Ring of Fire III

by Eric Flint

  And bandits and toll collectors could only stare up and wonder what small treasures might be nestled in the gondola above them, seemingly close overhead, but for all practical purposes, as distant from their greedy hands as the wealth of Prester John’s fabled kingdom.

  Pridmore’s balloon turned out to be a surprisingly simple device. Large when inflated—it would measure 150 feet in length, and 60 in girth—it became so small when deflated that it would easily fit in its own, longboat-sized, wicker gondola. Two engines—up-time devices once used to propel small, two-wheeled vehicles—provided the motive force that pushed the floating lozenge through the air. Close beneath the bag—or “envelope”—of the vehicle was what Pridmore called a “burner”—a special torch which sent new hot air upwards to keep the canvas inflated. Miro found himself deeply impressed by the elegance and practicality of the whole vehicle.

  Or at least, of its many unassembled pieces: they lay about the master ballooner’s small barn in what almost looked like disarray, the envelope itself still a pile of unsewn strips. Miro gestured toward the gear: “It seems that you have a long way to go before your airship is ready, Mister Pridmore.”

  Marlon—who was also called “Swordfish,” for reasons having to do with an obscure pun on piscine nomenclature—nodded sadly. “Yeah, got a ways to go with this ol’ girl. Just me and Bernard doing the work. A few other folks pitch in—when they have the time.”

  “Can you not hire more workers?”

  Pridmore stared sideways at him. “On my salary? Not hardly. I’m lucky to have a week where I get twenty hours to work on her.” He sighed and stared longingly at the somewhat chaotic collection of airship components. “Not like I haven’t had offers, though.”

  Miro turned to face Pridmore. “To what offers are you referring?”

  “Well, there was a bunch of Venetian fellows who came out here just last week. Said they had come all the way from Italy just to learn how to build aircraft—any aircraft. But none of the airplane firms wanted ’em: they’ve got more staff and apprentices than they can pay, right now, and these Venetian fellas didn’t have any prior experience with up-time machines. So they wound up coming here. They were plenty interested but couldn’t stick around: said they needed a salary more than knowledge, so they left. Can’t say as how I blame them. Last I heard, they were trying to scrape enough dollars together just to get back to Venice.”

  Miro began walking to the barn door; Pridmore looked up, surprised, and trotted after. “Where are you goin’, Mr. Miro?”

  “If you would be so good as to drive me back to town, Mr. Pridmore, I have some new business to conduct there.”

  * * *

  An hour from closing time, the tubular door chimes sounded, causing Nicolo Peruzzi to look up from securing the display case in the front room of Roth, Nasi, & Partners, Jewelry Sales and Lapidary Services. His first instinctual hope was that it might be a customer, but one glance made him conclude otherwise.

  He had seen this fellow before—a handsome, saturnine man of about thirty years with a hint of the hidalgo about him. And today he seemed more Mephistophelean than usual. Perhaps it was because he entered the store alone, and Peruzzi was—uncharacteristically—without nearby employees. Perhaps it was because of the fellow’s careful backward glance into street, as if checking to ensure that he was neither followed nor under observation. Or perhaps it was because of the long, straight dagger he produced as soon as the door had closed behind him.

  Peruzzi’s hand went to the large button under the rear lip of the display case and remained there, quite taut. Was this fellow—named Miro?—really going to rob him? In broad daylight? It was known that, although Miro was a wealthy man, he was struggling financially, still separated from his funds in Venice. But had he really become so desperate? And so stupid? Did he really think he would get more than a mile from the store before the police—?

  But Miro smiled at Peruzzi and pointed with his finger—not the dagger: “May I borrow that small—do you say, ‘screwdriver’?—please?”

  Wordlessly, and now as thoroughly baffled as he had been terrified, Peruzzi complied.

  Miro used the screwdriver to wedge up the brass band that secured the narrow neck of the pommel to the end of the dagger’s grip. Then, exerting pressure in the opposite direction, he levered the pommel off the hilt. As it fell into Miro’s hand, Nicolo saw that it was hollow—and that, nestled inside, were two rubies and an emerald, the latter of a most prodigious size.

  Sometime later—seconds? minutes?—Nicolo Peruzzi realized that he had been staring at the green stone, and that his jaw had been hanging slack. As he closed it with an embarrassed snap, Miro smiled faintly and said: “I am told that up-time gem-cutting techniques can dramatically increase the value of these stones. What share of the emerald would you charge to undertake this service for me?”

  * * *

  The Venetians were not hard to find in the Thuringen Gardens. In the first place, there were nine of them. In the second place, they had obviously been nursing well-watered wine and a few pretzels for a very long time. In the third place, they wore the morose expressions of the underemployed.

  Miro sat down without invitation. “May I buy the table a round of drinks?”

  From that moment on, no invitations were needed. Nor credentials. Nonetheless, Estuban Miro provided a (strategically edited) review of his assets, prospects, and immediate interests: to wit, constructing an airship. He ended by staring hard at the one who seemed to be the group’s leader, a fellow named Franchetti. “Can you build it?”

  “What? Signor Pridmore’s airship?” Franchetti shrugged. “Our conversation with him never went so far. After all, we came here to build air-o-planes.”

  “Airplanes,” Miro corrected him.

  “Si: air-o-planes. But we learned that we did not have the skills for that work. Or the knowledge. And for every up-timer who could teach us, there are a hundred, maybe a thousand, down-timers who want to learn. And it is a long process—made longer if one does not read English.”

  “Or does not read at all,” grumbled his beefiest partner.

  “Si: this is true. The balloon—that would be easier. But Signor Pridmore, he does the work himself; he has no way to pay us. And we must eat.”

  “And, I fear, go home,” added another sadly, watching a bevy of jeans-clad young women, recent high school grads, swaying past, the denim evidently painted on their hips.

  Miro kept his eyes upon Franchetti’s. “If Signor Pridmore were to let you watch him at his work, and explain his procedures as he did so, do you think you could learn to build it?”

  The Venetian shrugged. Among the French, that gesture would have meant, “it simply cannot be done.” Among Italians, it meant “of course it can be done.” His words matched the motion: “Yes, the balloon is not so difficult, I think. We have the right kind of skills. Sails, wheel locks, ships, dyes, even clocks—one or more of us have had a hand in crafting all these things in Venice. The work we saw Signor Pridmore doing—the physical tasks—appeared simple enough. But what to do, and why, and in what order?” He shook his head. “Of this, we have only a small understanding.”

  “Or no understanding,” put in the beefiest one again. Miro decided that this large brooding fellow—apparently named Bolzano—could not be a bad sort: he was too forthright about his own cognitive limitations.

  The wiry leader went on. “But together, we could learn to copy what he does. Particularly if he will take the time to explain each action and its purpose.”

  Miro allowed himself the luxury of a small smile. “That, I think, can be arranged,” he said, producing a purse that attracted the eyes of the Venetians like a magnet attracts iron filings.

  October 1634

  Marlon Pridmore clapped an encouraging hand down on Franchetti’s narrow shoulder. The Venetian foreman nodded gratitude and withdrew to study the burner yet again. “They’re clever guys, most of them,” Pridmore averred with a nod as he came
to stand beside Miro. “Hardly need all the tutoring you’re paying me to give them. They’ll build you a fine balloon, sure enough.”

  “They have an excellent teacher.”

  Pridmore looked abashed and very, very proud. “Aw, I jus’—”

  “You have taught them as no one else could. Their progress is extraordinary.” Yes, Miro added to himself, so extraordinary that they are already outpacing you, Marlon. Not that there was any surprise in that; a handful of part-time enthusiasts were no match for nine artisans working full time. But that speed of construction had a price—nine salaries worth, to be exact. So Miro had to use his limited funds as efficiently as possible, which gave him no choice but to complete his own airship before Pridmore’s. But one particular difficulty had begun to loom large: “Mr. Pridmore, I am concerned about our engines.”

  “What about them? Don’t they work?”

  “Yes—I mean, I believe so. But they are not the same as yours. They are—what is the term?—‘lawn-mower’ engines. And this is where the understanding of my men is so very limited. Is there any chance that they could receive some special tutoring in regards to these engines? That, for an additional consideration, you might guide them through—?”

  “An additional consideration? Don Estuban, your weekly fee for my services is plenty enough as it is. But I’ll tell you what: some of the real small-engine experts are over at Kelly Aircraft. And Kelly always needs extra money. So if you could push a few hundred at him—”

  “It will be as you say. And if you will be so kind as to be my intermediary to Mr. Kelly, I believe it is only right that you receive fifteen percent of the fee I will give him. This is your ‘finder’s fee’ principle, yes?”

  “Well, yes—but maybe you could help me with something else, instead.”

  “If I can, I will.”

  “Well, it’s like this: to make the canvas really hold the air, I need to coat it with a blend of different substances. And one of them is pretty hard to get, up here.”

  “Oh? And what is that?”

  “Gum arabic. I’m telling you, with a few gallons of that stuff, I could—”

  “I believe I have a connection for that substance, Mr. Pridmore. And I think he owes me enough old favors that it can be made available at a very reasonable price.”

  Pridmore’s gleeful expression made his answer redundant. “Not a problem, Don Estuban. Hell, I was worried that I might not be able to afford enough—or maybe any—gum arabic. So this is great news, just great.”

  “I am happy to be of service,” said Miro with a small bow, and a smaller smile.

  “Not as pleased as I am for your help, Don Estuban.”

  Staring at the engines, Miro straightened and let his smile expand. “I assure you, Mr. Pridmore, the pleasure is all mine.”

  December 1634

  Francisco Nasi watched Piazza reading the report. “Miro’s airship is already closer to completion than Pridmore’s. Much closer.”

  “Mmmm-hmmm,” Piazza subvocalized.

  “He’s very good at what he does.”

  “Pridmore?”

  “No: Miro.”

  “You mean, building airships?”

  Nasi sighed; every time he made one of his brief returns to Grantville, Piazza seemed to take a subtle delight in becoming marginally more obtuse. “No, Ed: I mean Miro is very good at getting information, managing relationships, coordinating disparate operations and drawing upon widely divergent resources.”

  Ed put down the report. “What are you saying?”

  Nasi shrugged. “I’m saying that you might want to consider Miro’s capabilities in the context of a more—permanent—relationship with this government.”

  “You mean, as a spy?”

  “No. As an intelligence officer. Maybe even chief of intelligence, eventually.”

  Piazza put aside his glasses: it was an exasperated gesture. “Francisco, we’ve already got one of those.” He stared meaningfully at Grantville’s resident spymaster.

  “For now, yes. But Mike anticipates that when his time as prime minister is over, he is likely to relocate, and my own interests might take me in the same direction.”

  “Oh, so we’re back to the imminent Prague exodus again....”

  “Ed, I understand you don’t welcome the thought of it, much less the actuality, but I have a duty there—not just to the USE, but to my people. Sooner or later, I must—” He sent a desultory wave toward the east. Toward Prague.

  Piazza made a sound that resembled “Umhh-grumpff” and looked at the reports on Miro’s airship project again. “So you think he could do your job?”

  Francisco shrugged. Was it his merchant’s instinct not to “hard sell” Miro—or a sense of pride—that kept him from simply answering “yes”? Instead he said, “His mind is nimble, highly adaptive, but also capable of sustained focus. He speaks and writes six languages. He is a trained observer of nuances, including social ones—such as those required to construct and to live an assumed identity for almost ten years. He has extraordinary knowledge of one of our most urgent intelligence areas, having unparalleled familiarity with waters, ports, and markets of the Mediterranean. And he learns very, very quickly.”

  “So you’ve been watching him? And he’s reliable?”

  “Yes, to both.”

  “Do you think he knows you’re watching him?”

  “Of course he knows. As I said, he’s very good at what he does.”

  January 1635

  Marlon Pridmore walked around the large barn that Miro had rented, staring at the neatly arranged airship components at its center.

  “You know, I would have been happy to do this without the extra—”

  “Mr. Pridmore, please. It is the least I could offer. Your presence here is of immense help to us.”

  Pridmore snorted out a laugh. “Really? Hell, I wish my shop looked so good—or I was so far along.” He started walking again, eyeing the rows of empty fuel tanks professionally. “Giving yourself a lot of operating range, eh?”

  “Or more payload over shorter distances—and at higher speeds.”

  Pridmore stopped. “How high a speed?”

  “It is our objective to be able to operate at thirty-five mph.”

  Pridmore started, then glanced back at the envelope. “Thirty-five mph? Then you’re building it wrong.”

  Miro felt a stab of panic deep in his bowels, but gave no sign of it. “Wrong in what way?”

  “Well, you need a keel and a nose-frame; you can’t just have an unsupported bag.”

  Miro’s response was the most routine sentence he used when discussing balloons with Marlon Pridmore. “I don’t understand: what do you mean?”

  “I mean, if you try to get an unsupported hot air envelope up to 35 mph, it’s going to deform on you.”

  Miro felt an incipient frown and kept it off his face. “Can you explain that to me...erm, visually?”

  “Oh, sure. You’ve seen soap bubbles, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “And they stay round as they float through the air, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “But what happens if you blow too hard on them—either with the wind or against it?”

  Miro thought for a second, then nodded. “Their shape begins to stretch, to warp. They can’t really be pushed very hard without, without—”

  “We would call it ‘being deformed by atmospheric drag.’ It’s the same with a loose-bag blimp; there’s only so fast you can go before the ‘nose’ of the bag starts dimpling and buckling: the air inside can’t hold the shape against the pressure generated by the air friction on the outside.”

  “So you need a...an ‘internal skeleton’ to help it keep its shape.”

  “Right. In this case, you don’t need more than a keel and a nose-cone—sort of like a spine with an underslung umbrella at the front.”

  “I see. And you would know how to make this?”

  “Why, sure. And Kelly will have some good tip
s for you, too. Better, maybe.”

  “This is most helpful: please, let me compensate you for your advice.”

  “You already do compensate me for my advice. Damn, your money is helping me far more than my advice is helping you.”

  Miro smiled as he opened his purse. “Trust me when I insist that you are quite mistaken in that assumption, Mr. Pridmore; quite mistaken, indeed.”

  March 1635

  Despite the bitter wind that drove the cold rain sideways into every pedestrian’s face, Francisco Nasi waved broadly at Miro and crossed the street toward him.

  Miro waved back and smiled. He had not seen much of Nasi over the last five months. Mike Stearns’—and Ed Piazza’s—spymaster extraordinaire was usually in Magdeburg, often closeted for marathon meetings, and sometimes “traveling on business” to places about which only one thing was known: they were far away from Grantville. In consequence, Miro had had few opportunities to converse with Nasi again—and whenever he did so, Miro sensed—what? A shadow of guilt? A hint of regret?

  Miro took Francisco’s extended hand, noted the same slightly melancholy smile. “How are you, Don Francisco?”

  “I’m freezing, so my senses still function. And you, Don Estuban?” Nasi’s use of his full, correct title was code, but its message was quite clear: Nasi had learned that Miro’s Venetian funds had finally arrived, were more considerable than even he had guessed, and—most importantly—were the proof positive that the xueta was exactly who he had claimed to be almost eight months earlier.

  “I am well enough, Don Francisco. And my project is nearing completion.” As if you didn’t already know that.