Grantville Gazette, Volume 7

by Eric Flint

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

  "How are they made?"

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

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

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

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

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

  "But I thought you were a . . ."

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

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

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

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

  "Farrier?"

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

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

  * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  "What's a Lions Club?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  * * *

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

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

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

  "B, but . . ."

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

  * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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