You piece of shit, Prickett. You knew they weren't ready. You knew it was dangerous. And you wanted to absolve your conscious. So much easier to tell yourself you were busy, to let the oversight slide, wasn't it?
Her self-loathing, buried for years, made her choke. Carefully, quickly, she cut her wrist with the small dagger she always carried. Not a dangerous cut, just a nice shallow cut. For the pain. Take that, you bitch. Again, another shallow cut. It had been years since she'd even thought of cutting herself, let alone done it.
It all started in sixth grade. Stephanie Baxter, the Queen Bee. Pretty, petite, popular. She'd hunted around for someone she and her friends could pick on, someone they could all hate with a passion. Her sights had fallen on big, awkward Nicki Jo Prickett. It helped, of course, that Nicki Jo was smarter than any of them.
But that still wouldn't have been enough for Nicki Jo to turn to self-injury without her mother. Karen Prickett had had a difficult time with her first daughter, Angela. She had been bound and determined to do it right with Nicki Jo. The pressure to be perfect had been intense. Nothing Nicki did was good enough. When Nicki Jo protested, tried to rebel, her mother, a hefty woman herself, beat her, often after half-a-dozen whiskey sours. When her dad or sister tried to intervene, they were screamed at and beaten, too. She loved her dad, but he'd been too weak to deal with her mother. So he went passive-aggressive and retreated. Angela did what she could, but by the time Nicki Jo was in sixth grade, Angela had left the house to live with relatives.
So Stephanie had been the tipping point. It hadn't helped that Nicki Jo's burgeoning homosexuality had made her feel attracted to Stephanie. That only increased her self-loathing. By the time Amy Kubiak was in middle school and able to really help, the cutting addiction was already in place for Nicki Jo Prickett.
It was her sophomore year in high school when she finally cut a little too deep, nicking a vein and spraying blood around the girl's bathroom at Grantville High School. It had been a big scene, with paramedics, administrators cordoning off the hallway, everything. Only then, with Amy Kubiak's urging and the insistence of the school counselors, had she gotten the therapy she needed.
But there was no Amy Kubiak in Essen to help her now.
Nicki Jo watched the blood drip from the shallow cuts, feeling the pain, wanting it. She hadn't cried at Tobias' funeral. She never cried. Hadn't cried since she was five years old. She was getting ready for a good, deep cut when the bedroom door opened.
"Leave me alone," Nicki said.
"No," Katherine said, "I won't. I won't let you do this to yourself."
Katherine came over and took the dagger from Nicki Jo's hand. Nicki resisted at first but Katherine's grip was steady and unrelenting. Finally, Nicki Jo let go.
"It's my fault. I should never have let them do it."
Katherine shook her head. "God gives us free will, Nicki. Tobias knew what he was doing, knew it was risky. And Solomon bears as much guilt as you. He could have said something, stopped it early enough. He didn't."
"My fault, mine! I knew they weren't ready, I knew it! But I let my pride, my anger at being pushed into a corner take over. Don't you see?"
"What I see," Katherine said, "is my friend, my lover, letting guilt destroy her. I noticed when I was in Grantville that Americans seem to love guilt. But they don't love what should come from guilt."
Nicki Jo looked at Katherine, a puzzled expression on her face. "What should come from guilt? What do you mean?"
"Certainly not this," Katherine said, holding up the dagger and throwing it contemptuously across the room. "That is just indulging in self-pity. Penance, Nicki. You know that there will be pressure to keep making some kind of explosives. You know that if you don't get involved more of our friends may die. As difficult as it may be for you to accept, you have to get involved. Consider it your penance. It won't bring back Tobias, but at least you can say you did your best to keep others from making the same mistake."
"What if it's not good enough?" Nicki said. "What if other people still die?"
Katherine smiled sadly. "Then that is God's will. But at least you will have done your best to prevent it."
Katherine looked down at the cuts on Nicki Jo's arm. "I think we need to get a bandage on these. Not any worse than some of the glass cuts you've had, but we'll need to put some antiseptic on them."
Penance, Nicki thought, penance. With sudden resolve she went over to her bookshelf filled with chemistry books. Somewhere there had to be an explosive that would help the Republic and yet be easier and safer to make than TNT or picric acid.
"Go ahead and get the bandages, Katy. I've got work to do."
****
"Gelignite?" General De Vries said. "What is gelignite?"
The ordnance team for the Essen Steel Company, minus Franz Dubois, who was still in the hospital, was meeting with the Army of Essen's command group. Nicki Jo had temporarily taken over Franz's scientific advisory role.
"It's like dynamite, General, but safer. It doesn't sweat like dynamite does," Nicki Jo said. "A big percentage of it is potassium nitrate, so that will ease the feedstock burden for it. It requires some soluble gun cotton, but only a very small percentage. The main ingredient will be nitroglycerin. Up-time, Nobel patented Gelignite in about 1875."
"Nitroglycerin? I thought that was highly unstable?" De Vries said.
"That's why we'll turn it directly into gelignite, General. Now, you won't be able to use gelignite in artillery shells, but you can use it for satchel charges for your engineers, and for these." Nicki Jo pulled a short piece of wood with a metal cylinder on the top from beneath the table. "Even with the reduction in active ingredients for gelignite, the army can only afford about a ton a month. So the ordnance team and I came up with this."
De Vries took the club-like weapon from Nicki and waved it in the air. It was light, less than three or four pounds.
"What is it?"
"Well," Nicki said, "Up-time it was called a 'potato masher.' But I think down-time it needs a more martial sounding name, so I've suggested we call them 'warhammers.' It's a grenade, General. With half a pound of gelignite in the warhead, it should be a useful addition for the infantry for both defensive and offensive battles. Once the army has enough of these in inventory, along with whatever satchel charges it wants, we can use the gelignite in construction projects. For Essen Chemical Company's bottom line, making nitroglycerin will also be beneficial since we have to get a nice pure glycerin, which, up-time, had literally thousands of uses."
****
After the meeting, Katherine Boyle, Colette Modi and Nicki Jo Prickett walked back to the Essen Chemical Company laboratory.
"Well," Colette said, "General De Vries certainly seemed enthusiastic about your warhammers. And he even didn't think to bring up TNT again."
Nicki Jo laughed. "I know. But we give them some boom toys, and we get paid to develop a method for purifying glycerin, which will make us a pile of money, none of it related to explosives. Much better than that stupid old TNT."
****
Dueling Philosophers
Terry Howard
September 11, 1635
Renato Onofrio slowly got up from the barber's chair like someone who had a bad back, which in fact he did. "Walt, something I've always wondered about. How's come you're letting that drunken scallywag Jimmy Dick steal your title as Grantville's greatest philosopher?"
"Well it's nice of you to ask," Walter Jenkins said. "And I don't mind you thinking I ought to have the title. But, you know the police gave it to him as a joke, don't you?"
Renato looked at the barber intently. When he didn't see any humor in the man's eyes, he asked, "Are you putting me on?"
"No, it's the gods' own truth."
"Well, it ain't funny. More philosophy gets talked about here in this shop than anywhere's else in town. People are taking Jimmy Dick seriously. You ought to speak up and take the title away from him. He don't deserve it. You've got to know more about phi
losophy than Jimmy Dick does. I've heard you quoting Augustine and I don't know who all else."
"Renato, it's kind of you to say so. But how would you go about proving something like that?"
"Challenge him to a duel."
"Pistols at dawn, or swords at high noon?" The waiting customers laughed at Walt's joke.
"No, you know what I mean, a verbal duel. What'a'ya call it?"
"A debate." Walt's son, Evan, answered from behind the second chair without looking up. When you've got scissors or a razor or even just clippers around someone's head, you really do need to pay attention and keep your eyes on the job.
"Yeah," Renato said. "That's the word. A debate. Walt, why don't you challenge that dickhead to a debate. Shoot, I bet you could even charge admission. I'd pay to see someone take the obnoxious little creep down a notch or two."
"Naw," Walt said.
"You think about it. You really should. I mean it. Seriously."
With these last words Renato went out the door. Joseph Daoud took his turn in the chair. "What's the burr under his saddle?"
"Renato?" Walt asked. "Two things. He used to rent a whole building downtown for little or nothing. They let him have it just to keep heat on in the winter, as long as he did the maintenance. After the Ring of Fire, they raised the rent and he had to move out of the store front on the ground floor. Then they raised the rent again and he had to move out of the upstairs apartment. Now he's living in the attic, and since Jimmy Dick owns the building, Jimmy is who he's mad at.
"The other thing is, truth be told, he thinks the title should have gone to Emmanuel Onofrio. For that matter, he's probably right, but Emmanuel say he has his hands full as it is; so Jimmy Dick is welcome to the job."
"Still, though," Joseph said, "he's got a point. You've got as much right to the title as Jimmy Dick does. You really ought to debate him. Look, the Lions are wanting to do a fund raiser. The call for kids needing glasses is a lot higher here than back home, and it costs a lot more. Their budget is shot and there's still a waiting list. Why don't you let me see if they think it's a good idea?"
"Naw," Walt answered. His words said no; his tone of voice said maybe. You could tell he wanted to say yes.
Evan spoke up with a dry voice and with a straight face. "Why don't you, Dad? It's for charity. Besides, it would be good advertising. Walt the Barber challenges Jimmy Dick the Drunk to a verbal duel on philosophy, for the title of Grantville's Greatest Philosopher. Marquis of Queensbury be damned. This will be a bare knuckles brawl. The last man standing will be declared the winner and will walk away with the title, 'Grantville's Greatest Philosopher.'"
Everyone laughed.
"I'm not joking," Joseph said. "Renato is right. A lot of people would come to something like this. I was eating at the restaurant when Jimmy dined with the German philosopher from Berlin. The place was packed. People were wanting to see the fireworks. Then it all happened in Latin and no one could follow it until the Berliner got up and stomped out. With the Lions selling the tickets, we could pack any place in town. It would be a great fund raiser and we could really use the money. The branch in Magdeburg is forever asking for help and we just don't have it to give."
"Let me think about it," Walt said.
Evan turned his head away so his father wouldn't see his smile.
"Stop smirking boy," Walt said.
"I wasn't smirking," Evan replied.
"Yeah, you were." Walt gave his son a mild reproof, passing it off as a joke. "I could've heard your face cracking if you'd been in the back room, much less at the next chair."
Evan quietly left telling jokes and chatting up the customers to his father. The older man insisted it was as much a part of the job as cutting hair. Many were the times he told his son, after a customer walked out and the shop was empty, "That fellow didn't need a hair cut, he just wanted to tell someone a joke, or share some gossip, or brag about something going on in his life, or complain about it, or whatever the reason other than a hair cut caused the man to be setting in the barber's chair." On other occasions when the shop was empty he would tell his son, "We're as much psychiatrist as barbers. You need to get better at chatting up the customers. I'm not always going to be here to do it for you. It's the butter on our bread, after all."
****
Over the next week, it seemed like every member of the Lions Club in town came in for a hair cut and every one of them asked pretty much the same question.
At the end of a week, Walter weakened and let them make him do exactly what he wanted to do.
****
Everyone at the Lions Club meeting assumed Joseph would organize the debate; after all, he'd proposed the idea. Besides, most of the other members worked full-time. Luckily, Joseph had his personal retirement account in the bank in Grantville, so he didn't lose it like people with out of town assets did. After the Ring of Fire his retirement hobby farm quit being a hobby. The garden doubled in size. Any other land they could plant went into grain, and the hog raised for slaughter became hogs for a cash crop.
Joseph, being stuck with the job for the crime of suggesting it, decided to make it as much fun as possible. Having sold the idea of a debate to the club, he now needed to sell the idea that it should be fun to the steering committee.
"Okay," Joseph said, "I've checked and they said it's alright to use the sanctuary." The Lions Club met in the basement of the Methodist church once a month unless something came up. "So we can sell three hundred advance tickets and still leave the hundred seats in the overflow area for tickets sold at the door."
Reyburn Berry spoke up. "Joe? Do you really think that many people will show up?"
Sondra Mae Prickett smiled. "Rey, it's all about promotion. I saw a time the store couldn't sell flip flops for two dollars a pair. When we advertised them as 'buy one pair for four dollars and get the second pair for free,' we couldn't keep them on the shelf."
Doris Debolt nodded. "Besides, it doesn't matter if they come or not, as long as they buy a ticket. This is a fund raiser. It's just an excuse to ask people for money."
"Not this time, Doris. This time it's a fun raiser. When you sell a ticket be sure to tell people to be there ten minutes before the opening bell because at five till, unclaimed seating will be considered open," Joseph said.
"The opening bell?" Rey looked puzzled, "You're making it sound like a prize fight."
"Yup. Sure am. It's what they discussed the day it first came up. A verbal duel, bare knuckles, no holds barred, the title goes to the last man standing. Everybody thought it was a hoot. Nobody would have given a damn about some stupid formal debate. Who cares about a debate? But a verbal brawl? We can sell every seat in the house for a verbal brawl. At ten dollars a seat, we're looking at four thousand dollars. The church is free, and we don't have to split the gate. Then we have a coffee and cookie mixer in the basement afterwards which will be worth another thousand dollars."
Rey looked almost cross eyed. "Are you serious!? Do you expect to raise five thousand dollars out of this?"
"No," Joseph said in a flat voice.
"Good, I thought you were serious."
"I expect to raise at least ten thousand."
Rey yelped. "What! How?"
"We have a referee and a timekeeper with a bell. At the end of each round we pass the hat through the hall . . . two hats, actually. Then we tally the take and the round goes to whoever has the most votes at a dollar a vote."
Rey sputtered. "But-someone could buy the match."
"Good. Let them. I don't care who wins. I just want to raise some serious money because every penny we take in is one more penny to put glasses on some kid's face."
Doris, getting whiplash watching the tennis ball bounce back and forth, finally broke the cycle. "But what if someone complains about it being unfair?"
"Let them. We're raising money, not settling the fate of the nation. Actually, it would be good if they do. Then we can stage a rematch and do it all over again," Joe said.
/> "You're crazy," Rey sputtered.
Doris smiled. "He's crazy like a fox, Rey."
"How are you going to collect the money between rounds without taking up half the night?"
"Just like at a Billy Graham crusade. One man goes down one isle handing out a bucket to each pew and someone collects them at the other end. It goes almost as fast as a man can walk. It will take longer to count it than it will to collect it. But we don't have to post the results before we start the next round. So, we're looking at ten rounds at a dollar a head for four hundred people-that could be another three or four thousand. But I'm only counting on one."
"I think you're counting un-hatched chickens."
"Sure am. But then, everything is donated so it won't cost us anything if it falls through. I cut a deal for ice cream sandwiches at cost and we return any we don't sell as long as we keep them frozen. I'll hit the Abrabanels up to donate the coffee."
Sondra Mae smiled like a pig in a mud puddle. "Sounds good to me. When?"
Joseph shrugged. "Don't know yet; still got some details to work out."
Rey looked concerned. "Such as?"
"Walt's in. Haven't asked Jimmy Dick yet."
"What? You've booked the hall, arranged for snacks, and who knows what else-but you haven't asked one of the debaters if he'll come?"
"The 'what else' includes pricing the tickets and lining up a donation to pay for them, pricing the programs, and getting a donation to cover them too. We'll sell the programs for a dollar each. Best of all, I got a newspaper to agree this is news, not advertising. So the promotional space is free and front page."
"And you don't know if Jimmy will be there!"
"Oh, he'll be there all right. Walt will issue a challenge in the paper. Jimmy won't be able to show his face at any watering hole in town without being laughed at if he doesn't show up.
"The paper will run question requests up to a week before the debate at ten dollars a pop for processing and we get half. If your question gets picked, you get to ask it live at the debate."
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