by Eric Flint
"I cannot let you do this, brother."
"You have no say in the matter, brother. I am old enough. I am no longer under your charge. I have tested it once with bags of rocks, and it worked—mostly. Stand aside." Johan was caught off guard when Heinrich pushed him out of the way. He stumbled and fell hard onto his backside. He then watched in helpless horror as Heinrich took three paces back, then ran forward and flung himself out into the air, his patchwork quilt of a canopy trailing behind. The last thing Johan saw was the cloth canopy sliding over the edge, dragging some dust and pebbles along with it. Johan held his breath. He listened for the deadly thud of a body bouncing down the cliff face.
Instead, after a pause, he heard a long series of curses. Very coarse cursing. Colorful and sincere cursing. Johan eased himself up, crawled to the edge of the cliff, laid down flat and peered over. He knew his brother had picked up new words since their visit to Grantville, but these. . . .
Below him, no more than ten feet away, was the colorful top of the parachute. It was caught on a protruding tree that had taken root below the cliff face. Heinrich hung helplessly, kicking his legs and twisting, completely and solidly snagged.
Johan felt a great smile begin to beam on his face. "Brother, it looks as if you need a rescue, which can be arranged. But only on certain conditions."
His brother looked up, twisted around, and began cursing again. Eventually, he stopped struggling, and hung in the air, feet dangling and arms folded, disgruntled. He swayed slightly in the breeze.
"Heinrich, are you finished with your tantrum?"
Heinrich nodded.
"Good. Here's my deal. I will go and get help and pull your idiotic ass up here onto solid ground on two conditions, and only two. Otherwise you can hang here until the cows come home. And much longer. It will be cold tonight at this altitude."
He watched as his brother mentally reviewed his limited options. Finding none, Heinrich simply said, "Conditions?"
"First, the parachute and all of the clothing sewn into it goes back to the tailor. Second, you no longer jump bases." Johan looked down at his brother, who looked back. Heinrich struggled to look dignified, and failed.
"Is that all?"
Johan smiled. "Yes, that's all."
Heinrich twisted around in the harness again. Paused again, and then sighed. "Agreed. I will not base jump again. Shake on it." Johan nodded in agreement, and stuck his hand over the side of the cliff, miming shaking hands. Heinrich did the same thing from ten feet below. Johan edged his way back from the cliff edge to get help, and a voice came from below.
"Johan? What do you know about rocketry? There was this other movie I saw . . ."
The Order of the Foot
by Richard Evans
Grantville Police Department Offices
A Monday morning, early winter 1634
"We've had another complaint about Bigfoot, Chief. This time over by the fairgrounds where the locals store their flocks before they can be sold and then processed at the slaughterhouse." Officer Ralph Onofrio looked up from his cup of coffee with a smile. "A farmer is saying that it switched his flock with another farmer's this time. He wants a guarantee that he won't suffer a loss when they finally go to sale; he wants what he was bid at auction."
"Now that's a new twist." Chief Preston Richards sat down in his seat, not before checking his inflatable ring pillow for pudding or another surprise. He'd learned his lesson last April Fools Day. Always check your six. "That real coffee?"
Ralph nodded and pulled his cup in protectively. The office budget had been so tight this quarter that they had to bring in their own coffee if they wanted some on duty.
"Well?" Preston raised an eyebrow.
"Hey! This is my own stash!"
"That you brewed with office equipment, Ralph. Police equipment. Do I have to remind you who's boss?" Preston tapped the shiny badge on his jacket for emphasis.
Crossed eyes and a stuck-out tongue that would have done a three-year-old proud showed Officer Onofrio's opinion on where this conversation was going.
"Oh, that's real pretty. Didn't your mother ever tell you that your face might get stuck like that? Half a cup? Please?"
"That's better, Chief. Until the next pack train gets in with another load of coffee beans, this is it."
"I'll authorize an armed escort to guide the merchants in this time. Think they'd recall me if I abused our position to guarantee we got first crack at a bulk purchase? I know the merchants will appreciate the escort. I can't believe we missed the news of the last caravan's arrival. I barely got enough to last a month myself."
"Don't see why they would, Chief. We could put it under 'essential police material needs.' Just like doughnuts. And maybe even hot dogs, too."
The grin was back, but Preston ignored the jibe. "I'm not getting fat, and I resent any such implications. Mel's got me eating better these days, anyways. No more sausages or hot dogs for me and definitely no doughnuts."
With a cup of precious coffee in his hands, Preston took a look at the stack of reports that until recently had been filed under "H for Huh?," that being real close to the File 13 cabinet. A piece of peanut brittle disappeared as he flipped through the reports. Melanie never said he couldn't have peanut brittle and it went well with the coffee.
"There seems to be more and more Bigfoot sightings during the winter." He counted the reports and set them aside. "Where did these farmers learn about Bigfoot?"
"Dunno, Boss. But I put it off to cabin fever. That and the number of babies born every fall seems to indicate that there's not much else to do with the snows falling. That and counting sheep," Ralph offered as a cause for the increased number of sightings.
"Any actual sightings? Or just footprints as usual?"
"Footprints. I took castings again, and I've asked the beat cops to swing an extra patrol where the farmers can see them. Mostly to keep the farmers and locals happy. I can't believe people still believe in Bigfoot. I've told them and told them it's just kids fooling around with fake feet. Superstitious fools."
"Interesting. I'll have a look into it, maybe I can figure out who's behind this. And we don't call our charges fools, Ralph. At least not to their faces or in the reports. " Preston took another sip of coffee and decided he could feel his toes again. Time to get new boots and new socks. Might even spring for some of the new Brillo Wool Socks, the ones without the little sheep on them of course. Not that anyone would be able to see them, but just in case.
"Could just be that we brought a real Bigfoot back with us after all."
"Weren't that common in West Virginia that I was aware of. " Preston deadpanned.
"Not like the Pacific Northwest."
"Nope. Not like the Northwest."
Unnoticed, the duty dispatcher slipped back into the cubicle that served as his office and made a very quiet phone call. His non-stop snickering also went unheard.
A Tuesday Night, Several Weeks Later
Grantville, USE
"I gotta make water, don't move." Signore Ascanio Lante slid off his horse right into a slush-filled hole. He cursed when the ice cold water seeped through the cheap boots. He wasn't dressed for slogging through the snow; his hunting and travel clothes along with his dogs had been stolen two weeks before his arrival here in Grantville. "Sons of pox ridden whores!" His cursing wasn't directed at anyone in particular and at everyone at the same time, but mostly at the thieves that had joined his caravan and then disappeared with his personal luggage.
His unfocused eyes glanced about the street and then back at the group of hangers-on that had joined his group when he'd started buying drinks. He stumbled towards the alley behind what he assumed was a corner smithy from the hammer and anvil on the sign. The words were too blurry for him to read properly.
"No hunting permits! Hah! I'll show them!" Ascanio waved his newly-purchased, double-barrel pistol about and then shoved it back into his jacket. "I, Ascanio Lante, will find the beast and kill it! Its head will decorate
my mantle!" His rented horse tugged impatiently on the reins, reminding him why he'd dismounted and moved into the alley in the first place.
At least his horse still served its master, not like those cretins back in Rome. He'd managed to pull out with most of his belongings and all of his personal fortune. Most importantly, he'd gotten out with all of his shipping contracts and ship ownership documents, and the money had been converted into letters of credit. Those had been secured in his very thick money belt and never left his ample waist.
His brother's secret departure from Rome to attend to some ecclesiastical business with unnamed Spanish parties to the south hadn't remained secret for long. There were simply too many spies in Rome for that. Without Cardinal Marcello Lante's protection, old business rivals had decided that it was an opportune time for revenge.
Ascanio had then decided it was a good time as any for a grand tour of Europe and to extend his business contacts to the north, war or not. That was something he believed only he could attend to properly. It was that attention to business that had made him a rich man. Well, that and his brother's influence.
It would have been a perfect opportunity to take in some hunting along the way, although the hunting had been disappointing so far. One undersized boar, two wolves and that was it. Not even a bear to shoot at. Then he'd heard the fantastic stories coming out of Grantville and had directed his tour here.
A beast of enough cunning and skill to remain unseen near a populated area? That was worthy of his time and effort! The article and photograph of this beast were safely tucked away with his letters of credit.
His group was starting to sing that annoying song they'd learned at one of the bars again. Something about a lumberjack, a woodman who dressed in woman's clothing, of all things. He didn't understand why they found it so funny and he'd matched them drink for drink like a true Lante could.
Damn Germans. Ascanio carefully positioned himself in front of the gate. The reins looped over his arm, he fumbled with the lacing of his pants. He was bursting to go when suddenly, the gate crashed open to reveal a giant beast.
The beast roared, and Ascanio hurriedly backpedaled out of the alleyway, hauling at horse. Nothing he'd ever seen was that big, except for the great brown bear one of his uncles had in his library.
"Jesu Cristo!" Ascanio fumbled for his pistol. The jacket he'd recently purchased to replace the one that had been stolen was overlarge and caused more fumbling. He finally cleared the pistol and cocked both hammers back. The Americans could refuse him a permit to hunt the beast in their territory, but if he was attacked by one in the middle of their town there was no way they would begrudge him his trophy!
The horse, upset at Ascanio's behavior, tried to pull free, upsetting Ascanio's aim. The first shot missed. That shot was too much for the horse. It bolted, dragging Ascanio off his feet. He lost his grip on his pistol as he flailed about.
Terrified, Ascanio fumbled around in the dark alley for his pistol. "Dear God! Help me! Help! Somebody!" He reverted to his native Italian in his panic. The singers didn't notice his calls for help or the discharge of his pistol.
Heavy footsteps approached him. Ascanio stopped hunting for his pistol and struggled to his feet.
"Run," he thought, but his legs refused to obey him.
The nearly seven foot tall beast advanced on him. Its red face promised death.
"I'm a dead man," Ascanio thought just before he passed out.
Wednesday Afternoon
Darke & Nelson Law Offices
"Yes, I can get Herr Lante a set of the footprints. But I must ask. Why?" Frank van der Darke flipped a piece of imaginary lint off his ruffled cuffs.
"You know of the curio cabinets that many nobles keep, do you not?" Raised eyebrows indicated that the Dutch merchant and lawyer did indeed know of the hobby. "Well, the cardinal's brother is an avid hunter and, well . . ."
"He was denied a hunting permit to go after a trophy in this case?"
"Yes. " The small courtier fidgeted as Frank leaned forward feigning interest. "He was most displeased. He wanted the trophy very much. He's read all the books and pamphlets and he is sure that he and his dogs have the skill to track this legendary beast down once and for all. If he still had his dogs, that is."
"And the plaster footprints?"
"They will show his equals that this hunting trip to Grantville wasn't without success. He could say that the body was claimed by the local lord."
"Or corrupted during transport?" Frank suggested.
"Exactly."
Frank coughed. He'd received a few calls only minutes before Lante's seneschal had finally found his office. The servant had tried three other lawyer's offices downtown before settling on his practice. Although, in truth, the servant hadn't settled, he had just been laughed out of every other practice when he'd made similar requests at each stop. It must have been a very long and cold walk for the small man before he found the Darke and Nelson Law Offices.
Luckily Frank's partner, Richard Nelson, wasn't in town this week. He was a dour Englishman known for his lack of humor as much as he was renowned for his ability to unravel contract disputes down to their basics and keep all parties involved happy.
Their practice served both the rich and the poor alike, though lately they'd been doing more pro-bono work as word got out that they'd represent folks who normally couldn't afford to pay for a lawyer. Thus, some of the cases they got were ones no other lawyer would touch. Then there were days like this. Rich clients, with no common sense, who got deeper into trouble with every footstep once they fell afoul of the law and the un-bribable officers of the law.
"So I secure some of these . . . footprints. You do know that they will be considered evidence and be locked up, do you not? These creatures are very clever, shy and hard to locate. Or so I've been told."
"Expense is not an issue." A pouch of coins landed on the desk. When Frank didn't reach for it, a second—heavier—purse landed next to it. "That's all I'm authorized to offer at this time."
"That is, if you wish to bail Herr Lante out of jail, too." Frank pretended to examine the court documents the servant had brought with him.
"Yes. That is true."
"Tell me, how did Herr Lante end up in jail?" Frank knew the story, but wanted to hear the servant's own version more than the one that his employer would have instructed him to tell others.
"We had just toured three machine shops that afternoon and then visited several establishments to sample the local cuisine and beverages." It had actually been another grand tour, consisting of every bar, pub and restaurant in Grantville, but Frank knew better than to interrupt.
"When Signore Lante went to admire the architecture of a building behind some shops we'd just visited . . ."
"Herr Lante broke statute 214," Frank read silently. The yellow snow was a clear bit of evidence listed on the papers. Frank amended the list of possible charges he'd have to get reduced if he took the case.
"Next thing he knew, he was being attacked by a giant fur covered beast and had to defend himself."
"I believe Signore Lante shot at this . . . beast, even before it attacked him. " Frank slid the police report over to the seneschal and tapped the relevant section. Why Lante had brought his household manager along with him on such a long trip, Frank didn't know. Perhaps there was more going on back home than either was willing to admit to.
"In fact, this beast was one of the Swedish smiths who works in the area. It was his home and shop your master was relieving himself behind. Your master and his drunken friends woke him and his family up with their singing and carousing."
"I saw it. It was like no man that I've ever seen."
"He is big, I'll give you that. But he is no wild beast. Perhaps Signore Lante was a bit tipsy and confused this citizen with this legendary Bigfoot he was here to hunt for?"
"Perhaps. Not that we're admitting to anything, but it wasn't like he was trying to kill anyone important."
"Signore, I
will caution you once about that mindset and hope you take this to heart. There are no racial or birth lines enforced here in Grantville. You're lucky that your master was too drunk to aim straight."
"The man struck Signore Lante! He demands recompense!"
"I don't think so. You are aware that your master might end up facing charges of attempted murder on top of the public defecation statutes he broke, aren't you?" Frank held up his hand to forestall any further interruptions. "I think I can get those charges reduced or eliminated to just a fine along with public service and time served . . . but only if he is willing to plead guilty to lesser charges."