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

TV.

Hans wrinkled his nose. Mama didn't raise a boy stupid enough to try crawling through a passage that small in the dark, with no one to pull him back out if there was a problem, he decided. He would leave the vent-crawling to Bruce Willis.

Hans pushed himself off the bottom of the shaft, and laboriously worked his way back the way he had come. Outside, he untied himself with relief.

What was the American phrase? "On to 'Plan B.'" Hans spat on his palms, rubbed them together, and hefted the ax.

With a combination of axing and sawing, Hans had made a Hans-size hole in the roof. Well, a few feet across, at least. The lantern beam revealed a maze of cables and vents. Looking at the vents from this angle, Hans gave thanks that he hadn't gone any further with his John McClane imitation.

Below the tangle was a peculiar checkerboard structure. It appeared that there were square panels of one of the peculiar American materials, resting between, and perhaps on, metal strips. Ah, yes, he remembered now. The ceiling of the translator's shop had a square pattern. Hans had thought it was some kind of decoration, he hadn't realized that the squares were removable.

At least, Hans hoped they were removable. He looked for nails and screws, but didn't notice any. Then he started tapping the structure gingerly with the top of his ax. He wondered whether it would take his weight, let him crawl around and pick exactly where he dropped to the floor of the store.

Nicole Hawkins hadn't planned to stop by the Words International office that morning. But she hadn't been able to find her earring at home, or at her classroom, and she was getting desperate. The pair had been a gift from her second husband, Barry, who had been left up-time.

She opened the door, flicked on the lights, and locked the door behind her. Girl couldn't be too careful, even in Grantville. She headed over to the desk that she usually worked at. The earring wasn't on the desktop, or on the floor nearby. Sighing, she got down on hands and knees, and expanded her search area.

That's when she heard the noise. Rats, she wondered?

She heard a more pronounced thump. Definitely not rats, unless they were of the man-sized variety. It seemed to be coming from the ceiling. Somewhere above the ceiling, to be precise. It was a standard office-type suspended ceiling, with big two-by-two acoustic tiles.

She thought for a moment of running out the door. But if someone had somehow broken in above, he might have an accomplice waiting outside.

Nicole, moving as slowly as she could, unlocked the special drawer. A revolver had been kept there ever since the Croat Raid, just in case.

She readied the weapon, hid behind a desk, and waited.

She saw a side of a ceiling tile lift up, ever so slowly and the ceiling tile started to slide away.

Nicole fired at where she guessed the burglar would be perched.

There was an answering shriek.

Hans was lucky; Nicole wasn't a great shot.

But he didn't know that, and he wasn't eager to present the shooter more of a target.

Hans hadn't tried to crawl around on the suspended ceiling, he had just pulled up the tile directly under the hole he had made in the roof. So he was able to pull back quickly enough.

Nicole, still holding the revolver, and keeping her eye on the opening, picked up the phone. She took the receiver off the hook, and dialed the police station one handed. "Come quickly, someone is trying to break into Words International. From the ceiling. I shot at him. I don't know if I hit him."

"Help's on the way," said the dispatcher. "What the heck are you doing in the shop at this hour, Nicole?" The dispatcher was Jim Watteville, Nicole's brother.

Hans made it safely away, leaving the tools behind him. Still, he could predict, well enough, how Bullfrog Eyes would react to the news of the bungled burglary.

He left his employer a brief note explaining what had happened, packed his bags, and hurried out of town.

Blackmail, he figured, worked only if the blackmailer could find the blackmailee.

The fireman came down from the roof. "I put back on the inspection panel for the RTU return air plenum. And I covered the hole with a tarp, to keep the rain out. But you're going to want to get a roofer out here, quick as you can."

Nicole nodded.

"Nice to know you can shoot when there's need," he added.

"I didn't hit the guy."

"You sure scared him," said Jim approvingly. He had hurried over as soon as he found someone to cover the phone. "Left all his stuff there. If he's been arrested in Grantville before, we'll have his fingerprints on file.

"After something like this, we need to give you a fitting nickname."

"Nickname?" Nicole sounded suspicious.

"Yep. How 'bout 'Raptor' Hawkins?"

"Raptor?" asked the fireman.

"Right. Remember Jurassic Park?"

"Oh, yeah. When everyone was hiding up in the suspended ceiling, and the raptor was leaping up at them."

"That's enough," said Nicole with raptor-like ferocity. "Out, both of you. I better call some roofers right now."

The men chuckled as they went out the door.

" Grrr," said Jim to no one in particular, one hand held in imitation of a claw, as the door swung shut.

" Grrr yourself," said Nicole.

Bullfrog Eyes crumpled the note, and tossed it into the fire. Watching it burn, he wished the same fate upon Hans.

He felt his chest tighten, and forced himself to calm down. Well, he decided, he would have to visit Words International himself, this very day, and hope that someone was in. And that whoever was there had the book, and hadn't examined it too closely.

Just in case… he made sure his dirk was well concealed.

"What a day," Nicole muttered. Having gone to the trouble of going to the office, not to mention scaring off burglars and sweet-talking roofers, she had decided to stay there and get some work done. Not without an occasional nervous look at the ceiling. At least there were plenty of people on the street by now.

There was a knock at the door; she ignored it. The roofer had come and gone, the police had come and gone, she really, really didn't want to talk to anyone. Then came another knock.

Can't they read the sign? she thought. It says closed… in ten different languages.

The knocking became continuous.

She went to the window, saw that the intruder was a well-dressed, foreign looking gentleman. Presumably not the mysterious burglar.

She put the chain on the door and opened it cautiously. "The office is closed."

"I am so sorry, so sorry. My servant, he brought the wrong book to be translated. I have the correct one here. The book he brought, it was one I borrowed from an acquaintance, and I must return it before the owner leaves for Amsterdam later today."

"Did your servant give you a receipt?"

"Yes, yes, here it is." He stuck the paper into the gap, and Nicole took it from him.

"One moment, I'll check the ledger."

Nichole pulled the ledger out and ran her finger down the list. She walked back to the door. "It was one of the books we gave to Federico Ballarino to be translated."

"Where can I find this Federico?"

"At Cair Paravel."

Bullfrog Eyes raised his eyebrows. "Cair what?"

"I'm sorry. That's what Princess Kristina calls her official residence, the place she stays at when she visits Grantville."

"This Federico Ballarino, he is a member of the Swedish Court? But works for you as a translator?"

"He is the princess' dancing master, but he also teaches part-time at the high school. He speaks several languages.

"Anyway, I think he is on his way to Magdeburg today. He'll probably have the book with him. So he has reading matter for the train to Halle, and the barge ride afterward."

Bullfrog Eyes bowed slightly. "I will try to catch him at the train station, then. What does he look like? How does he usually dress for these trips?"

"Federico Ballarino? Yes, I know him," said the ticket clerk. "He's a regular. Got on the 9:30 to Halle."

Bullfrog Eyes cursed.

"Hey, don't work up a sweat. The 9:30 is a local. There's also a 1:10 express. If Federico is going to Magdeburg, he'll take the boat tomorrow morning."

"I have never met Signore Ballarino. Can you tell me what he was wearing?"

The clerk told him, then added. "Hey, I have a picture of him! He gave me a flyer for this dance exhibition he's doing in a few weeks. You want it?"

Bullfrog Eyes took it. There was just enough time, he figured, to go home and pack. Just the essentials. Like the Suhl-made rifle he was fond of.

The press at the dock was much greater than Bullfrog Eyes had expected. Every time he tried to move in the direction of Federico's distinctive hat, someone got in the way. He wished he had one of the Americans' machine guns. That would clear a path nicely.

The upshot was that Federico was on board, and Bullfrog Eyes was left watching the boat work its way into the main channel of the Saale.

Well, there were alternatives. The boat moved slowly, and there were several stops. Bullfrog Eyes would buy a horse, and get ahead of him.

Federico shrugged off the backpack Nicole had lent him, and rummaged inside. It was time to read some more. He chose, by feel, the thinnest of the books. He pulled it out; it was a green-covered octavo.

He zipped up the backpack and put it back on. He had mixed feelings about the backpack. Yes, yes, it made it easier to carry things. But he didn't like what it did to his balance.

Bullfrog Eyes was in a clump of woods, not far from the landing at Bernberg. He still hadn't decided whether it was better to talk to Federico, find out what he knew, and, if he were ignorant, retrieve the book without arousing suspicion… or to just shoot him. The latter would silence him, but if the book couldn't be recovered, there was always the possibility that the police would take interest in it.

Federico was a bit puzzled. This book, it was interesting enough, he supposed, but not really the sort which down-timers were likely to pay to get translated. He inspected the inside covers, wondering whether there was anything written there which revealed the identity of the owner, and thus, perhaps, why we wanted the translation.

That's when Federico noticed the slit in the binding. He probed with his fingers, there was a letter there; he pulled it out. It was sealed. He wondered what it was doing there.

The boat came around the river bend, moving slowly as it made the turn. There was Federico, all right. But what was that in his hand?

Bullfrog Eyes raised the rifle, and took aim.

Federico had one hand on the letter, and the other on the book. When the shot rang out, he had no hand to spare for the boat.

On the dance floor, Federico was extremely graceful. He also didn't normally wear a backpack. Bullfrog Eyes' shot grazed Federico's cheek. Surprised, he lost his balance, and toppled backward into the water.

"Got him!" thought Bullfrog Eyes. He watched anxiously to see whether Federico resurfaced.

The other passengers on the barge had taken cover, as best they could. Still, it was only a matter of time before they spotted Bullfrog Eyes. While he was in disguise, that wouldn't help if he were caught before he had a chance to change back to his normal appearance.

The barge continued its ponderous movement downstream. In the riverbend, there was no sign of Federico. Or even his hat.

Bullfrog Eyes nodded with satisfaction. It had been a perfect assassination, Federico dead, and the book and letter lost forever. He worked his way back through the brush to his horse, pulled off the cloak he had been wearing, and rode off in the direction of Halle.

Federico had, somewhat to his surprise, managed, despite his unexpected dip, to hold on to both the letter and the book. Somewhat the worse for wear, thanks to treading water briefly with them in hand. Once he had recovered from his shock, he had tucked them both inside his blouse and swum to the side of the boat.

Federico held on, using the hull to conceal himself from the shooter. "Could he really have been aiming at me? he wondered. "And if so, why? Because I am Catholic, but am the dance instructor for a Lutheran princess? Because I told the shooter at some dance class that he had two left feet?"

It had been a lousy weekend for Federico. He had to give a statement to the dim-witted constable in Bernberg. Then another at the police station in Magdeburg. Once he got to the palace, the palace guard had more questions for him. Could this possibly be part of some plot against the Princess Kristina? More than a bit snappish by that point, Federico suggested that they interrogate the Ice Queen. He learned by this to never, ever, make a joke when questioned by the police. Their uniform entitles them to make all the jokes.

"Welcome back, Federico." The speaker was Jim Watteville, Nicole's brother. He was still in uniform, having just come off duty.

"I could wish you weren't in uniform, Jim."

"Trouble with the police?"

"Trouble is too strong a word. 'Exasperation,' that will do." Federico explained.

"Weird," said Jim. "Care to join me for a drink? It is the least I can do, to make amends for the follies of policedom."

"That's fine. But I have an errand to run first, I want to drop off the last of the books I was supposed to translate on this trip. And explain to the owner what happened. He's about a five minute walk from here."

"I'll join you; we can go straight to the Gardens from there."

You go in, Federico, I'll wait out here," Jim said.

Federico knocked. A servant answered. Not Hans, of course.

"Who may I say is calling?"

"Tell your master that it is a representative from Words International."

"Ah, he must be here to apologize for the loss of my book. I will let him grovel a bit, then tell him that I will waive my claim for the loss. Bring him in."

A moment later, Federico strode into Bullfrog Eyes' study.

" Urkhh," said the dumbfounded would-be murderer.

"I am Federico Ballarino, a translator in the employ of Words International. I regret to inform you that the volume you entrusted to us is a bit damaged." He held up the infamous green-bound octavo.

"And then there is the matter of the letter that was inside." Federico held that up; Bullfrog Eyes could see that it was no longer sealed. He moved his hand, very slowly, toward a drawer that held a small pistol.

Just then, Jim walked in. "What's taking so long?" Out of habit, his hand rested near his service revolver. Back in West Virginia, police dispatchers didn't go around armed, but since the Ring of Fire, it had become normal.

Bullfrog Eyes whitened. There were two of them. Federico had his sword; the hilt was visible through a fold in his cloak. Jim had a handgun and was primed to use it. Clearly, they were ready to arrest him. There were probably Swedish armsmen, in Princess Kristina's service, waiting outside.

Fighting didn't seem wise. And he couldn't flee easily, either; they blocked the only readily accessible exit from his study. They would hardly stand by while he broke a window.

Fight. Flight. Fight. Flight. His mind raced back and forth between both unpromising alternatives, like an animal pacing inside a box trap.

Then his body selected a third choice. His chest tightened convulsively, his vision blurred, and the floor reached up to slug him.

The EMT shook his head. "Sorry. He's dead, Jim."

"I guess we'll have to notify his next of kin," the dispatcher said. "Federico, was that letter addressed to anybody that might qualify?"

"I couldn't say." Federico shrugged. "I was just about to apologize to the guy-the letter was probably a treasured love letter, or something of the sort-but after its swim in the Saale, all the writing was smeared beyond recognition."

"Lost in translation," Jim quipped.

Comedy of Error

Written by Mark H. Huston

"Oh. My. God. They have those damned things down-time too?"

"What things Flo?" Anna followed Flo's icy glare toward a temporary stage erected in the Grantville market. On it, a group of Italian traveling players were performing a broad, ribald and highly improvised show. She turned back to her friend. "Traveling comedy theater? They had them up-time too? I would have thought that with all of the television and movies you had, there wouldn't be room for live theater."

"No. Those-those things. With the face."

"Flo, you're sputtering. They are almost all wearing a kind of mask. I think they call it Commedia."

"No. That face. The white one. The-the-the mime!"

"Mime? Well, the players-"

"Of all the things I thought I left behind, that is one that I haven't missed. Mimes. Ugh. There was a time when they were all over back up-time. You couldn't go to a park in the summer without tripping over them. Pulling on ropes and walking against an invisible wind. They were like pigeon crap. Everywhere. And now they're here. In Grantville. Oh my God."

Anna looked at her up-time friend in amazement. "I always thought they were funny. The Italian players, I mean. Usually it is great fun. You see, they are stock sorts of characters…" Anna thought for a moment, and then smiled widely. "Oh, my. They might be able to do the Priest here. I have only seen him one time, and then they got run out of town. But here, they can do all of them as much as they want. This should be good." She clapped her hands together and moved closer to the stage.

"Hang on a second. You mean you like this stuff? Even with a stinking mime?"

Anna stopped and turned to her up-time friend. "I do not understand this 'mime' thing you are talking about. Why is someone pulling on a rope in the wind like pigeon crap?"

"They were always in boxes too. With invisible walls. I always wanted to carry a can of paint to toss it on the wall so they could see the damn thing. Actually to toss on the mime, to be honest about it." Flo smiled a slightly evil little smile.

Anna scratched her head, trying to figure out why her up-time friend was "on a rant." It had been such a nice morning so far, and then, out of the blue, Flo was going on about something… "Flo, what the hell is a mime?"

"That one. The one with the white face and the white costume. He doesn't have a mask." At that moment one of the other characters lifted up a stick about the size of a baseball bat, and began chasing one of the other characters around the stage, swinging wildly, and connecting with almost everything except his target. Each time the bat hit someone, it made a loud slapping noise.

Anna and the rest of the audience-with the exception of Flo-began to laugh. She turned to Flo again. "I love this part. They are using a slap stick. It makes a crack when it hits. He's not really hitting them that hard."

The actor with the slap stick managed to hit a cowering military-looking character square on the head. The actor began to stagger, and the audience roared with laughter. Anna giggled too. "The Capitan is always such a coward and a blowhard. Everyone likes to see him get hit. I haven't seen one of these in years. They are soooo funny!"

"So they all have a name?"

"Of course. Let's see, that one is Pulcinella with the hooked nose. He is chasing the Harlequin in the bright colors. Harlequin is a mischief maker, but very clever. The beautiful girl is Pulcinnella's wife. Or maybe his daughter. And the one in the white face is pining for her love. He is Pierrot or Pedrolino." At that point, there seemed to be a break in the action, and for no apparent reason at all, the players began to sing and dance to a bawdy tune. After a moment they stopped, and went back to the play as if nothing had happened.

Flo just shook her head sadly. "This is awful. And what language are they speaking? Some of it sounds like gibberish to me."

"You're right! Some of it is gibberish. Isn't it wonderful?!"

Anna looked at Flo, and the normally calm up-time lady had her face screwed up like she had just eaten something rancid. There were some veins throbbing on her forehead. Veins which Anna had never seen before. She took a step back from her friend. "I guess you really don't like it, do you?"

"I don't like anything that has one of those mime shitheads in it. At least this one isn't pulling on ropes and walking into the wind." Flo crossed her arms and turned to the stage. After watching a while, Anna saw that Flo's face relaxed a little, to somewhere around the level of sourness that registered as "sucking on a lemon." When the Captain got smacked again, Flo's face softened to merely frowning. The Captain took another shot to the head. Flo cracked a tiny smile. He looked like one of Gustav's men with the uniform.

At that point the "mime" started prancing around the stage, hand on his heart, and emoting in a manner that was sad and funny at the same time. "He speaks. Whadaya know? That, at least, is an improvement."

Anna grabbed Flo's hand and wove their way to the front of the crowd. "This is funny, Flo. I think you need to smile a little. Come with me." With that, she pushed Flo in front of her, until she had a good view of the stage. Within two minutes, Flo was laughing out loud.

After the show was over, several of the actors pulled their masks off and sat on the front of the stage, talking to their fans, including the white-faced actor who portrayed Pierrot. Anna dragged Flo to meet him. "Hey, Pierrot. This is a real up-timer. They have this sort of thing back up-time too. Her name is Flo."

The young actor stood on the stage and bowed low, nearly bending in half. At the bottom of his bow, he stopped and angled his head in Flo's direction. It looked like it might be painful, yet he just smiled. "I am very pleased to meet you, up-timer Flo. We are the Troupe of Signor Matterlini the Magnificent, the foremost assemblage of Commedia in the Germanies!" He winked. "Of course, we are likely the only commedia troupe here in the Germanies." The young man stood with a flourish. "But that in no way diminishes the collective brilliance of this talented ensemble!" He flopped to the stage like a rag doll, assumed a sitting position, then looked at Flo. "My, my. A real up-timer. We have just arrived in town, so we have met nobody, except for a policeman who told us that we had to pay to put up the stage in the market. Which we did. I think."

Anna jumped in gleefully. "Flo says that they have troupes like this back up-time, and they walk against the wind and are like pigeon crap because they are everywhere."

Flo blushed. "Not exactly like that. I don't think so anyway. But something similar. I suppose." She waved her hands at the wagon and stage.

The actor leapt up to his feet in one springing motion, seemingly levitating as if pulled by a string. Being this near to the physical trick, Anna could see the athleticism involved in the illusion. Flo noticed it too. The two women smiled at each other. "Fellow thespians, gather round. This is Flo. An odd name to be sure, but she is one of the famous up-timers of Grantville." He turned back to Flo with a flourish, and bowed again, this time impossibly low. "Madam Flo, may I present the Troupe of Signor Matterlini the Magnificent, the foremost assemblage of Commedia in the Germanies!" With that, the rest of the troupe bowed to her, then began an improvised song about Flo, she was so low when she came to the show, oh ho, no no. The song went on. Each one taking a verse and making up lyrics as they went, with the rest dancing around clapping and stomping. Flo couldn't help herself, she threw her head back and burst out laughing.

Pierrot swooped low again. "Wonderful! Our up-time lady has a sense of humor. We were afraid that we would find nothing but a serious bunch of people here, since everyone is supposed to be so rich and smart!"

"Then you don't know Grantville, Mr. Mime! That is not how we would have been described back up-time."

"I am not 'Mr. Mime.' I am Pierrot, the most special of the characters of the Commedia-" Boos from his fellow performers interrupted him, each of them claiming that their character was the most special and famous, which quickly degraded to another song. As the group carried on, Pierrot sat down on the edge of the stage and looked intensely at Flo. "Who is this 'Mr. Mime'?"

Flo was taken aback by his question. "You are serious, aren't you?"

"Very serious. This is my life. My trade. I am Pierrot. Each of us in this troupe are professionals. We accept the parts we play sometimes for our entire lives. I am Pierrot. That man there is Harlequin, also one of the zanni. Over there, he is Pantalone. He does not just play the role sometimes, he is the role. Commedia del'arte means 'the play of professional artists.' We are professionals. If someone called Mr. Mime is playing the part of Pierrot in the future, I must know about it at once."

"Well, it wasn't Mr. Mime. It was just called mime. I don't know why, it just was. And he did different sorts of things than you do. They didn't speak for one thing." She put her hands on her hips. "I don't know why I am telling you this." She shrugged. "I suppose you would have to look it up at the library. They probably have videos, right, Anna?"

"Yes. Look it up there." Anna smiled brightly at the young man, who under his makeup seemed rather handsome. He was certainly athletic enough.

Flo tugged at Anna's sleeve. "It is time to go, I think. We have wasted too much time here today as it is. They can find the library on their own." She turned to the troupe. "Thanks, y'all, for a very nice show. We need to go now. Thank you." The troupe all went into a sad mode, weeping and carrying on, then began singing a good-bye song as Flo and Anna backed away smiling.

The next week, Flo and Anna went to the market again, and the troupe was still there. Only this time, the Pierrot character was in the middle of the stage, silent, and appeared to be trying to get out of a large imaginary box, outlining it with the palm of his hands. He found the imaginary door, went through it, and walked in place. Flo took a sharp breath, and then coughed.

"Flo, are you all right?"

"Where in the hell did he learn that?" Flo seemed to be choking on her words.

"That is the up-time 'mime' he is performing, isn't it?"

"Yes." Flo did choke on the word.

"Just think, Flo. You helped to introduce a whole new art form to the down-timers. The way these troupes travel, it will be all over Europe in no time."

"But-but… how?"

"I suppose he took your advice. Like you said: Go to the Library and look it up. Isn't that wonderful?"