words written next to them. She pulled out her clipboard and began writing.

"Does she do this to anyone else's store? No! Just mine!"

"Audry, you're letting this work you into a frenzy. I'll catch her and we'll settle this. It's not like she's throwing rocks through your window."

"Yet," Audry grumbled and stormed back into her store.

Julie looked up at the glass then back on the ground. The occasional pedestrian politely moved around her as she scanned the sidewalk. There were faded remnants of other marks.

She turned and looked around at the other buildings up and down the street. "Why this store?" Julie muttered to herself. There were plenty of other stores along the street, plenty of other windows. What was special about this store and this window?

She spent a pleasant few hours window shopping, asking other store owners if they had a problem with smudges or tall German girls with dirty fingers.

Some didn't know what she was talking about. A few had heard Audry's complaints and smiled as they told her, more calmly, what Audry had already told her.

Julie Drahuta, crack child protection officer, learned one more piece of evidence that Audry either had forgotten to mention or hadn't noticed.

The girl would often appear just before sunset. She would stand on the edge of the sidewalk and stare at Audry's window. Most assumed that, as a young girl, she was attracted to the pretty displays of flowers and plants in the window. Who wouldn't be?

Julie wasn't so sure. The smudges didn't appear related to anything behind the glass.

Sunset was a few hours off. Julie would be here then.

The florist shop had large windows.

Mary knew such places, with or without windows, simply did not exist in the time when her first family had been alive, when glass had been so much smaller and the ghosts had no place to be seen, to feel safe.

Now, if she could only find some way to stop the owner of the shop from washing this window.

Mary knew the ghost on the glass wasn't bothered by the washing. It simply moved with the sun, from one place on the glass to another. It waited patiently for her.

Mary would follow it.

Ghosts were slow, steady and patient. All she need do was be patient and even if the ghost disappeared completely, it would reappear later.

After all, where could a ghost go that she could not follow now that she was here, in Grantville, with all this glass?

The girl didn't reappear that afternoon but Julie hit pay dirt the next afternoon. She chose to stand at the line with the word "five" scrawled almost illegibly beside it before beginning her surveillance. Five what, she wondered.

Perspective and patience. The five didn't mean anything to her but it did to someone else.

"You need be standing here," a voice told her.

Julie turned to see a ten year old, maybe a year or two older, blond female glaring at her. Her arms were crossed across her chest. She was dressed in a handmade dress with what appeared to be food stains smudged across the front where she had obviously wiped her hands. There was a mother somewhere who wouldn't be happy to see that well made dress smudged and stained.

Smudged and stained?

"There?" Julie smiled. Her smile often won over children when nothing else did.

The girl's expression did not change when she nodded.

Julie moved slightly. There was another line. This one had the word "six" beside it.

"Now look," the girl stated firmly.

Julie looked.

There were ghosts on the glass. There was no other way to describe them. The smudges transformed with the slanting, late afternoon light and the slight change in position, five to six, into what could only be seen as ghosts.

Reflections and smudges and light merged into something faint and beautiful, like forms in a mist that is slowly swirling in an unfelt breeze.

"Oh, my God." Julie moved her head slightly and the image was nothing more than smudges on glass. Then she moved her head back to its original position.

They were faint, startling images of faces and places and things. It was like laying down and looking up at the sky and how clouds changed from horses to sailing ships. She had done that with her father how long ago?

"That's her!" Audry stormed out of her store. The words seemed to strike Julie straight across her face to wake her up.

"Stand here, Audry." Julie grabbed Audry as she stamped toward girl with the blond hair, determined eyes and pale arms crossed across her chest.

"There she…"

"Look!" Julie aimed Audry's face at the glass.

"It's those smudges! I tol… my God…"

"You need to see in the light," the girl said. "Can you wait for the day to end to wash them away? Can you wait for the sunset? I can pay. I can't wash window. I do not have the time to do so. I do not like to lie to Momma."

Neither Julie nor Audry saw the youthful hand outstretched with a meager handful of random coins and slips of paper.

No, they weren't smudges at all, Julie thought.

"How…" Audry took a step closer and the image was gone, the light wrong, the smudges had become smudges again. The ghosts had vanished to wherever ghosts go when pursued.

Julie remained standing right where she was. Audry rejoined her.

The occasional pedestrian paused a moment to see what the two women were staring at and, if they were in just the right spot, stopped and started to stare.

"I have to go," the girl said.

"Don't. Move. Stay right there."

"Am I in trouble?"

"No… just… we need to talk. Stay there. Okay?"

"The sun will be setting soon. I will have to home. Maybe tomorrow

… and stop screaming at me. I can pay you for window."

"On the house." Audry moved her head slightly from side to side. "Any time you want… smudge away…"

"The sun will change and I will see another window. Now is the best time for your window. Later… maybe down the street… It doesn't hurt the window. It washes off."

"Uh huh," Audry muttered.

There was a long silence.

"I thought… what would people who used to live here… where Grantville is now… what would they make of this place? How would their spirits see what become of their home? They are ghosts of people who were here before Grantville. Some of the ghosts… are people I was knowing… before…"

"It's… beautiful…" Julie shook her head. "And they're just fingerprints."

"No." Audry sighed. "They are ghosts watching us. They're reflections of us…"

"Can you keep them on the glass until sun sets?"

"Sure… sure. Of course, yes!"

"Good." The girl sighed. "They are beautiful, no?"

"You've turned my window into a work of art." Audry nodded.

"Have you thought of canvas?" Julie asked.

"Canvas? You mean cloth? Cloth is for wearing. Glass is a window to soul. Cloth merely covers soul. I like glass."

"What's everyone looking at?" a voice demanded.

"Stand here!" a chorus of voices said. Hands pulled the speaker. Complaints ceased as the place was found.

The sun did set but not before at least ten people saw the ghostly images smudged carefully onto the plate glass of Audry Yost's flower shop.

The ghost smiled at Mary.

As Julie walked her home, Mary looked up, knowing where the setting sun might expose another ghost.

There it was, high up in a window above her head, three stories up.

Story could mean a floor or a story you read, like a mother would read to a child. English was the perfect language for ghosts. Like ghosts on the glass could change as the sun changed, English could change too and be what it needed to be.

Mary liked English and she liked school and her new parents.

And the ghosts didn't frighten her anymore.

Three stories up there was a ghost of a dog lying on its side in the setting sun and Mary smiled. She had known that dog, seen it alive in the yard in front of her first home. Now it was here.

The ghosts were coming here, to their new home.

So was she.

Julie couldn't quite figure out how to write her report.

There is no art in a well-done police report. It states the facts, clearly and without bias or emotion. A police report reports a vandalized masterpiece with the same dispassionate words that it reports a gang symbol spray painted on an alley wall.

Signs of abuse or neglect? No.

Julie met the girl's adopted parents. There was no sign of abuse or neglect. Her papa made it clear that little Mary would have to clean the windows she had smudged. Mary wasn't to leave school without permission again.

Damage to property?

Julie closed her eyes and remembered the ghostly images on the plain, cold glass.

No; she wrote firmly.

Firm, bold strokes were the only emotion allowed on police reports.

Chief Richards accepted the report without comment.

To him, the case was closed, the "blond ass" was back in school and Audry wasn't complaining anymore.

Grantville had lots of glass, a growing number of ghosts, and a young artist to smudge them.

To Julie, Grantville felt just a bit less cut off from the past and just a bit more attached to this new future.

Golden Corn-A Tale of Old Joe on the Mountain Top

Written by Terry Howard

"It's the first of May and there's snow on the ground." Old Joe had talked to himself all of his life. Now with his wife gone he was living alone in a house accustomed to keeping two or three and-on rare, brief occasions-four generations of Jenkins at the same time, so he talked to himself a lot.

He really should have taken in boarders but he didn't want strangers going through things. Besides, he only thought of it when he went to town which was mostly on Sundays and there was no call for talkin' business on Sunday. Come Monday there was always something that needed doing around the place, so he just never got around to finding boarders.

"And it ain't a late snow that fell in the night and will be gone by noon. It's still here from February. I oughta be plantin' the corn shortly. If I don't get it in the ground in the next two or three weeks it won't make, and if I don't get the tomato sets in the ground pretty soon, I might as well put them in pots and leave 'em." It was a repeat of a conversation he had with his wife the first spring after the Ring of Fire.

That first spring he ended up starting his corn in the greenhouse on the southern backside of the barn where the livestock and the sun helped keep it warm. "Mabel, I'm goin' to put some tomato plants and squash plants and some of everything else I started from seed back in January in five gallon buckets or whatever, to leave 'em as potted plants. It looks like it's the only way to guarantee something to can this year."

The big problem was the size of the greenhouse. It had been cobbled together out of castoff windows to get a jump on the garden, because a man like Old Joe wasn't wasn't about to buy sets in town. You couldn't fit a whole garden's worth of pails inside that greenhouse. He would set plants out when he could. But he knew if you wait too long, sets wouldn't transplant well. The corn plants were set out in June just as early as he was sure the freeze was over and the ground was warm enough. Some nights he still had to cover them because he was worried about frost.

"If it weren't for the wheat, I could just up and starve with this here 'Little Ice Age.'" He had heard that mentioned after church one Sunday and tried to look it up in the encyclopedia. He couldn't find it under 'little' or 'ice age.' As for starving, he could eat out of his cellar for well over a year. The habits of growing what you ate, minding your own business and getting by with what was on hand ran deep.

The Ring of Fire cut off his driveway. One of the highest limestone faces in the circle fell away not twenty feet out his front door. Almost all of his woods and nearly three of the six-, four- or five-acre patches his grandfather used to keep in row crops went missing too. The five-acre plot that he had kept in field corn or soy beans for years was now three and a half acres of wheat and rye and oats sown in a mix. It was mostly animal feed for the milk cows and chickens. He ground some of it by hand to make bread. The only corn he planted any more was for canning. What he planted for seed he grew in the green house for fear of losing it to a freeze. The other three pockets of semi-flat land were in pasture, hay and straw. They were too poor, too steep, or too rocky to be worth row cropping.

When the Grantville authorities came poking around right after the event he made it plain he did not want them on his place.

"Mister Jenkins, we are all going to have to pull together to get through the next winter. Everybody is going to have to pitch in and help," one of them had said.

"Well, I understand that. I promise you, anything I grow that the wife and I don't need I'll haul down and sell it in town. Never was much up here an' there's less now," Joe had answered.

"Well, sir, you might need some help, we've got-"

Before the man could make a pitch for him to take in some refugees, Joe cut him off. "Ain't needed no help in eighty years I know of and never heard of having any hired help afore that. We'll take care of ourselves, thank you."

On the way down the hill the younger of the census takers said to the older, "It's sure not easy to get up here. Truth to tell there isn't a whole lot here outside of two old people, two old barns and an even older house. With the old man being difficult, I don't think there's any need to mess with them unless we just make them move into the old folk's home. You know, I think he'd start shooting if we suggested it."

"You got that impression? Well, you're right. Just leave them alone. It's for the best."

"Yeah, but is it safe?"

"They'll take care of themselves."

"Well, I know there's not much up here but it might be needed."

"Kid, that old couple will get more out of this pile of rocks than anyone else. She's a regular down at the Baptist church, he's a member of the Legion, the Masons, and the Historical Society. Pays his dues and turns up once in a blue moon. You can be sure nothing up there will go to waste and he'd give you his second-best shirt if he thought you needed it-as long as you didn't ask for it. Just cross it off the list and move on. They'll do more than their share."

Joe had heard it all and snorted. Why did the young automatically think their elders were deaf?

When the garden came in that first summer, Mabel had him load three bushels of mixed veggies in the trunk of the car every Sunday. Joe grumbled about it. Mabel knew it was just for form's sake. "Joseph, we ain't gonna eat all that."

"I could haul it into the market."

"You could but you won't, 'cause it ain't worth the time. Besides, there's folks having a hard time of it in town." The last line settled it. Mabel didn't mention the full milk can in the trunk next to the veggies. On Saturday and Sunday the pigs didn't get the extra milk.

They'd leave it all in the church kitchen and every Sunday there would be four empties waiting for him to take home. The pastor and pensioners in the church ate well; what was left of the food went to the refugee center.

Come fall, Joe sold three pigs down to the slaughter house. He dressed and smoked the other two from that litter. One ended up in the cellar. The other one ended up in the church kitchen shortly before Christmas, along with eleven large, soft balls of cheese, a bushel of Mabel's herb tea mix, and paper grocery bags of dried chives, oregano and several other spice herbs. The three pigs paid his property taxes.

He could have sold the steer he got off of one of the milk cows but he didn't need to and he thought he should look ahead. The tractor would break down beyond repair eventually, so he figured he should start working up an ox. The other milk cow dropped a female calf, so she was a keeper too. With the litter of pigs gone, Pastor Green helped them find a family in town willing to look after one of the milk cows. That family had five kids. Milk doesn't have a long shelf life and it wasn't enough to make a daily trip into town worthwhile, but they couldn't abide it going to waste. So the cow went to town.

Two cars were pushed out of a garage and Joseph trucked enough straw, hay, and corn into town to see the milk cow through the winter. The family would keep enough milk for their table, the rest went to the grocery store and the cash went to Jenkins. When Joe arrived with several sacks of shelled corn, the man of the house helped unload them.

"It's too bad the corn's hybrid. We won't be seeing yields like this anymore."

"Joe shook his head. "It ain't hybrid. It's open-pollinated heirloom corn. Same stock of Hickory Cane corn we've been planting for years. I could of got a better yield out of hybrid, I guess, but I'd of had to buy it and this did fine. Besides, if the spring comes as late as the fall came early, this is the last corn crop we're going to make."

The fellow stopped and put the bag down half way between the pickup. "This is heirloom corn and you're feeding it to cows?"

"What else am I going to do with it? I could sell it and they could grind it, but then we'd have to buy grain. So why bother?"

"Sir, I don't think you've thought it through. What's your yield?"

Joe told him.

"Which is easily better than twice what they're getting these days. We ought to be shipping this down to Spain as seed."

"Well, Rapunzel-" Joe always named his cows, but after an unfortunate experience years ago, he never again wanted to use a name some little girl might have. "-needs about half a gallon of grain a day, on top of hay. If you can sell this for enough to buy oats, go ahead and do it."

Two weeks later, Joe's cow-sitter made the cold walk up to the farm. When Joe came in from the barn, the man was sitting at the kitchen table drinking tea made from herbs out of Mabel's flower garden.

"Mister Jenkins, I've got a buyer for your seed corn. It will cover the purchase of oats and then some. I told him what yield he could expect, but he didn't see it in the field so he doesn't quite believe me. He was impressed with the yield on a stand he saw in a field and wanted it for seed, but was told it was hybrid and wouldn't make if planted. He's afraid this won't make, either.

"Anyway, I cut a deal. He buys it at the agreed corn price. If the yield is half as high as I told him it would be, he'll match the price when he comes back next year after the harvest. If it hits the mark I told him it would, he'll double it. But he wants all he can get."

"Well, I don't mind feedin' oats I guess," Joe said.

The next spring when Joe started his sweet corn to transplant to the garden, he started a dozen stalks of field corn to raise in a twelve inch patch in the greenhouse next to his tobacco plant. He wasn't quite sure why, but the idea of not having any Hickory Cane corn seed for next year, after all of these years, just didn't sit right.

Perhaps the oddest part of the tale came about in the winter of '35.

Joe heard a noise and looked up from milking the cow. "Mr. Abrabanel, what brings you to a barn on a wind-blown mountain top?" The man couldn't be lost or passing through. This was the end of the road, if you could call the trace up his neighbor's back wood a road.

"You know who I am." It was not a question, just a surprise. The younger Abrabanel associate had the impression Joseph Jenkins was a hermit.

"I saw you when the synagogue had the open house."

"I'm sorry I missed you." The man was a bit taken aback. He considered himself a trained observer and gatherer of information.

"It was a busy night and you had other things on your mind. What brings you up my mountain?"

"Mr. Jenkins, I have a kinsman in the Ottoman Empire who has a client requesting corn seed from Grantville. I sent him some sweet corn and he has returned a request for the other kind of corn also. I wrote back and told him what I sent him was the only kind to be had. He insisted the kind he was looking for had kernels four or five times the size of what I supplied. The customer insists the corn is being grown in Spain. It is producing a miraculous yield and is spreading quickly. He also said Spain had a close guard on the crop and would not sell seed outside of the country.

"Some inquiry by my kinsman established that the seed came from Grantville. My inquiries here established that the only corn being grown is yellow sweet corn in kitchen gardens. But someone said you sold some seed corn three years ago."

"Well, I grew it. It was in the ground when the Ring of Fire hit. I haven't planted a field of it since. Ain't got enough warm weather for it to make."

"This is truly a shame. The client would pay a fortune for a good sample to get started with. But if you haven't grown any for three years, then the only source is Spain."

"I didn't say I didn't grow any. I said I hadn't planted a field of it. I guess I was hopin' the weather would turn warmer, so I've been growing about a quart a year in the greenhouse."

The young man grinned ear-to-ear. His reputation had just been saved. He didn't have to think of trying to steal a sample in Spain or of telling his kinsman it could not be had. This was something he really did not want to tell this particular kinsman. "Mr. Jenkins, I will pay you its weight in gold for as much as you are willing to sell."

"Well, I figure it's worth about three times that. But I'll settle for twice that much."

"We have a deal."

Lost In Translation

Written by Iver P. Cooper

Spring 1634

Grantville

"Hans, you fool, where are you!"

Hans hurriedly entered the room. The master's face was red, and his eyes were bulging, making him look rather like a choleric bullfrog.

Uh-oh, he thought. What is it this time? He lowered his eyes. "Yes, Master?"

"You took a book to the translators today?" asked Bullfrog Eyes.

"Yes, Master, I am sorry I didn't get around to it yesterday, but-"

"Which… book…" Each word was carefully enunciated.

"The one you had rebound recently. The octavo with red covers. In the locked bookcase."

"Moron. Imbecile. Idiot." Bullfrog Eyes hurled a book at Hans. " That's the book you were supposed to bring them. As you see, it has red covers. But I am missing a very valuable book, an octavo with green covers. Which was in the same bookcase."

"I am sure I took them a red book…"

"Enough. You must retrieve it at once."

"I humbly beg your pardon, Master. I will go to the translator's office first thing Monday morning."

"At once, I say!"

"I am sorry, Master, but they are certainly closed for the day. In fact, for the weekend."

"Closed." Bullfrog Eyes now looked as though he had swallowed something unpleasant. It did not enhance his appearance.

"On the weekend, one of the translators might come by, and start reading the book. That won't do. No, that won't do at all." He stared at Hans. "You will have to break inside and fetch it back. Tonight."

Federico Ballarino contemplated the pile on his bed. I hate packing, he thought.

But he had to do it. Tomorrow morning he would be off to Magdeburg, to give Princess Kristina her dance lessons. And the following week he would be back in Grantville, to teach down-time dances to the up-timers, and continue his research into up-timer dances.

Bitty, the petite director of the Grantville Ballet, had told Federico that thanks to the Ring of Fire, he was now the World's First Long-Distance Commuter. It was a distinction he would have gladly done without.

If that weren't enough, he had gotten roped into helping out "Words International," the translation company. It had started when a couple of the foreign language teachers at the high school were asked to translate a few documents. A few became many, and they decided to form a company to parcel out the translation work to whoever was willing and able to do the job. The foreign language teachers, trying to fit it in during the evening, on weekends, and over the summer, couldn't keep up with the demand.

It was all Nicole's fault. Nicole, the French teacher, knew that Federico had taught dance in France. Nicole pleaded that she was already teaching two adult sections of European History after the regular school day had ended. Could Federico please help with the translations into French? At least until the end of the regular school year? You said you like to read on the train, didn't you?

Sighing, Federico added the green-covered octavo to the pile.

Hans' employment with Bullfrog Eyes was not a matter of choice on Hans' part. It was the price for Bullfrog Eyes' silence about certain events in Hans' past. Hans wasn't entirely sure how Bullfrog Eyes knew about his background. But he was sure that Bullfrog Eyes had deliberately sought out a servant with a secret.

Of course, there were secrets and secrets. Bullfrog Eyes didn't know, at least not yet, about Hans' other problem. The vision thing. Hans was afraid to tell him. Perhaps he would no longer be useful. Perhaps Hans would then be… disposable.

Hans stood in front of the Words International store. It was in an old, somewhat run-down commercial building, which had been divided up among several tenants. He looked up and down the street. For the first time in an hour, there was no one else in view. He gave the front door of Words International a swift hard kick.

" Owww!" He grabbed his injured foot and massaged it. He had assumed the door was ordinary wood. He now knew, the hard way, that it was just a wood veneer, with a metal core.

A few minutes later, the pain had eased enough for him to make a second attempt. This time one not involving forcing the door. There was a window he could climb through, once he dealt with the glass. He looked around, and while there was no shortage of pebbles, he wanted something with more heft. Hans sighed and hobbled down the street. He had to go several blocks before he found a likely place to hunt that was away from curious eyes. He picked up a suitable stone, and walked back.

He hefted it and… every time he even thought about throwing it, someone came down the street, or out of the tavern next door to Words International, and he had to hide it. Once, he actually dropped it, narrowly missing his injured foot.

Worse, he was starting to attract attention. The bouncer for the tavern was giving him the eye. Hans decided to move along, and come back later.

After walking a few blocks, he saw another drinking place. Why not? he thought. I have to kill the time anyway.

Sometime later, he staggered out. He returned to Words International, but its neighborhood was still hopping.

Then he had an inspiration. Perhaps he could try the roof?

But he had better collect some tools. The house which his master was renting came with an ax and saw, for cutting firewood. The ax had a blade on one side, and a pick point on the other. Hans approved. He also grabbed the hooded lantern he carried when he escorted the master on evening errands, and his "lighting kit." Flint, steel, and a tinderbox, that is.

It was a pity he didn't have one of those American "backpacks," so he could carry them with his hands free. No matter. He loaded them, and a rope, into a sack and carried them outside. Hans realized that it looked a little suspicious to be carrying a sack like that at night, but Hans figured that an ax and a saw would look even worse.

He sidled into an alley, and worked his way behind Words International. Too bad. No windows on this side. He tied one end of the rope around the mouth of the sack, tight as he could, and the other end around his waist. He struggled his way up a drainpipe, pulling himself at last onto the roof. He collected himself, let his breathing settle down. Then he gingerly hauled up the sack, hoping that neither the rope nor the sack would give way.

He took out his tools and, moving in a half-crouch, examined the roof, looking for a likely spot to begin. He couldn't waste time, it would be dawn soon enough. But had to work cautiously to minimize the noise he made.

Hans was equally worried about being seen. But there was a peculiar metal structure on top of the roof. He figured that he could use it to block any view of him from the street. And that would let him use a bit of light, which would make the search go faster.

Hans took out his lighting kit, and huddled over it. He tapped out the tinder into an untidy pile, and struck the steel with his flint. Sparks flew, and flitted into the tinder. There were glows here and there, which he blew on carefully. At last, he had a decent flame. He quickly lit the lantern, and snuffed out the tinder with his foot.

What was that? he thought. There was some kind of panel on the structure. He studied it more closely, bringing the lantern close up. Yes, there was a bit of separation on one edge. He forced the pick end of his ax into the crack, and started prying. His muscles strained-damn American technology-and then all at once it popped free. He almost dropped the ax.

There was an empty space beyond the opened panel, and beneath it, some kind of shaft. He stuck his head into the dark opening, and listened for a moment. He didn't hear anything suspicious, but he did feel warm air coming up. That was interesting. Was this a way inside? What was it, anyway? An up-timer would have recognized it as a rooftop air conditioning unit, but it was completely beyond Han's experience.

Hans held the lantern inside the structure and tried to look down. Metal glinted but he couldn't really tell much. He carefully tied his rope around the handle of his saw, and gingerly lowered it down. After a few feet, he heard a chink, of metal against metal. He didn't know what to make of it.

Hans considered his options. It would be nice not to have to cut through the damn roof. But he didn't think he could take his lantern with him into the shaft, so any further exploration would be blind.

He shrugged. He tied one end of his rope around a pipe that came out of the roof just beside the RFU, and the other around his waist. It would keep him from falling, if there were something odd about the shaft, and also make it easier to back up if he had to.

Taking a deep breadth, he leaned in. He pressed his hands and thighs outward against the sides of the shaft, to control his descent, and he started to snake down. The blood rushed to his head. After a few moments, his hair grazed the bottom of the shaft. He explored, first with one hand, then the other. It seemed like there were horizontal passages. Narrower, unfortunately, than the shaft he was hanging in. It all seemed very familiar all of a sudden, like something he had seen in an American movie at the Gardens, on their