by Eric Flint
"That's right. It was very unchivalrous of them to refuse."
An hour later, Gustavus Adolphus was still rattling on about his tennis triumphs. His aide had to force him to go on to the next meeting.
Wendell Residence, Magdeburg
August 1633
"So, how was your trip?" asked Judy the Elder. "And would you like more salad?"
"No more, thank you," said Judy the Younger. She finished off the last leaf of lettuce and drank some weak beer. In Magdeburg, it was much safer than water. "The trip was fine, Mom. We even got to play a new kind of tennis in Halle."
"Who taught you?"
"We learned from Mister Hobbes. He's not just a philosopher, he plays tennis. Now that's something I bet Ms. Mailey didn't know.
"Anyway, we went to this gigantic tennis court, and they showed us how to play what they call 'royal tennis' in England. You play indoors, in kind of an enclosed monastery courtyard, and you serve onto a ten-foot-tall rooftop so it bounces on the other side, and then both players can bounce it off the walls, and there are goals you can sink the ball into to score a point, and—
"Who's 'they'?"
"Hobbes and his student."
"Somehow, I don't remember your mentioning him traveling with a student."
"Oh, yes, that's how come Hobbes was in Grantville in the first place. He was guiding one of the Cavendishes around Europe."
Momma raised an eyebrow. "One of the male Cavendishes?"
Fletcher Wendell, who had been paying more attention to the food than to the conversation, heard the magic word "male" and came alert. But he let his wife continue to examine the defendant.
"Yes."
"A fellow middle-aged philosopher?"
"Not exactly. William is around my age. Actually, younger than me."
Fletcher finally intervened. "You do remember our dating rule, young lady."
"Oh yes. But we weren't alone at the tennis court, there were a half-dozen of my friends there. Plus Mister Hobbes, who's an adult, and William's servants. So it was an adult-supervised group activity. Not a date."
"Servants, plural? Just what is William's rank?"
"He's the earl of Devonshire. And very rich."
"I hope you aren't planning to take advantage of him." Fletcher reddened. "I mean, economically."
"I haven't anything to sell to him right now. We're still waiting for the printers to finish the brochures for our South Sea Trading Company."
"Very funny."
"Our slogan will be 'Send Your Money South.' "
Magdeburg
August 1633
Heather was not, she admitted to herself, the sort of person who let her emotions hang out. In fact, she looked down on those who did.
But when you were interested in a guy, all those inhibitions kind of got in the way.
She had traveled all the way from Grantville to Magdeburg, and she wasn't even sure that William knew that she liked him.
Anyway, she had been happy when Judy had excused herself to spend a quiet evening with her family. Judy was a great friend and all, but she was just a little too pretty for Heather's peace of mind. When William was around, that is.
So, she and Kelsey were walking arm and arm in the market square, with Derrick and William behind them. "You know what to do," she whispered to her sister.
"Oh, look at that," Kelsey said, pointing to one of the stalls. "Isn't that darling? Derrick, come with me. I think I might need your help."
"What?"
"Come . . . now."
That left Heather alone with William. She was searching for the right way to start, when he spoke up.
"So how long have you known Judy?"
Arrgh, she thought. "For years."
Her little tryst went rapidly downhill from there. He wanted to know all about Judy's likes and dislikes. And was she betrothed to anyone.
Arrgh.
Kelsey and Derrick emerged. Kelsey took one look at Heather, and her smile died stillborn.
"The weather has suddenly gotten chilly," Heather said. "I want to go back to the inn. Now."
By the end of the week, when it was time to head back to Grantville, Heather had more or less forgiven Judy. And even William. He probably wouldn't like doo-wop music, after all.
But she was thinking of a few new additions to the Trommler Records song collection. "I'm Henry the Eighth" was one. "Mad Dogs and Englishmen" was another.
Imperial Palace, Magdeburg
August 1633
Hobbes stared perplexedly at the paper in front of him. He had been assured that all applicants for positions with the CPE administration had to fill out this form.
Some of the questions were perfectly reasonable, others . . . less so.
But the most puzzling point of all was . . . why did they call it an SF-171?
Grantville
August 1633
Judy and Millicent were lying on the bed in Millicent's room. Millicent's mom had gone ballistic at the first mention of the possibility of a "field trip" to Magdeburg. The two had a big argument, and Millicent had been grounded for the entire week that Judy and the others were away.
Judy had been worried that Millicent would hold this against her, but she didn't. Of course, Millicent insisted on a blow-by-blow account of the whole journey.
That completed, Judy said, "I've been thinking."
"About boys? Mister W, perhaps?"
"About tennis."
Millicent started warbling the love song from the Titanic movie. The DVD had been released some months before the Ring of Fire.
Judy slugged her with a pillow. "All right, about both," she admitted. "But I want to talk about tennis."
"So talk."
"It's getting harder and harder to find balls that are bouncy enough for twentieth-century tennis. Once we open the can, the balls lose their air within weeks. And even in the can, they're only good for two years or so."
"You're thinking about switching to royal tennis?"
"That's right."
"But we can't play in Halle, thanks to that jerk of a ballmeister. And constructing a matching tennis court in Grantville would be real expensive."
"It's a catch twenty-two. We could justify it if we had the players, but we won't have the players until we have the court. Still . . . tennis used to be a very posh sport. Just the thing to play at the Higgins Hotel."
"Yeah, but there's no way OPM would fund constructing a real tennis court there. Not until the hotel was in full operation and was getting enough down-time visitors who knew the game."
"Yeah." Judy puttered around a bit. "Wait. I was just thinking. About the back courtyard. It's much like a cloisters. And it isn't all that wide."
"You're right! And the walls have sloped roofs, to keep the snow off them."
"It would mean playing tennis like they did it a few centuries ago. I mean, back when they played in monasteries instead of customized courts. But it would be a way to work up interest in the game."
"And if enough people got interested, then maybe OPM would decide it was a good investment."
"William told me that there are almost two thousand tennis courts in Paris. And that when one of the indoor markets burnt down in 1590, it was replaced with a tennis court, because that was more profitable."
"We would need someone to teach the game. Someone that was willing to teach women to play."
"What about William, when he comes back?"
"Well, there would be a lot of snob appeal in having an earl as a teacher. But I don't think he knows how to make the balls and rackets. Perhaps Mister Hobbes, the seventeenth-century know-it-all, does?"
Judy had written to William: "So, if someone were to build a real tennis court in Grantville, what would be the right dimensions?"
When she got his response, she read it aloud to Millicent: "There are no two tennis courts which are exactly alike. They can have different dimensions, different winning openings, and so on."
She looked at Millicent. "T
hat's crazy, don't you think?"
Millicent disagreed. "Crazier than baseball stadiums?"
When she had a chance, Judy stopped by the Grantville Public Library. The 1911 Encyclopedia Britannica had plenty to say about "royal tennis," including the typical dimensions of the various parts of the court.
Enough to show that the inner courtyard at the Higgins Hotel was an acceptable match. There would be compromises, of course. No main wall. And the grille side wasn't walled up. But she thought it might work. At least if any exposed windows were covered over. She didn't want to pay for broken glass.
She would ask William, when he got back from Magdeburg, to take a look.
Grantville
September 1633
"Hi, Heather!" William smiled at her. "I just got back last night. Took my time getting up this morning."
Heather picked up her books and hurried off. "Hey, what's the matter?" William said as she retreated.
Derrick Mason was on the other side of the street, and William waved to him. Derrick Mason turned his back.
What has gotten into these people? William thought. He walked over to the public library. Hobbes was already at a desk, with books piled in front of him. Plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose.
"Hello, Mister Hobbes."
"Good morning, Lord Devonshire."
"I haven't suddenly acquired leprosy, have I, Mister Hobbes?"
"What on Earth leads you to ask such a question?"
"My American friends haven't been very friendly today."
"Yes, I know why. I found out when I arrived at the library. Fortunately, the librarians didn't hold it against me."
"Hold what against you?"
"Against us. England, Spain and France have formed an alliance, the League of Ostend. The League defeated the Dutch Navy off Dunkirk."
"Good for them. The Dutch deserve it, after torturing our people on Amboina to make false confessions of treason."
"Indeed they do. But no one here believes that the League is arrayed against the Dutch alone. King Charles has transferred the American colonies to France. And the Grantville embassy in London has been imprisoned in the Tower. Do you know who is in that embassy?"
"Melissa Mailley, my friends' teacher."
"That's right. And Rita and Tom Simpson, Friedrich and Nelly Bruch, Darryl McCarthy, and Gayle Mason. All popular people here. I'd stay away from Thuringen Gardens for a few days, unless you have a taste for one-against-many bar brawls."
"So, are we prisoners, too?"
"Not yet, at least. But we do appear to be persona non grata, all of a sudden." Hobbes closed the book in front of him with a snap. "The attitude of the Americans is not our only problem."
"How so?"
"Your license from the Privy Council to 'go beyond the sea' says—" Hobbes changed the pitch of his voice to indicate that he was quoting from memory " '—do not haunt or resort onto the territories or dominions of any foreign prince not being with us in league or amity, nor wittingly keep company with any person or persons evil affected to our State.'
"If you stay, it could be interpreted as treason."
The coach was loaded to capacity. Hobbes and William had acquired so many curiosities in Grantville that if they put on another bag, the horses would just go on strike.
William was feeling sorry for himself. When he asked at the hotel desk that they connect him with Judy, they had told him, "she's out." Again and again. William suspected that she would be "out" until he left town.
William was leaning against the coach, waiting for Mister Hobbes to finish checking the hotel's arithmetic, when Judy appeared.
"Hi," he said.
"Hi, yourself."
William shifted from one foot to another. The silence grew.
"I know it's not your fault. I mean, the Treaty of Ostend. But people I know are going to end up fighting, and maybe dying, over this. Derrick and Kelsey Mason are in the military. And even civilians are at risk—we haven't forgotten the Croat Raid on Grantville."
"I know . . . But from what Mister Hobbes has taught me, history has a way of flipping things around. Enemies today, allies tomorrow."
"Yeah." Judy blinked, as though she was trying to hold back tears. "But it can be a long time in-between flips."
"Maybe . . ." William paused, wondering how to say it. "Maybe, someday . . ."
Judy gave him a little smile. "Yeah. Maybe someday. Write me, okay?"
"I will."
The coach was ready and the men were getting impatient. It was time to go. "Ah . . ." William wanted to say more but didn't have any words. "Ah . . ."
Judy leaned forward and gave him a quick kiss. "Maybe next time." She ran off, back into the hotel.
William watched the doors for a moment, but she didn't come back. Instead, Hobbes emerged. "Lord Devonshire, are you ready?"
"Yes, Mister Hobbes. It's time to go."
Hobbes and William stood on the docks of Hamburg. With the ports of Holland under blockade, Hamburg was busier than ever. The servants carried William's baggage, piece by piece, onto the ship that would take him home.
But Hobbes was not going home. He had told William everything that needed to be passed on to his family. It was far too sensitive to set on paper. While Hobbes didn't point it out, he knew that this knowledge would give William a kind of power he had never had before. Hobbes hoped that William would profit from it.
William would also give his mother an explanation of why Hobbes was staying behind. First, to continue his researches into up-time history that could affect Cavendish interests. Secondly, so that he could send word back home of any critical new developments.
Of course, Hobbes had other reasons, too. William knew them.
"Mister Hobbes, are you sure you are going to live in Grantville permanently?"
"The ball is still on the roof, Lord Devonshire."
Hobbes was quite sure that only the Americans would tolerate his views toward religion. While the Cavendishes might protect him from charges of heresy, such protection would probably come at the price of his remaining silent on any matter that could give offense to anyone.
Such silence was a price he had resolved not to pay.
Still, change might come to England, too. Perhaps sooner than the king, or even Doctor Harvey, expected.
William embraced him. "Goodbye, Mister Hobbes. I shan't forget all your lessons. And I will have your things sent to you."
"When you write to me, do not put my name anywhere on the letter. I would like to leave as vague as possible where I am and what I am doing."
"But how will the letter be delivered to you?"
"You must place some token upon it that the people in Grantville would understand, but the censors in England will not. A drawing of a whale to signify Leviathan, perhaps."
Hobbes paced. "Or perhaps not. The king may have sent agents to Grantville, to find every encyclopedia reference to Englishmen of our day, and the whale would surely point to me."
"Mister Hobbes, I promise to try to come up with something better. I have a long sea ride with nothing to do but think."
"Letter for you, Mister Hobbes."
"Thank you." Hobbes ripped it open the letter. It was from William. At least, Hobbes recognized the handwriting. The letter itself was unsigned. It thanked Hobbes for his efforts, and assured the unnamed recipient that he was to consider himself still on the family payroll. Without naming any particular family.
And there was a laundry list of gadgets to collect for William's uncles "if it wouldn't be too much trouble."
Carefully folded inside the main letter was a second one, addressed to Judy. Hobbes didn't open that one. Now that William was outside his custody, it was none of his business.
He decided that he would bring it by the Higgins Hotel and deliver it personally, as Judy might not otherwise realize who it had come from.
The next day, Hobbes spotted the postman as he walked down the street. Hobbes called out through his window. "That l
etter you gave me. How did you know it was for me?"
"It was obvious, Mister Hobbes." The postman waved and walked off.
