by Eric Flint
A Frenchman with the name of Pierre de Cancavi claimed "I'm going to build an airplane as soon as I can put together the money."
He was arguing with an Italian named Gasparo Berti, who insisted, "Waste of money. Lighter-than-air craft are the real future of aviation. It was no more than an accident of history that that prevented the up-timers from properly exploiting the advantages of dirigibles. Granted, they were—and are—militarily useless but who cares about that?"
"The military?" Magdalena Van de Passe, one of the few people Heather knew, suggested. Heather hid a giggle.
Gasparo Berti paused and looked at Magdalena severely for a moment. Then gave a half smile and a hands-in-the-air Italian shrug. "Dirigibles are elegant. Stately even. Besides, they carry more."
Heather let herself be carried by the flow of the group. She saw Vladimir Yaroslavich and looked around for Brandy Bates. Seeing Prince Vladimir without Brandy was a surprise these days. "We were caught in the middle of changing the structure of our armed forces." He was talking to a Polish gentleman named Jan Brozek. "Don't make too much of it, Jan. We won the next one after all."
"But that was after the great freedom had turned into license," Jan Brozek insisted. "That won't happen this time."
"Neither did the Smolensk War," Prince Vladimir countered "At least not yet. Don't count too much on it going the same way. It did in that other time line, but too much has changed. Guatavus Adolphus is still very much alive—busy with the league, but alive and well with his army intact."
"Why the change from Important Speeches to Frivolous Music?" Heather could hear the capitals in Herr Gulden's voice. She learned later that he was in Grantville from Austria. Meanwhile she shot Jacob a look and he cringed.
"Yes, why?" Herr de Groot actually seemed interested rather then calling her to task. She later learned he was from Holland.
"Because people like music," Heather said to the nice one. "They don't, as a general rule, like speeches—at least not to listen to everyday . . ."
Then she got into a discussion about the difference between seventeenth-century and twentieth-century ballet. The French guy was back, insisting that for the most part the down-time French version was better—though there were no doubt a few points they could pick up and had she seen the Christmas show in Magdeburg?
It was starting to get a bit much for Heather. It wasn't that the people here were dumb, quite the contrary. But she was rapidly coming to the conclusion that no one could foul up like a smart person. They would say something really insightful, then finish the sentence with something totally off the wall.
Rachel caught her eye and indicated a door with her eyes. Heather retreated and found herself, eventually, in the kitchen with Rachel and Frau Mehler, a stout German woman.
"Did the air heads drive you out?" Frau Mehler looked cross. She was washing up a stack of the trays that refreshments had been served on.
Rachel grinned. "Be nice, Helen." Then she looked at Heather. "I call it 'candy store syndrome.'"
Heather gave her a questioning look.
"Believe it or not, that room—" Rachel pointed at the living room. "—has some of the brightest minds in Europe in it. Seven out of ten of those people made it into the history books as great thinkers of their time. It's not requirement to get invited; I don't work that way. Still, it's true. The reason they seem a little . . . ah . . . vague sometimes is that they are the ones who got to Grantville and jumped into the ocean of knowledge we brought with us without bothering with a life preserver. Some of them haven't come up for more than the occasional breath in the last three years. They're like kids in a candy store, nibbling on this piece of knowledge, then getting distracted by that one. No time to digest what they have already learned. There is always another chocolate covered truffle of information to try to swallow whole."
"I've seen the effect." Heather laughed.
* * *
By the end of the evening, Heather's head was spinning. She was full of the snacks that had been served, as well as the beer and wine. Perhaps a bit too full, since the spinning head might not be just from all the conversation. She had stayed with Jacob, mostly. He moved from group to group, sometimes listening, sometimes conversing. That had helped, since it kept Heather from feeling that she was in over her head.
She took a deep breath of the misty air. "Wow. Who knew?"
"Well, I did," Jacob said. "Perhaps it is just because everyone is always so busy. You up-timers, at any rate. Always working, day and night, so many of you. Always doing."
"I suppose." Right now, Heather thought, what I'd really like is for you to take my arm again. The thought surprised her a bit. Then she realized that with Judy and the other girls gone to Magdeburg, she was simply lonely, without the companionship she'd come to rely on. Which was another surprise, that she relied on anyone.
He didn't take her arm again, though. Or try to kiss her good night at the door. Or any of the other stuff a guy who was interested in you tried to do. It was kind of disappointing.
* * *
Jacob didn't try to kiss her that night. He didn't have the nerve. Trying to kiss a young, pretty girl who is much richer than you are—and an up-timer to boot—took nerve. At least for Jacob it did. It took several more visits to Rachel Hill's gatherings before he worked up the nerve. Plus some not-that-gentle prodding by Rachel. It was the covetous looks that Pierre de Cancavi was casting Heather's way that finally pushed Jacob to boldness. Pierre really wanted someone to fund his airplane and Jacob was afraid that he would try to seduce the money out of Heather. Well, at least that's how he justified it to himself.
The Launcher
By Richard Evans
Bern, Swiss Confederacy, Early Spring, 1634
"Will this spot work?"
"Looks high enough." A few steps toward the edge of the cliff let Peter gaze down toward the ever—but slowly—growing lake below. The lake, cut out of the fast-flowing River Aare, had been intended to slow the river down as it passed the city and allow for new dockyards to be built, as well as to give the city access to the river rock needed for its explosive growth. Bern was trying its best to be the center of technology and science in the Swiss Confederacy.
Technology, dribbling in from the city called Grantville, was making its way to Bern and Lucerne. The other cities of the confederacy, excepting Basel, were waiting to see which way the winds blew.
Karl and Karl were surprised when Peter, a journeyman clock-worker and newly-named master machinist, had offered them a deal to develop an aerial launcher overlooking the new shipyard. He never really told them what it was for, but he needed their help and was paying for their expertise.
"Come spring the pamphlets will go out. By summer we are to expect many competitors to arrive. You've seen the latest posters, have you not? Should more arrive, we'll stretch out the competition. The visitors will spend all summer perfecting their machines and I will be enriched by the monies they spend. It's my shops they will rent to perfect their designs to make the parts they need!
"Imagine every mountain top having its own catapult and a messenger craft to fly out mail, or warnings, and even to take the rich for rides in the sky! We'll be rich," Peter exclaimed. "Rich indeed! We pay the winning designer a small prize, just a percentage of the entrance fees. And then we'll own the rights to develop the craft, too!"
"And all we have to do is build this launcher?" The shorter Karl, Karl Hoffman, crooked an eyebrow and peered over the edge. He was a carpenter by trade, but had recently been trained in machining aimed towards making better roads and tracks for the new mountain rails.
Due to their rich patron, Peter Gerber, he and Karl the Tall had work for the next year at least. And it was a council-approved job that would also count towards their new guild's training requirements.
All they had to do was design a proper horizontal catapult to give any craft placed on the tracks enough impetus to clear the thick trees below and—hopefully—reach the new lake . . . or perha
ps even beyond. Any craft, be they packages using something called "parachutes" or man-powered gliders or even aircraft powered by pedals and gears or engines. Karl had seen his first engine last winter. It just powered a small toy boat, but ran on nearly pure alcohol, naphtha and lamp oil. But he could imagine larger versions of such engines.
Peter didn't care which craft was tried. He just had to prove that this launcher could and would be able to move a load across the mountains and do so faster than the best runners or riders could do it on the roads. If it also worked for aircraft, even better. That'd mean more money and more visitors to Bern.
Karl the Tall lowered himself over the side of the cliff, swinging over the drop and holding onto one of the ropes wrapped around what would become one of the anchor trees for their catapult. He swung back fearlessly, grabbed a branch, and pulled himself onto the solid rock of the cliff. "We can drive our shafts here and over there and build the deck and extend it out over the edge . . . ten, twelve feet easily."
"What about the tracking? What are we going to use for track?" Karl the Short asked.
"I acquired some of the older iron-capped wooden rail that they've replaced with good steel rail down at the mines. Don't you mind how I got it. Just know we got enough for a thirty-foot stretch on each side," Peter said smugly. "I know someone who knows someone who didn't want something embarrassing exposed."
"Wish the magazines you bought us had more pictures, Herr Gerber. I'm not so sure about the rope and pulley catapult system Herr Ramsdell came up with. Sure, his father's father was a shipbuilder and kept very good logs and drawings, but it's going to be a pain to raise the weights each time we try for a launch. And I don't trust any Englishman, even if he's thirty years dead and buried. And Herr Ramsdell is only a clock-worker himself. What's he know of mathematics and leverages?"
"The Technology and Science group at the new University is paying for most of the research. So the posters say," Peter offered. There was no such group in Bern, yet, though he was trying his best to make it so.
The closest thing there was to such a group was the new Library of Science and Technology that consisted of books copied from Grantville, available for anyone who could pay the proper fees. As well, articles and copies were sent south with every mail carrier and merchant heading through the Confederacy.
"You all saw the prize money we're offering for a proven flyer." Peter laid out the launcher's design drawings and began to pace off the space that would be needed. "If enough flyers show up, this project will pay for itself many times over and let me try out all of my other ideas."
The others muttered their agreement and started to work. There were a lot of trees that would have to be cut and cleared to make the runway and ramp for the catapult. If they were lucky, this competition would run every year, possibly becoming a tradition. One day there would be a winner, but by that time . . .
"Karl, I still think that water looks awfully hard and unforgiving from up here," Karl the Short whispered.
"Well, just be careful, Shorty. Pretend we're only building a dock here. Just mind that first step."
Three months later, Launcher One, overlooking the River Aare and the Bern Dock works
"Stand by for test firing of the aerial package load! Engage the safety locks once the weights are up! And be careful that the lines are even and not tangled this time! The last dummy load nearly took out the right pylon!"
Peter waved his red flag, and waited until the men manning the small coal gas engine that raised the counterweights acknowledged him.
"I'm going to check the tracks one more time and make sure the decking is solid. It's rained the last two days. I don't want any warped boards to ruin our dry runs!" He didn't move onto the tracks until he saw the two men manning the locks wave back with their own red flags
Peter inspected every board and inch of the track and, after securing himself in a harness, slid over the side of the ramp and swung down to check below. Huge stone-filled counterweights hung to either side of him. The drop to the lake was a good four hundred seventy feet or more on this side of the valley.
He took out his spyglass and scanned for the marked sight lines his boatmen were dropping, then noted the way the flags were marking the projected paths the test aircraft would eventually take. It all looked perfect.
Today, they'd test site-to-site package delivery. Soon the real spenders, the flyers, would be coming in droves. Peter could feel it in his bones.
Gliders and self powered aircraft were the future. He was sure someone would win the prize, eventually. The Alps would no longer be obstacles cut through with bad roads, but something to enjoy from high above.
The inventors who came would be risking their lives for the honor and for the money. Peter had a small trophy made to pass out to all those who took the risk. He chuckled. The lake below would make a fine burial spot for most of them.
By the next week at the latest, posters would be going up all over Europe, inviting aspiring flyers and inventors to bring their flying machines to this location for the competition. The initial copies had gone out before winter had set in full.
He clambered back up, wiped the sweat out of his eyes, stomped his foot to test the carpentry work once again, and smiled. The breeze felt great. He wiped the sweat out of his eyes again. Soon science and technology would take a great leap here in Bern. Once the citizens below saw man flying, there was no way they could deny the truths of the world.
"Technology is coming, get on board or get knocked aside. Man will fly and the skies will be ours!"
* * *
"Peter's waving the green flag, Hans!" Karl the Tall exclaimed.
"Are you sure?" Karl the Short asked.
"Look for yourself!"
"But we don't have a test-load in place. And I haven't checked the hawsers yet!"
"You going to argue with the boss? He waves the green flag, we pull these levers."
"There he goes. He stomped his foot and is waving the green flag. Firing!"
* * *
"Well, Karl, at least we know the catapult works like Peter said it would." Karl the Short held his hat to his chest.
"Not our fault. He waived the ready flag. You saw it, I saw it. Heck, it's still on the deck over there."
"Yeah, he did at that. Think the investigators will believe us?"
"Probably. Heard he had a nice young wife, too." They exchanged glances.
"He did want to fly at least once in his lifetime, didn't he?" Karl the Tall offered.
"Yeah, he did. Went pretty far, too. Some of him farther than the rest of him, I think."
"Third and fourth marker out past the lake, at least."
"Do we record this as a new record for unassisted flight?"
"Dunno if the widow will buy it."
"Dibs on comforting her."
Every man has his priorities.
Fiddling Stranger
By Russ Rittgers
August 1633
Dolf was the first in his farming village to notice the stranger. Not that strangers walking or riding past on their way to or from Aschersleben were unusual. He was ten, old enough to have finished his formal schooling, or so his father said. "Got your letters and your ciphering, lad. That's all any farmer needs. Knowing more won't help till the fields or harvest the crops."
It was taking forever to get the growth Mama kept saying was coming and the top of his head still only came up to the middle of Papa's chest. Like Mama, he was dark-haired and stocky. Like Papa, he had a broad nose. They both agreed he'd be strong as an ox someday. His little sister teased him, saying his mind was already like an ox. Dolf held himself aloof from such comments made by his trivial sibling. Mostly.
Dolf spent some of his time playing with his friends in the village or the city and still helped his mother regularly in the garden and with the laundry. But most of the time he helped his father in the fields or herding the village's livestock. He was years away from considering that being ten years old and not havi
ng to go to school the next year was the best age—too young and small to be considered strong enough to work in the fields regularly and too old to be watched.
Last spring the family had gone to the city to sell their garden produce. Gretchen Richter had been speaking in the town square and he'd never seen a woman speak so powerfully. Men, even his father, paid attention. On the way home his father told him, "Wonderful to listen to, lad. But silver in the hand weighs heavier than words in the ear. Remember that."
Two months later, again entering the city, two men wearing blue sashes stopped them. "Name and village?" the man holding the open book asked.
"It's five pfennigs to sell in the market," the second man explained. "By order of the city council, the Aschersleben Committee of Correspondence now provides services and maintains order there. Pay now or pay after you sell your goods. Leave without paying and you won't be allowed back in without paying double."
Dolf looked up and saw Papa clench his jaw. "That's almost twice what it was the last time we were here. What ever happened to the regular city watchmen collecting the fee?"
The CoC watchman gave a smirking smile. "Some of us watched what was going on when they collected the money. Most of it stayed in their pockets. Several backs were bloodied after a rigorous questioning, and only the Committee watchmen are authorized to collect market fees. The city council certainly doesn't mind receiving far more than they used to."
Dolf thought for a moment Papa would refuse to pay the higher fee, but he relaxed and shook his head, his mouth still tight. They paid the fee and set up their small stall in the central marketplace.