by Eric Flint
* * *
"Magnavox?" Herr Kreger's face creased.
The tavern owner laughed. "First time you've see one? There aren't many around yet; I got one of the first. I got it in Magdeburg. There's a factory there that makes them. I listened to quite a few and I thought this one had the best sound."
Marie stared at the Magnavox. It was beautiful. A very fancy cabinet, with carved wood. Unfortunately, she couldn't see the coil. She pointed to the knobs on the front. "What are those?"
The tavern owner turned a knob. "They call this one a tuner. It's so I can get the Voice of Luther station. Very uplifting sermons on Voice of Luther. We listen to them on Sunday. Mostly, though, we keep it on Voice of America." He looked around before saying, "The programming is a lot more interesting, most days. " Then after setting it back to roughly the VOA, he turned the other knob. "This is the volume control. My radio has a real amplifier." They could hear the static clearly, but that was all. Neither station was broadcasting this time of day.
"How does the amplufior, ah . . . whatever you said work?" Marie wanted to know.
"Don't know and don't care, girl." The tavern keeper grinned. "It works is enough for me. I just pay the boy from the shop down the street. He comes by once a week and fiddles with the batteries. They also sell a generator set up, but that's more expensive."
"Amazing." Peter shook his head. "Just well . . . amazing."
The tavern owner nodded. "Yes. It cost an amazing amount, too. But it's worth every penny. People come in to listen to the radio shows most nights and buy a beer and maybe some dinner. Besides, I heard a program about brewing that helped me improve the taste of my beer. 'Course, there are some disadvantages. My wife orders powder for baking all the way from Jena. Costs a bit, that does, but it does make quick bread. Biscuits, they're called. And there's that annoying ditty. The Gribbleflotz jingle, they call it. Got sick of that one pretty quick."
Peter nodded. Though the one time he had heard the jingle, he had rather liked it.
"What is that?" Johan pointed. This was a very strange looking machine, sitting next to the radio.
The tavern owner grinned. "It's a record player."
At their curious looks, he explained. "The radios don't broadcast all the time. This plays recorded music anytime we want it. I even have a couple of records of speeches but I'd rather listen to the music. Or the language lessons. When customers pay, I play whichever of the records they want to hear. For twenty-five cents, American." He puffed out his chest. "Brings in a lot of customers. Here, I'll show you. This one is on the house."
He went to the record player and opened a cabinet under it. Then he removed a flat disk. He carefully placed the disk on the record player and then did something with a handle of some sort. Suddenly there was music.
After the music died away, Peter finished eating and checked that Marie and Johan had finished, too. He stood. "Thank you for the demonstration. We'll be off for now, but we'll be back this evening."
* * *
The trio set out to explore a bit. A number of merchants and shop keepers had radios. Some were homemade, like Marie's. Some had been bought. Several appeared to be a combination of both.
The Magnavox was the best, though. But it was obviously too expensive for the village. "It would be good to have that 'amplifying device,'" Peter said.
Marie nodded. "Perhaps we can find a way to build one."
* * *
That evening, when they returned to the inn, the dining area was full. It stayed that way till the VOA signed off. Then a bit longer, with people listening to and dancing to records. It seemed every customer had a favorite song they wanted to hear at least once. Some were played quite a few times. Marie decided that she liked some of the music, but not all of it. If she'd had any money, she'd have paid for a language lesson.
* * *
Marie woke up already excited about the day. The innkeeper had provided them with the location of the shop that sent the boy to fiddle with his batteries. It specialized in products from Grantville. She was anxious to see them. So was Peter. So was Johan, but he tried to hide it.
"If we can afford it," Peter explained, "one of the amplifying devices would be good for the village. Perhaps some more wire, a better earphone. You can build more radios, can't you?" He looked down at Marie.
She nodded. "I'm sure I can. One for everyone in the village. So nobody has to share them."
Peter laughed. "That's a tall order."
Marie looked stubborn. "I can. I know I can."
* * *
The shop was fun. Cluttered, but fun. There were record players and radios, records and all sorts of interesting accessories for them. There were also booklets, brochures, and the shop keeper could order things. The number and type of doodads was frankly amazing.
Peter pointed at one item. "What's that?"
The clerk shrugged. "It's a carbon granule microphone 'amp' for radios or phonographs. That one has three stages."
"How does it work?" Marie asked.
The clerked shrugged again. "Well, it's a bit hard to explain. No offense meant."
"I built a crystal set." Marie glared at him.
Suddenly the clerk looked interested. "Really? So have I." Then he paused. "I was already working here, though. So I had all the parts. You built one from scratch?"
Marie nodded, not noticing the dark look Johan was giving the clerk.
"The amp works through variable resistance . . ."
* * *
Peter looked on while Marie and the clerk got into an animated discussion of the "amp" and the other types of amplifiers available. They must, he thought, be speaking English. It certainly was no German dialect he had ever heard. Well, part of it was recognizable. But the technical terms they were using were very confusing. From the bits he caught, he gathered that there was more than one type of amplifier available. Plus woven wire for connections, special screws and a variety of other products. Also books on the making of a number of things. Electric and not electric.
Marie and the clerk headed for the rack of books. Somehow, Peter, who had the money to actually buy things from the shop, was totally forgotten. As was Johan. Peter was amused by this turn of event. Johan obviously wasn't.
Peter looked around the shop for a bit, while he waited for the clerk to realize that he had a customer. Aside from the electric radio stuff there were sewing machines, typewriters, egg beaters, all sorts of things. All very expensive, much to Peter's dismay. Well, except for the egg beaters. Those weren't so bad. In fact, Peter decided to get one for his wife. He liked the clever little gadget. With it, at least, it only took one look and you knew how it worked.
After a few minutes, Peter gave up. The clerk wasn't budging from Marie's side. He walked over to Marie and looked at the book she held. "What is that?" He pointed to a picture.
Marie looked up at him. "That's a generator." She flipped a few pages. "That's a battery. And from what I've been able to tell, there's a lot of information on a lot of things I could build, if I had what I needed. Some of the parts might have to be sent for from Grantville or Magdeburg, but a lot of it I could do."
Johan snorted. "You're a girl."
Marie glared at him. "A girl with a working radio."
The clerk snorted a laugh. "From what I hear, the best radio tech in the world is a girl. Well, a woman. The up-timers say," the young man continued as if quoting gospel, "women can do anything men can."
Peter put a hand on Johan's shoulder before he could get in a fight with the clerk. "He has a point, at least in regard to radios. Now, hush." Peter guessed the clerk to be in his late teens or early twenties and clearly enamored of the up-timers everyone talked about. But that was no reason to be rude. He gave the clerk a repressive look before turning to Marie.
"Marie, explain this to me." He pointed at a drawing.
Marie took a moment to read the text that came with the drawing. "A balance beam amplifier, it says. It looks like it would be hard to
build." She hesitated. "I think," she emphasized the word, "I could build one, given enough time."
"Ah . . . they work all right for voices," the clerk cautiously interjected—he had caught Peter's look clear enough—"but not so well for music."
Peter made up his mind. He handed the book to the clerk. "We'll take this. Now, Marie, make a list of things you're going to need. Need, mind, not just want. If the list is too long, or the items too expensive, you won't get any of it."
Just before they finished up, the clerk winked at Marie and handed her a ceramic tube. "If you're going to make a lot of these, this will be a big help. It's the form for making your coils."
"But I don't have any money," Marie protested.
"On the house." And he refused to accept it back.
* * *
Peter spent the morning thinking as the cart slowly took them homeward. Marie was reading and Johan sulking. He would have to do something with that boy. He wanted to wait until after they had sold this year's crop before buying expensive parts for better radios. He also wanted to see what Marie could come up with in terms of making the electric gadgets herself. So, while they had gotten some of the things on Marie's list, they hadn't gotten them all, even though the cost had been surprisingly reasonable. Johan's sulking had a lot to do with that, and perhaps even more to do with the interest the clerk had shown in Marie.
Their village had held together fairly well though the course of the war. Mostly because they took care of each other. Peter was convinced of that. Having an expert in radios would be a boon to the village. Not a great boon, but something that they could supply to neighboring villages, to bring in a bit of money. It would also mean that Marie's family would need a bit less village charity. Her father, Karl, was a hard working man but not a successful one. Everything he touched seemed to turn to mud.
That was the point that Johan failed to see. If Marie could make some money on her radios and whatever else she could find in the electric book, it was that much less support that Karl, Greta, Joseph and Marie would need from the village. At the same time, Peter wasn't entirely sure he liked all the unfettered information flowing into the village. The clerk had made him a bit nervous. There was no telling what sort of problems it might cause. Peter scratched his head. There really was no telling.
When they stopped for lunch, Peter tried, again, to get Johan to see what was going on. He was pretty sure what the problem was. For one thing, there was the way Johan looked at Marie. Peter had no idea whether anything would ever come of it, but clearly Marie had captured Johan's attention somewhere along the line. It was an interest that Johan was unable to acknowledge; was probably unaware of.
Peter was less sure if that interest was returned. Marie was harder to read. Partly, that was because Peter didn't know her as well. Partly, it was because she was so focused on radios right now that nothing else held much interest for her.
Somewhere along the way, Johan and Marie had gotten in the habit of fighting. Of seeing each other as competitors, even enemies, not allies from the same village. That was a bit scary. Marie was a bright girl. If she was permanently turned against Johan . . .
* * *
"You nearly walked into a tree." Peter took the book from Marie's hands and put it in the slow moving oxcart. Marie didn't complain as much as she wanted to. She and Peter were walking beside the oxcart while Johan drove. "When we get back home, I'll let you read it. I'll let anyone read it. But you'll have it the most, because you'll be making more crystal sets for the village. And later, you'll be making them to sell."
Marie looked up at him. He grinned. "Yes. You'll be paid a fair price for them, too." He gave her a severe look. "After you've paid me back for the stuff I bought in Riesa."
Marie grinned. "I can do it. I can make a lot of them. Sell them." She paused a moment. "I'll have a craft. Something I can do, that not everyone can."
The thought made her happy. With any luck at all, she wouldn't have to become a servant.
Marie started skipping. She wanted to get home and get started.
* * *
"It's the up-timers, you see." Ernst Berger was a pudgy man with a red face and a head of blond-going-to-grey hair. Well, a partial head of hair. His dome gleamed in the sun. "They've made so many improvements that the price of wheat is very low. I can't pay any more than thirty dollars a bushel. Probably won't be able to sell it for more than forty-five, once I've gotten it barged down to Magdeburg."
Peter took a sip of his beer and watched the factor. It was the beginning of their usual bargaining session. But this time, Peter had more information than he usually had.
Herr Berger didn't wait for his answer. "It's a perfectly fair price. It's what I've paid all over this area and what I'll be paying you. Besides, with the up-timers' high yield crops, I might lose money even at that price."
Peter grinned. He couldn't help it. "Let me relieve your mind, Herr Berger. The Farm to Market report says that wheat in Magdeburg is going for $92.03 a bushel."
Berger's face paled a bit. "But I have to get it there. Transportation costs . . ."
Peter interrupted him. "Yes, I know. I've been looking into transportation costs." He smiled again to drive home the warning. The fact that he had been looking into transportation costs meant more than just his knowing how much it would cost Berger. It meant he was getting prepared to arrange other transport if he had to. "I don't expect the full amount that you'll sell it for when you get it to Magdeburg." He smiled. "I'm a reasonable man, after all. Transportation is expensive. And a certain amount of profit for you is your due, I'm aware of that, too. I think seventy dollars a bushel would be fair. Don't you? Especially with the favor I've just done you?"
"Favor?" Berger asked.
"Of course. Relieving your mind about the prices in Magdeburg. Such a horrible rumor, that. It must have cost you many sleepless nights." There was a decided edge to Peter's smile now. "It's all right now, though. Aren't the radios wonderful things? Why, just the other day I heard a program on how to build a barge."
Berger swallowed audibly. Peter barely managed to keep from laughing out loud. Making barges of their own was the next thing to a hollow threat. Between the time and effort needed and the transit fees, they would be charged more than Berger would be charged. Peter doubted the village would clear forty dollars a bushel.
On the other hand, Berger didn't know that Peter knew that. Some of the other villages were mad enough to try building their own barges. If enough if them did, it would ruin Berger. That was another thing that Berger didn't know that Peter knew. Peter was prepared to let Berger bargain him down a bit. But only a bit. If Berger wouldn't see reason, they would just have to build barges of their own.
The bargaining continued. Outrageous lies were told on both sides. All in all, it was a most enjoyable evening. At least, Peter found it so.
* * *
Ernst Berger sat on the barge taking him and the grain to Magdeburg and tried really hard not to curse. He was a religious man after all. It was the damn VOA that had done it. Ernst bought grain from dozens of villages along the Schwarze Elster. Over half of those villages now had crystal sets. The Farm to Market reports had cost him a small fortune.
Ernst steamed for a while. The radios. The damned radios. Anyone could make the damn things. It only took a little wire, some bits of iron nails and a cheap magnet.
Peter Kreger had been grinning like a loon all though the negotiations. He'd even insisted on American dollars. Threatened to make some barges and take the grain to Magdeburg himself, he had. "I heard a program on how to build a barge." Karl Junker had been even worse. He hadn't threatened anything. His village had flatly refused to sell to Berger at any price. Junker's brother-in-law had made one of the radios.
If Ernst ever caught the bastard traveling tinker who had been selling those broadsheets with the designs for the radios, he was going to . . . to . . . He didn't know what he was going to do.
He looked at his books again an
d winced. Between the villages that had insisted on higher prices and the ones that had refused to sell to him at all, he was going to be hurting.
* * *
"I have a letter?" Marie looked amazed.
"Apparently so." Greta handed her daughter the letter but made no move to leave. There was no way she was going let her not yet sixteen-year-old daughter get letters from persons unknown without finding out what was in them.
She watched as Marie opened the letter. "It's Thomas Gerter, the clerk from that store in Riesa I told you about. It's an invitation to join a group of correspondence."