Grantville Gazette-Volume XIII

by Eric Flint

  We took him like a coney in a trap. Within a trice, he was disarmed, bound and gagged. At first he thought we were common bandits. Well, that was probably the usual occupation of my hirelings, but he realized quickly enough what I was.

  He made gagging sounds.

  I cuffed him. "You wish to scream for help? So sorry, I cannot oblige you."

  He shook his head vigorously.

  "You wish to tell me something?"

  He nodded.

  "Very well. I will let you speak. In a whisper." I put my knife against his throat, and one of my henchman removed the gag, then stepped back. "Remember. Whisper."

  "This is an exercise in futility. There is nothing I know that is of any real value to Venice. Not anymore."

  "Do you not know the secret ingredients and proportions of crystallo? Have you not the craft of blowing bubbles of glass, and spinning them out to form a perfect circular pane? Or of swinging it into a sausage, and slitting and unrolling it to make a broadsheet? Are you not also one of the specchiai, who know how to make a glass mirror without cracking it with heat?"

  "All of that, and more, but I say again, it doesn't matter. Look at the manuscripts in my bags."

  "Bide a moment in silence, then," I said, and replaced the gag. I searched his belongings.

  What I found there was . . . disturbing. The worst offender was a manuscript, written in English, and entitled "1911 Encyclopedia Brittanica—Glass." It contained both formulae and descriptions of manufacturing techniques. What shocked me the most was its nonchalant statement that the methods could be used to produce single sheets measuring more than twenty-seven feet by thirteen feet. How did the English make such an advance, and how could our ambassador have been so derelict as to fail to report it?

  "Where did this come from?"

  "From Grantville."

  I had heard of Grantville, of course, who hadn't, but up to this point it had had no obvious connection with my work. I was more concerned with the mundane disappearance of glassworkers than the magical appearance of alleged towns of the future.

  "So . . . you have stolen their guild secrets? You offer me their secret craft manual in return for your freedom, and that of your wife's?"

  He laughed, but not pleasantly. "I am tempted to say yes, but you would probably think better of the bargain too soon for my wife to be released. That is no secret manual, you can buy it in any bookshop in town. As you can many other articles of the infernal 1911 Encyclopedia."

  "Perhaps it's a scam," I said. "Whoever heard of single sheets the size of a house?"

  "Tell you what," said Tomasso. "I will wait with your men. You go into the town of Grantville, and look at their windows for yourself. Then decide if my secret knowledge is so important, anymore, that you must immure me and my wife on the island of Murano for the rest of our lives."

  After some thought, I consented to this arrangement. I moved Tomasso off the road to a cave my henchmen knew of. Their knowledge of potential bandit campsites didn't surprise me in the least.

  I visited the town of Grantville. Many times since then I have wished that I hadn't, for there I saw that the great days of the Most Serene Republic were past.

  "Well?" Tomasso asked, when I returned to our little cave away from home.

  "You were right," I admitted. "Even little stores had windows, so clear that a bird could fly into one by mistake; larger than that found in any palace in the world. And mirrors, likewise of fantastic size, and with images so clear that you thought that the legends of doppelgangers must be true."

  "Just to be fair, those windows were made by a technique which isn't in that 1911 encyclopedia. Let glass spread on molten tin, under a special kind of air. But before you think that a trade secret, it's in another encyclopedia, and you can buy copies of articles from that one, too."

  I didn't know what to say, at first. At last, I sighed. "Very well. For my masters to save face, I will have to offer them something in return for your family's freedom. Give me the 1911 manuscript, and write out a description of that molten tin business. For that, I will endeavor to obtain the release of your wife, and the cancellation of the order against you."

  "I suppose I will have to be content with that," said Tomasso.

  I ordered my hirelings to release him. They hesitated for a moment, until I assured them that they would be paid just as if we proceeded with our original arrangement.

  As Tomasso clambered back onto his mule, he delivered one parting shot.

  "So, Mister Secret Agent, I am no longer a master of the glassmaking art. No Venetian is, anymore. I eke out a living now in this little forest village, but it's only a matter of time before the Grantville methods come here. And what happens to me when that happens?

  "And I imagine there isn't going to be much of a market anymore for secret agents to retrieve Venetian glassmakers, since they don't know this new technology.

  "In short, we're both out of a job."

  * * *

  The Truth According to Buddha

  Written by Terry Howard

  "Hey, Jimmy Dick." Bubba sidled up to the bar and waited for Jimmy to order him a beer. It was Thursday and Bubba was broke. "You hear about the horrible way the school treated preacher Wiley's kid?"

  "No. What happened?"

  "He was up there giving his Indian arrow presentation and they flat kicked him out in street 'cause he said he believed in science."

  "Bubba?" Jimmy said, waving two fingers at the bartender, "You'll believe anything, won't you?"

  "Whata' ya mean, Jimmy?"

  "You heard Will's side of the tale and swallowed it whole. You didn't bother to find out the other side or to even think that there might be one. I bet ya' this is just another huha Wiley's brat is stirring up."

  "Well hell, Jimmy. How am I supposed to know what the truth is?"

  "Bubba, let me tell you story. I had a dream I had last night. In my dream I heard a voice—

  "'Docket number 659,656 being an alleged violation of the protocol compact limiting direct intervention in the affairs of the worlds of men by gods.'

  "'Now comes Tyr speaking for the complainant Odin and all others, before the supreme council of all the gods.'"

  "Hey, Jimmy? I know who Odin is. He's Thor's sidekick in Super Hero's, but who's Tire?"

  "Other way around, Bubba. Thor is Odin's sidekick. Tyr is a god just like Thor, another sidekick of Odin's. Thor was famous for his hammer, Tyr was famous for always telling the truth. He got his hand bitten off by a wolf while he was saving the world."

  "You sure about that, Jimmy?"

  "Yeah, I'm sure about that. Now can I tell the story?"

  "Sure, Jimmy."

  "'Well,' Tyr said, 'Most gracious judge, for nearly two thousand years, ever since the Roman Christians brought the Semitic god, Jehovah—'"

  "Roman Christians? You mean Catholics, Jimmy?"

  Jimmy sighed. "Yeah, Bubba. I mean Catholics. Now can I tell the story?"

  "Oh, sure, Jimmy. Sorry."

  "'Ever since the Roman Christians brought the Semitic god Jehovah into the lands of the Germans—'"

  "Semitic? You mean like in anti-Jewish?"

  "Bubba, have I ever told you you're dumber than a box of rocks?" a frustrated Jimmy Dick asked.

  "Yeah. But does that mean Semitic means anti-Jewish or not?"

  "Huuuuuh. Semitic mostly means Jewish. It doesn't mean anti-Jewish unless you say anti-Semitic. You got that?"

  "Sure, Jimmy. I was just wondering."

  "Now can I tell you this story or not?"

  "I'm listening."

  "'Ever since the Roman Christians brought the Semitic god, Jehovah, into the lands of the Germans, we have bided our time without having farther disturbed this council once you ruled that the saints were not gods nor were they avatars and therefore what they did in the world could not be considered a violation of the compact of non-interference. We have watched their direct intervention in the world of men, an absolute violation of the compact
if it were done by a god, and—save for the complaint that the saints were being prayed to as gods and not just petitioned as venerable ancestors, a claim supported by the accusation of the reformed Christian priests against the Roman Christians—we have said nothing.'"

  Ken put two cold bottles down in front of them. Jimmy grabbed them both.

  "Hey, I thought you were gonna buy me a beer," Bubba said.

  "I thought you were going to listen to a story?"

  Bubba started to say something and stopped. He got the message. Jimmy slid the bottle over to his captive audience and continued the tale.

  "'We have wept at the abuses fostered on our peoples at the hands of their priests. And though we have often contemplated doing so, we have not bothered this council with that compliant. Nay, we have said nothing.'

  "'We have watched in silence while they have destroyed our holy places on every high hill, their believers being stronger than ours, because they had the aid and succor of the saints. And we have said nothing.'

  "'We have said nothing while the mother of their god has appeared to every shepherd girl in Europe making and fulfilling promises that are a direct violation of the compact. But we have said nothing, for even the mother of their god is protected as a saint.'"

  Bubba started to ask a question. Jimmy looked at the beer and Bubba shut up.

  "'We have watched their priests steal our customs and our holidays. We have watched as they changed the names of the high, holy days, perverted the meanings of the observances and the symbols and not given credit where it was due for their origin even though they have nothing to do with the history or customs of the Semitic faith. And we have said nothing.'

  "'We have waited in peace for their influence to fade so we could reclaim our territorial rights.'

  "'But this is too much. The Semite has moved a village from half the world away and from four hundred years out of time into the middle of Germany. Even if it were the work of a saint, which it is not, any saint that can do that surely must be considered a god and must be under the ban of non-interference.'

  "'We submit that this council is obliged to require the Semite to return the town to its proper place and time. We farther feel that it is only fitting, in light of this clear and flagrant violation of the compact, that the Semite's saints be barred from the farther usurpation of the duties of gods and that for a period of at least three hundred years we, the true gods of the Germanies, be allowed to commune directly with our few remaining believers and aid them directly in overcoming this gross invasion. I thank the most gracious judge for hearing our petition.'

  "'Now comes the saint Elijah speaking for the defendant Jehovah in each of his three forms.'"

  Finally it was more than Bubba could take. He had a question he just could not hold in. "You mean Elijah, like in the bible? I thought you were talking about a made-up Jewish god. I didn't know you meant God. This ain't funny, Jimmy."

  "Bubba, do you want to drink my beer or not?"

  Bubba shut up by sticking the rim of the bottle to his lips and lifting the bottom high.

  "'Well,' Elijah said, 'Most gracious judge, once again we are forced to answer the whining snivels of Oden from his grave in Valhalla. My god has abided by the compact that he asked for in the days of the Babylonian exile when his, his and her chosen people asked that he end the oracles of other gods. To do so he, has given up the giving of prophecies and direct appearances and assistance, even to the bother of his becoming a man to teach as a man and to die as a man. It was a wise choice that has stopped much destructive warfare between the gods.'

  "'I have checked with my god, and neither he, nor he, nor she had anything in the least to do with the anachronistic appearance of Grantville in the 1600s. It is a clear violation of the compact. We agree. Something should be done. But it was not done by my god.'"

  "Tyr, waving the empty stump where his hand was bitten off, called out from the bar, 'Your high priest in Rome and your high priest in Moscow say your god has done this thing!'

  "'My good god Tyr,' Elijah responded, 'surely you of all beings know, priests lie!'

  "'If your god did not do this then who did?' Tyr demanded.

  "'Our best guess is that it was an act of Science.'

  "'Shit!' screamed Tyr, 'Science again? Gracious judge, something must be done!'

  ""Buddha, whose turn it was this eon to sit in the seat of the judge and be chair-deity of the council spoke. 'i AM AFRAID,TYR, THAT science IS NOT SIGNATORY TO THE COMPACT AND DOES NOT RECOGNIZE THE AUTHORITY OF THIS COUNCIL.'"

  Bubba had the bottom of his beer bottle between his face and the ceiling until it was dry. He set the empty down on the bar. "What's all that supposed to mean, Jimmy?"

  Jimmy sighed. "I think it means we need another couple of beers down here."

  * * *

  Sailing Upwind

  Written by Kevin and Karen Evans

  Late September 1633

  "Sally, did Mr. Pridmore say where he was going?" Reva leaned toward the young receptionist, to keep the conversation a little more private. Reva worried about Marlon. He hadn't been eating or sleeping well for the last week. Just like he had last September, he'd gotten moody and irritated. And today, instead of finishing work, he just stood up and walked out of his office.

  "No, Miz Pridmore. When he didn't see you, he told me to tell you he was feeling poorly, and then got his coat and left."

  "Yeah. I guess he's got the flu, just like last year." Reva went back to her station behind the teller window. No use going after him. I might as well finish work.

  * * *

  "You sitting here moping again?" Reva came into the living room to hang her coat in the closet. While lights were on in other parts of the house, he was sitting alone in the dark. "I swear, you're gonna wear me out with your sour moods this time of year."

  Marlon grumbled, "Tomorrow is October first. This weekend would be the beginning of the Albuquerque Balloon Fiesta. And I let Hilde down again."

  "I know. I heard it all last year. Same old story. You were gonna help him get the money for an airship, and then you weren't there to hand it over. Nothing new. I thought you were over this."

  She waited for him to respond, and when he didn't she continued. "I've worked at that bank with you for more than twenty years, and put up with your moods here at home. But you don't have an excuse to sit here and feel sorry for yourself. You don't need to be in here moping like this, Marlon Pridmore. Life goes on."

  He glared at her. It was an old argument. "Reva, you just don't understand. I gave them my word and I failed. I've been adjusting, but when it starts to get to fall weather like this rain, it makes me long for the things we used to do. You enjoyed that balloon fiesta as much as I did, and you know it."

  "Now, don't pull me into this mess, old man. Yes, I liked going to Albuquerque just fine. But that was then, this is now. We can't go back, and that's that."

  He stood up and started walking toward the kitchen. "I'm going out to the barn. Don't wait up." He walked out the back door, hands shoved into his pockets.

  * * *

  Marlon sat out in the dark barn, drinking kirshwasser in memory of Hilde, mourning the loss of his friend once again. Marlon and Reva had both grown up in Grantville and most of their family still lived in the area. They had never had children, so there were no grandchildren left up-time. Now all that Marlon missed from West Virginia, besides getting a new computer once in a while, was Hilde and balloons.

  Hilde and Marlon had planned to get some investors, including a loan from Marlon's bank, and buy the envelope and basket for a thermal airship. This wasn't just any balloon; it was a hot air blimp that could be steered against the wind. It was going to be their entry in the Gatineau Challenge, a thermal airship race with the prize of half a million dollars.

  Reva found him in the barn later that night. She stepped under the single bare light bulb and put her hands on her hips. "Okay, I've had it!"

  "You just don't understand! I gav
e my word I'd be there, and there's no way I can get there now."

  "Listen here, Marlon Pridmore. You need to stop this pity party of yours, and go build yourself a balloon. You can do it. There ain't anyone here down-time that knows more about it than you do. But it ain't gonna happen with you out here drinking brandy, and feeling sorry . . . "

  Marlon interrupted. "What did you say?"

  "I said you need to stop this pity party . . ."

  "No. The part about the balloon."