Grantville Gazette. Volume 21

by Eric Flint

  Karol addressed Lorenzo. "If I ever get my hands on that son of a bitch, I am personally going to wring his neck." He shook his head so his droopy jowls swung back and forth.

  "Well Mr. Volz, you will have to travel to France, or Spain, or wherever they sell those files. Although they may be dead before you get to them, if the files are found to be bogus too quickly." Lorenzo cut another rope, and Karol could move his legs.

  "Much better. I have feeling back in my legs," he said, with his typical matter of fact monotone. Ursula grinned widely at him.

  Karol turned to his daughter, with just a hint of pride in his eyes. "But why did you do this, honey? It was dangerous. Too dangerous. You have never done anything like this before. Not even remotely like this. What possessed you? You became involved!"

  "Papa, I have told you before. I don't want to live on the outside of the world any more. I want to be a part of it. A part of a community, not a parasite. I wanted to grow, to put down some roots. This was an opportunity to do both, and do some good for this place at the same time. So, when Lorenzo contacted me last year, and asked me to watch for someone to approach me about something like this, I had to say yes."

  Finally Lorenzo cut the last of the ropes holding Karol, and they both helped him to his feet. He shook his legs and arms to restore circulation. He held out his arms to his daughter, and they embraced.

  "Papa. You frightened me with your anger. And when you attacked Ian, I did not know what to think. It didn't seem like you."

  Elsa walked quietly into the room with mounds of fabric in her hand. Karol looked at her, and they both nodded.

  "It was me, Ursula. When you were young, there was a village that was destroyed. I could do nothing about it. I was tied up, and your mother was…"

  Elsa joined them in a quiet embrace. "Maybe, someday we will tell you more, Ursula. That is enough for today."

  Ursula stifled a sob. "I never knew, Papa. But I don't want to leave here. It's safer here than it is anywhere. This can be our home. Please."

  "I like it too. I have said it to you before, Karol. This is a good place," Elsa added.

  Ursula looked into his sad droopy face, and hoped. The anger in his eyes flared for a moment, and he hugged them harder.

  Karol sighed. "I suppose we could stay a while longer. Just to see how things go."

  ***

  The Pitch

  Domenic and DJ diCiacca

  Today the road was perfect, dry enough for wagon wheels but not yet dusty. Ian, who had sold a few of the up-time plows that were in the fields, was delighted. He had a new product in the wagon that he said was a surefire-couldn't-miss item, and he and Bert were going to revolutionize a different part of society, a part as yet untouched by the ongoing industrial and agricultural revolution. This far out in the country, a lot had not yet changed.

  They checked off the inventory, made sure the two goats were firmly hitched to the back of the wagon, and slapped the mule into motion. Ian called "Up, Napoleon!" and laughed. Bert had no idea what it meant. Ian had picked up all kinds of up-timer phrases and ideas. But the mule's name was Oliver.

  Three days later they were still on the road. They had yet to make a sale. Oh, they'd had fair luck with other, smaller farm implements, and farm bulletins and pamphlets and plans. Dream Farms Holding Company lampwork glass beads were doing especially well. But they had sold no washing machine kits, which was the larger part of their inventory. Ian was entirely upbeat. "Nothing to worry about. It takes time to develop a good pitch. A peddler hears 'no' a lot more often than he hears 'yes.' Once we sell the first one and word gets around, they'll fly off the back of the wagon. So relax, enjoy the ride, and enjoy the day. Life is short. Get happy. Everything is going fine." Ian was talking just to hear himself talk. Maybe he needed the pep talk as much as Bert did. Ian talked a lot, when he was inclined.

  A smartass remark at the wrong time to the wrong people had cost Bert his tongue, years ago. While he could still make most sounds, he rarely said anything. He said even less now. He was grumpy. His butt hurt from sitting on the hard bench of the wagon, his feet hurt from walking, and his head hurt from the frustration of watching Ian make his pitch. In Bert's humble opinion; nothing was more tightly fisted, closed minded, mulishly stubborn, or suspiciously grim than the people in the little towns and hamlets like the ones they kept passing through.

  Ian was the salesman, or peddler, or drummer, or bullshitter, whatever anyone wanted to call it. He seemed to like everybody he met. That was fine.

  Bert was security. He was the muscle. This meant Bert did all the work while Ian talked. Ian talked, and Bert fed the goats. Ian talked, and Bert unloaded things from the wagon. He put the demonstration model together, if they got that far, and he went for water, and did every other damn thing, like unhitching the mule and setting camp or handing Ian the right display model or illustration, or mug of beer. All the while, Ian talked. And it didn't do a damn bit of good, as far as Bert could see.

  Ian thought otherwise. He talked about weather, and war, and seed crops and hay, and tough times past and good times to come, and the hopes and fears of the average Joe. He avoided talk of the court, and politics, and religion, which of itself was a wonder, but probably a necessary one. He softened the waters for future sales of scissor cutters and hay rakes and hand tools and farm gadgets of all kinds, and he planted seeds of his own in fertile ground when he got the chance. But somehow or other, whenever he broached the subject of the washing machine he got stonewalled. Froze out. Stopped cold.

  "We've got a laundry." Some communities had a communal laundry.

  "My wife washes my clothes. She does just fine." Never tell a man to go ask his wife. About anything.

  "We have a river right over there. What do we need that gadget for?"

  "We just don't need it."

  "It costs too much."

  "Are you saying my clothes are dirty? You sayin' I stink?"

  One time they had back-peddled right out of town. Mostly they were treated fairly, and they were listened to, and they were given a polite 'no.' Even when they were enthusiastically received and did well with the other products, they received a firm no when they got to the washing machine. Mostly Ian talked to the men, while the women looked out of doorways and held the children back. Bert, of course, stayed silent.

  Sometimes Bert juggled, and often in the evening he and Ian played penny whistles, and drank beer at the local pub, and made a few more sales-and probably a lot more future sales, according to Ian. But they sold no washing machines. Twice they were allowed to set up and demonstrate, and women watched and men stood about with sarcastic expressions, and children teased the goats and had to be scolded by apologetic parents, but after all the fuss and bother and activity, nothing happened. Ian was untroubled by this. His plan was to travel out for two weeks, planting seeds, and then turn around and retrace their steps, reaping harvest.

  Bert had his own opinion about the plan. But over the next week, they worked up an act, and Bert began to enjoy himself, and they were more and more allowed to set up the demonstration model.

  They would pull the mule to a stop in the middle of some dozen or two buildings, sometimes haphazardly placed, sometimes organized into a tidy square or main street, and Ian would introduce himself and comment about the weather and pass on whatever news they had picked up in the last little hamlet. Bert would look about for the nearest mud puddle and promptly trip over his own feet and fall into it. Or he would drop something heavy on his toe when he was unloading the wagon, and pinch his fingers while setting up the demonstration model. Once a goat nipped his ass, and they worked it into the act. Ian talked, and Bert did shtick, and he always did his best to make it look unintentional. He pantomimed with increasing skill, and he exaggerated his muteness, and when people laughed it made him unreasonably happy. Ian seemed satisfied, too. They enjoyed themselves, they made a profit, and they moved on, but they sold no washing machines.

  They passed through th
e last little hamlet on their itinerary one lazy spring afternoon and a few hours later settled into a campsite where they would remain for three days. They fished, they sparred, they honed their fighting skills, they practiced with their penny whistles, they slept and they talked. Well, Ian talked. They tethered the critters on good pasture, they rubbed the mule down and checked his hooves and legs, they patched and greased tack and harness and wagon wheels, and they generally passed the time. Then they did a fresh inventory, hitched up the mule, tied the goats to the wagon, and started back. They passed through the same little hamlet without stopping, and without comment or incident.

  Late that afternoon they reached the next, and they were spotted long before they reached the first building. They drove into the middle of town and found the road blocked by two men; men they had drunk beer with and shared news and gossip with, men who had been friendly when they parted. Now these same men stood with arms folded and dark scowls on their faces, blocking the wagon. When Ian pulled Oliver to a halt, other men emerged from various buildings to close off retreat. More joined the ones in front. Grim-faced women stepped out from doorways, or looked out of windows, determined and resolute, hands on hips or holding heavy ladles. One woman had a beauty of a shiner around one eye. She had a definite attitude and a heavy iron fire poker in her fist. She glared not at Ian and Bert, but at one of the men, most likely her husband. One of the angriest looking men had a dark bruise along one cheek.

  Ian tied off the reins and sat up straighter, wearing his poker face. Bert, if he had a tongue, would have bitten it. It took every effort and a really hard self-inflicted pinch on his ear to keep from grinning. Grinning, he was sure, could be bad. They were on the verge of a riot.

  Ian, his eyes flat and his face blank, leaned slightly toward Bert and spoke out of the side of his mouth. "Looks like we're about to make a sale."

  And Bert figured it was true, and he pinched his ear again and bravely kept even a hint of a smile from his face. Later, perhaps, it would make a great story. But not now. When a dozen or so angry men surround you, it's best not to laugh just because they're not wearing trousers. And it was clear as sunshine that none of these men were going to be wearing trousers again until those very trousers had been washed in a reasonably priced, assemble-it-yourself, newfangled, goat-powered washing machine.

  ***

  Signs

  Gorg Huff

  "God damned piece of shit." The words came from under the automated money changer in the First National Bank of Grantville. And Reva Pridmore suddenly knew it was going to be a bad day. The AMC, or Simon Legree as the bank employees called it, was the unnatural child of two coke machines and a personal computer. It ate down-time coins and spat out dollar amounts. It also spat out the estimated silver content of the coins in question and sorted them into neat stacks that depended on the type of coin, the amount of wear and clipping they had suffered. And, as it had today, it broke down a lot. Well, Reva had had enough. The tellers had a lot to do these days; weighing coins by hand would mean long lines. She turned on her heel and headed for the offices.

  "Marlon, we're not going to do it. Not again," Reva said as she entered her husband's office.

  "Do what?"

  "Simon Legree is busted again. I'm not having my tellers spending the day weighing and measuring coins."

  "I surrender, I surrender." Marlon held up both hands but ruined the effect by grinning at her. Apparently seeing her expression, his grin faded a bit. "Let me look, okay?"

  Reva crossed her arms and waited, while Marlon fiddled with his computer. There was talk of consolidating the computers in the bank but on December 7^ th, 1631 it hadn't happened yet. "Wow. I didn't realize we had that much silver coinage on hand. Look, honey, why don't you just put a sign in the window saying we aren't buying down-time money today. We have plenty. We could sell down-time money for a week before we had to buy more."

  Now Reva smiled. "Fine. I'll have Ditmar do up one in German." Ditmar had a fine hand. Unfortunately his English wasn't great; Reva's German was worse.

  ***

  " Ja, I will sign make. Is good." Ditmar said. He was pretty sure he understood what was needed. He didn't like weighing coins any more than any of the other clerks in the bank. He didn't see any reason to include an explanation of why. What was more important was that the text be large and easily read. So he made the letters three inches tall.

  Ditmar stood outside examined the signs and gave a sharp nod of satisfaction. The signs were placed on the large window next to the glass door. Frau Pridmore's sign was made in magic marker and the typical up-timer scrawl:

  WE APOLIGISE BUT THE BANK

  WILL temporarily NOT BE BUYING

  DOWN-TIME COINS. You can still exchange up-timer money for local coinage.

  Kein Ankauf von Silber.

  Verkauf nur gegen up-time Dollar zum aktuellen Kurs.

  Ja, that would work. Neither the English version of the sign nor the German gave the reason that they weren't buying down-time coins. But that really wasn't anyone else's business anyway. The German sign failed to specify that it was temporary, but so what. The English sign did and they would take the signs down when the machine was working again. What mattered was that both signs made clear that you could still get down-time coins at the First National Bank of Grantville; you just couldn't get rid of them there.

  ***

  Jekli Koriska, a merchant from Silesia, had sixty gulden, in HRE coins of various denominations, to deposit in his account in the Grantville Bank. They'd been sent to him by his partners back home, after they had sold a load of kitchen appliances that he had sent to Prague two months before. While not overly fond of the New United States, Jekli did like the bank. It was a really nice place to visit, with carpet on the floor and great big windows and central heat. It was a bitingly cold morning, in spite of the cloudless sky. He moved cautiously over the icy sidewalk. Then he looked up and saw the sign in the window of the bank. His first thought was annoyance. He would have to go to the Exchange. Then he remembered the stories about the up-timer techniques for turning copper into silver. He hadn't believed them; they were altogether too much like the philosopher's stone that alchemists and other charlatans were always searching for. After a moment, he thought about the stories in The Street about the balance of trade. He looked back at the sign and began to be a little worried.

  ***

  Jekli stood in line waiting for a clerk of the Exchange to weigh his coins. That was the other reason that Jekli disliked the Exchange. It was an open market, lots of people buying and selling lots of things. But before you could trade, you had to document that you had something to trade. Be it stock, money or apple futures, you had to provide documentation that you owned it. So exchanging his coins would be a two step process, first having them appraised and getting a note, then going onto the floor and looking for a buyer.

  He looked at the big board. Jekli neither knew nor cared how it worked. He just knew it was connected to the Exchange computer and that it kept a running total of the prices for anything that was traded on the floor. The rules of the Exchange required that each trade be recorded. The American dollar was trading at $148.50 to the guilder. Guilders were down a little from last week, but not too bad. Other down-time coins were also down a touch against the dollar. Turkish coffee was going for $23.00 a pound, chocolate for $32.00; puddled sheet steel $19.24 per pound. The puddled steel sheets were down a bit, which should decrease the cost of manufacture for knives. Swedish garcopper $105.67 per pound; Hamburg sheet-copper $121.76 a pound; Saalfeld copper sheets for $75.15 a pound. He wondered why the Saalfeld copper was so low. He didn't even look at the grain or cloth prices.

  The line was getting a bit long behind him as he waited. Apparently, he wasn't the only one waiting to have coins weighed. He looked back at the cage and noticed that a second clerk had arrived and was talking with the first. Then the second clerk spoke. "Ladies and gentlemen, would those of you who are having coins assayed form
a line to the right?" He indicated a second window. People on the floor were looking at the line and Jekli was starting to feel exposed as he moved to the right. So did most of the rest of the line.

  "Were you at the bank?" The man behind him asked.

  "Yes. You?"

  "Yes. What do you think is going on?"

  "I don't know." Jekli hesitated looked back at the big board, then asked, "Do you know anything about that electric process for turning copper into silver?"

  "What? I thought that was just an improved way of refining copper."

  "Oh," Jekli said, relieved. "I had heard that it turned copper into silver." He turned back around, not noticing the expression on the face of the man behind him. By the time it got to the back of the line, the rumor had it that electrolytic conversion would turn one ounce of copper into one ounce of silver or as close as makes no difference. It wasn't the only rumor that started in that line.

  By the time Jekli got his coins assayed a guilder was only bringing $140.00. By the time he found a buyer on the floor all he could get was $130.00. He almost didn't take it but he needed the dollars to buy steel knives.

  ***

  On the Exchange floor, people had noticed the length of the line. Rumors started circulating. After hearing a few, Abel Abrabanel, the young man who was acting as agent for the Abrabanels went to make a phone call. Badenburg didn't have a telephone exchange yet. The message had to be written down and hand-carried to Uriel Abrabanel's place of business. Then Herr Abrabanel would decide what to do, write another note and send it by runner to the telegraph and telephone office. Abel had to wait through all that to get an answer back. Meanwhile, on his own authority, he stopped buying down-time coins. If something was going on that would seriously drop the price of silver, he didn't want the family to take any more of a loss than could be avoided. His report was supposed to be in code, but Abel was young, worried by the rumors, and in a hurry. He didn't stop to encode it. Such messages were also supposed to be private. But people are people and the messenger boy who took the written message to Uriel Abrabanel was padding his income by providing the occasional tidbit to Reynfrid Drescher, a reporter for the Daily News.