Blood and iron ae-1

by Harry Turtledove

  Jonathan Moss started to laugh. He quickly held up a hand. "I'm not laughing at you, Mr. Smith-really, I'm not," he said. "But this is absurd, and I don't think you can argue with me there."

  "I wouldn't think of it," Smith said, and Moss believed him. The Canadian got to his feet. "I am sorry to have troubled you."

  "Don't go away!" Moss sprang to his feet, too, quick as if he'd been turning his fighting scout onto the tail of a Sopwith Pup. "I didn't say I wouldn't take your case. Let me see your documents. Mr. Smith, and I'll see what I can do for you."

  "Really?" John Smith's hangdog expression vanished, to be replaced by astonishment. "But you work here!"

  "It's not like I own the building." Moss corrected himself: "It's not like I think I own the building." He wondered what he would have done in his landlord's shoes. Probably thrown Smith out so hard he bounced. But the Canuck could always have found another lawyer. Plenty of eager young hotshots had come up from the United States, and some Canadians were also jumping into occupation law.

  "I–I don't know what to say," Smith told him. "Thank you very much, sir." He coughed and looked embarrassed again. "I'm also afraid I'll have some trouble paying you."

  One look at his suit had warned Moss that was likely. The way Smith had "forgotten" his cigarettes warned him it was as near certain as made no difference. He shrugged. "What the hell, Mr. Smith," he said-not proper legal language, but at the moment he didn't care. "We'll see what you can afford. If you can't afford much, I'll do it for a lark. I want to see the look on my landlord's face when I serve him the papers."

  "Oh, that's good. That's very good." For a moment, Smith, who had to be close to fifty, looked about fifteen. "What they call a practical joke, isn't it?"

  "Isn't it just?" Moss leaned forward in his chair. "Now- let's find out exactly how practical a joke it is. Show me these documents."

  "I haven't got everything with me, I'm afraid," Smith said. Moss exhaled through his nose. He hadn't been practicing long, but he'd already seen that unprepared clients were the bane of an attorney's life. Blushing, Smith went on, "I left most of the papers I still have back at my flat, because I didn't really believe you'd be interested in helping me."

  "Show me what you've-" Moss stopped. "The papers you still have?" he asked sharply. "What happened to the ones you used to have?"

  John Smith showed a touch of temper for the first time. "What do you think happened to them?" he snapped. "You Yanks, that's what. I stayed in Empire-in Berlin-till the shells started falling. When I got out, it was with the clothes on my back and one carpetbag. You try stuffing your whole life in one carpetbag, sir, and see how well you do."

  Before coming to Berlin, Moss hadn't thought much about how civilians on the losing side felt about the war. He was getting an education in quiet bitterness. "All right," he said. "What have you got?"

  Smith reached into his breast pocket and pulled out the two documents he'd already mentioned. He'd have needed the doctor's certificate as he fled the advancing Americans. Without it, the Canadians would have stuck a rifle in his hands and sent him to the trenches, rupture or no rupture. They might have done that anyhow, but he had the paper that said they wouldn't have. He also had the paper that said he'd made his formal peace with the U.S. occupiers. No Canadian could work without that one.

  And he had a photograph of himself-a younger version of himself-standing in front of a clapboard house that bore the same address as this big brick office building. A plain woman in a black dress and a frumpy hat stood beside him. "Your wife?" Moss asked.

  "That's right." Smith paused, then went on, "Some Yank pilot shot us up as we were leaving-shot up the road, I mean, for the sport of it. He killed my Jane and left me without a scratch-and ever since, I've wished it had been the other way round."

  Moss didn't know what to say to that. He'd shot up refugee columns. It was part of war: it disrupted the enemy. He hadn't thought much about the consequences of what he did. He resolutely tried not to think about those consequences now.

  "Besides this photograph," he managed at last, "what sort of title can you show to this property? Have you got a deed? Have you got bank records?"

  "Haven't got a deed," Smith said. "Used to be bank records- in the bank. Isn't any bank any more. I hear tell Yank soldiers blew the vault open and stole everything inside-everything they wanted, anyway."

  That wouldn't have surprised Moss. Among other things, armies were enormous robber bands. He said, "You do understand, lacking the proper papers will make your claim much harder to establish."

  "I should hope I understand that," John Smith said. "If I'd reckoned it would be easy, I'd have tried it myself."

  "All right," Moss said. "Go through your effects. Whatever you can bring that's evidence you own this land, I want to see it. No matter how unlikely you think it is, I want to see it. If you know people who can testify they know you owned this land, I want to hear from them. I won't kid you, though. We've got our work cut out for us."

  "I'll do my best," Smith promised.

  When Lucien Galtier saw the green-gray motorcar coming down the road from Riviere-du-Loup toward his farmhouse, he took it for granted at first. He had seen an infinitude of green-gray motorcars and trucks coming down that road, and another infinitude going up it.

  Then, after he'd already started turning away, he spun back and stared at the Ford with eyes that wanted to narrow in suspicion and widen in surprise at the same time. He had not seen a green-gray motorcar in some time. The U.S. Army painted its motorcars that color. But the U.S. Army had not occupied the Republic of Quebec since the end of the war-well, since a little after the end of the war.

  The Ford pulled off the road and parked beside the farmhouse, as Leonard O'Doull's automobile more commonly did these days. Lucien sighed and walked toward it. "I might have known," he muttered under his breath. "A man may think he has escaped troubles, but troubles never escape a man."

  Two men got out of the motorcar. Galtier recognized Bishop Pascal first, more by his vestments than by his own tubby form. His companion, the driver, was whipcord lean and, sure enough, wore U.S. Army uniform. Seeing Lucien approach, he waved. "Bon-jour! " he called in excellent Parisian French. "It is good to see you once more, M. Galtier."

  "Bonjour…" As Galtier drew near, he saw that Jedediah Quigley wore eagles on his shoulders, not oak leaves of either gold or silver. He'd been a major when Galtier first made his acquaintance. Now-"Bonjour, Colonel Quigley. You have come up in the world since I saw you last."

  "He is the military liaison officer between the United States and the Republic of Quebec," Bishop Pascal said. Hearing the bishop speak ahead of Colonel Quigley surprised Lucien not at all; Pascal had always found the sound of his own voice sweeter and more intoxicating than communion wine.

  "An important man indeed," Galtier said. "And how and why does a simple farmer deserve a visit from not only the military liaison officer between the United States and the Republic of Quebec but also the illustrious and holy bishop of Riviere-du-Loup?"

  Bishop Pascal had no ear for irony. Colonel Quigley did. One of his eyebrows quirked upward. "It is a matter concerning the hospital," he said.

  "What about the hospital?" Galtier demanded, suddenly apprehensive. He saw Marie peering out the kitchen window, no doubt wondering what was going on. He'd been about to ask Quigley and Bishop Pascal to come into the farmhouse so she could serve them tea-or something stronger-and some of the cinnamon buns she'd baked the day before. Now, he was not nearly so sure they were welcome in his house.

  "The hospital, of course, is built on land taken from your patrimony," Bishop Pascal said. The plump bishop always looked out for himself first. He had embraced the Americans with indecent haste. Galtier would not have cared to turn his back on him for an instant. But he did understand the way a Quebecois farmer's mind worked.

  Colonel Quigley, despite having been in Quebec since 1914, didn't. "And we've been paying you a good rent for it, too," he
said gruffly.

  "It is my land," Galtier replied with dignity. "And"-his own eyebrow rose-"for some long stretch of time, you paid not a cent of rent. You simply took it, because you had men with guns."

  "We suspected your loyalty." Quigley was blunt in a way no Quebecois would have been. "Once we didn't any more, we paid what we owed you."

  "If you steal land from a man's patrimony, you are liable to make him disloyal," Galtier said. "Indeed, you are fortunate this did not happen with me." He still marveled that it hadn't. He'd been disloyal after the Americans invaded Quebec. He clearly remembered that. But Nicole had gone to work at the hospital, she and Leonard O'Doull had fallen in love, Quigley had agreed to pay rent, and the Americans had not treated him so badly after all. He'd thrived since they came. Quebec had prospered, too. And he had a half-American grandson. Sure enough, he was at peace with Americans now.

  Bishop Pascal said, "Naturally, my son, you can comprehend that it is awkward for this fine hospital to rest on land where, if the owner so desires, he may, at a whim, order it to leave so he might seed the soil with lettuces."

  "Lettuces?" Galtier said. "Certainly not. That is wheat land, and wheat land of the first quality, I might add."

  Jedediah Quigley seemed to need both hands to hold on to his patience. "Whatever you raised on it is beside the point," he said. "The point is, the Republic of Quebec wants to buy that land from you, so no troubles of the sort Bishop Pascal is talking about can arise. I'm involved here because I am the one who took that land from you in the first place."

  "You wish me to sell part of my patrimony?" Galtier knew he sounded as if Colonel Quigley had asked him to sell one of his children. He didn't care. That was how he felt-even if, at times, he wouldn't have minded getting rid of Georges.

  "Money can be part of your patrimony, too," Quigley said, which only proved he did not completely understand the folk of Quebec.

  "It would be an act of Christian charity, for the sake of the people of Riviere-du-Loup and the surrounding countryside," Bishop Pascal said. "And, unlike most acts of charity, my son, it would not only be good for your soul but would bring money into your pocket rather than having it flow out."

  "And not just money," Colonel Quigley added. "You know the hospital makes its own electricity. As part of the bargain, we would have the hospital make electricity for this farm as well."

  They were eager to make a deal. They were showing how eager they were. Against a canny peasant like Lucien Galtier, they were begging to be skinned. He knew now, he would sell the land. Marie would skin him if he let the chance to get electricity escape. But he intended to make the bishop and the colonel sweat first. "It is my patrimony," he growled. "One day, my grandson's grandson will grow wheat on that land."

  Colonel Quigley rolled his eyes. "Damn stubborn frog," he muttered under his breath in English. Galtier smiled. He didn't think he was supposed to hear, or to understand if he did. Too bad, he thought. He was a damn stubborn frog, and they would have to make the best of it.

  "My son, have you not seen in these past few years how things can change, and change unexpectedly and quickly?" Bishop Pascal asked. "Would you not like to see this change be for the better?"

  "By better, your Grace, you mean doing as you wish." Galtier did not want to lose the chance he had here. Gruffly, grudgingly. he said, "Very well. Let us speak of this further, since you insist. Come inside. We may as well sit down."

  When he brought them into the farmhouse, Marie fussed over them, as he'd known she would. Once she had them settled with tea and buns, she asked, "How is it that we have such distinguished visitors?"

  Before either visitor could speak, Lucien kept right on growling: "They seek to purchase some of our patrimony. Along with money, they even offer electricity/9 He curled his lip, as if to show how little he cared for electricity. "They do not comprehend the importance of a man's patrimony."

  "Mme. Galtier, I am sure you can make your husband see reason here," Colonel Quigley said.

  "I leave these matters to him. He is the man, after all," Marie said primly. A single flashing glance toward Galtier sent quite another message, but neither Quigley nor Bishop Pascal saw it. After that glance, Marie retreated to the kitchen.

  In tones of gentle reason, Bishop Pascal said, "You have not even inquired what the Republic and the United States-we will share the expense, our two countries-might pay for your parcel of land."

  "You haven't said what you want for it, either," Quigley said.

  "I have not said I would take any amount of money for it," Galtier replied. "But, if you must, you may name a price." Quigley had invited him to set his own price when he'd started getting rent for the land on which the hospital stood. He'd named the highest price he dared, and Quigley had paid without a blink. Lucien knew he could have gone higher, but not how much. This time… If Quigley mentioned any sum less than five hundred dollars, maybe he really wouldn't sell the piece of property.

  "The United States are prepared to pay you one thousand dollars for that tract, M. Galtier," Colonel Quigley said.

  "And the Republic of Quebec will add one thousand dollars to that sum," Bishop Pascal put in.

  Galtier's ears rang. Two thousand dollars? And electricity? "You are not serious," he said, meaning he could not believe they would pay so much.

  Thanks to his bold front, Bishop Pascal and Quigley thought he meant they weren't offering enough. The American looked sour, the bishop piously resigned. Colonel Quigley said, "Oh, very well, then. Fifteen hundred from us, another fifteen hundred from the Republic, and not a dime more."

  Three thousand dollars? Lucien could buy a motorcar. He could buy a tractor. He would be a man to reckon with for miles around. He smiled at his guests. "Two thousand dollars from the United States, another two from the Republic, and not a dime less."

  Colonel Quigley and Bishop Pascal both looked alarmed. Galtier felt alarmed-had he pushed it too far? The bishop and Quigley put their heads together. After a couple of minutes, Bishop Pascal said, "In the interest of concord, we will split the difference with you-one thousand seven hundred and fifty dollars from Quebec and a like amount from the United States. Is it agreeable to you?"

  "And electricity?" Galtier demanded.

  "And electricity," Colonel Quigley said. "I told you that beforehand."

  "It is better to have everything certain than to leave anything in doubt." Galtier sighed with reluctance he did not feel. "Very well. Let it be as you say. For one thousand seven hundred and fifty dollars from each of your governments-and electricity-I will sell this land, but only, mind you, in the interest of concord, as the holy bishop says."

  "God will surely bless you, my son," Bishop Pascal said, beaming.

  "Do you think so?" Lucien said interestedly. "That would be good, too."

  Bishop Pascal didn't know what to make of that. He scratched his head. Colonel Quigley knew exactly what to make of it. He looked even more sour than he had while they were dickering. Why should he care? Galtier thought. It isn 't his money However sour Quigley looked, the bargain was sealed. The money would be Galtier's-soon, he hoped.

  Edna Semphroch came back into the coffeehouse. Nellie Jacobs gave her daughter an unhappy look, even though midafternoon business was slow. Truth to tell, business had never got back to what it was during the war, when Confederate officers from the force occupying Washington had kept the place hopping morning, noon, and night. Nellie didn't miss the Rebs, not even a little bit, but she did miss their cash.

  "Took you long enough, didn't it?" Nellie said sourly. "I reckon I could have looked at every skirt between here and St. Louis in the stretch of time you've been gone. And you didn't even buy anything. Can't you make up your mind?" People who joked about women's indecision had never met Nellie.

  "Nope, didn't buy anything," Edna agreed. She eyed her mother with an odd mix of amusement and apprehension. "Didn't even go looking at skirts, as a matter of fact."

  Nellie had no fancy educatio
n. She was, most ways, shrewd rather than really clever. But when Edna said something like that, her mother didn't need a road map to figure out what she'd say next. "You've been sneaking around behind my back," Nellie said, and could have sounded no more outraged if she'd been reading a philandering husband the riot act.

  She would have had an easier time accepting a philandering husband. Men got it where they could. That was part-too large a part, as far as she was concerned-of how they were made. Women, though… She'd known for a long time that Edna burned hot. Her daughter had seemed calmer the past couple of years, so Nellie had dared hope she'd got it out of her system. No such luck, evidently.

  "I've been trying to have a life, Ma," Edna said. "God knows you don't make it easy for a girl." But the unbearably smug look on her face said she'd had her desire fulfilled-and had something else filled full, too, more than likely.

  "You little hussy," Nellie hissed. She wished Clara, who was taking a nap upstairs, would pick that moment to wake up. Otherwise, she'd be locked in a fight with her older daughter of the sort they'd had during the war, the sort they hadn't had since Nellie married Hal Jacobs.

  Again, no such luck. Edna tossed her head. "Hussy? Huh! Takes one to know one, I guess." Had Nellie had a knife in her hand, she might have used it. Fortunately, she'd been washing cups and saucers. Edna ignored her furious squawk. Edna seemed inclined to ignore just about everything. She went on, "But none of that matters, anyhow. He asked me to marry him today."

  "Did he think about asking you to get an abortion instead?" Wounded, Nellie wanted to hit back any way she could.

  Her daughter shook her head. "I ain't in a family way, Ma. And I ought to know, too, I felt so lousy last week." She laughed. 'Turned out you were the one who ended up in a family way. I still think that's the funniest thing in the whole wide world."