by Eric Flint
She needed something more. This would be a male-only meeting, after all, except for Nicki.
Catherine snapped her fingers.
"What?" said Nicki Jo.
"You need something to add to your femininity," said Catherine, rustling through the dresser in their bedroom. "It never hurts to distract the male opposition in a business meeting. Ah, found it!"
"You want me to wear that?" said Nicki Jo, pouting. "I gave you that for Christmas."
"I know," said Catherine, holding up a pretty black lace choker. "But business is business," she said firmly.
* * *
Fortunately Nicki Jo's nervousness vanished within the first five minutes of the meeting. It helped that the governor-general, Louis de Geer, was effectively chairing the meeting. Colette Modi was De Geer's niece, and frequently invited Nicki Jo and Catherine to go along to the De Geer household for holiday visits. It was often a fun madhouse, since Louis de Geer had ten children under the age of eighteen.
The other two men at the meeting had been introduced as Alessandro Scaglia and Pieter Paul Rubens, diplomats from the Spanish Netherlands. Nicki Jo's eyes had widened a bit upon being introduced to the famous painter, but she had put a firm throttle on her desire to gush.
Her nervousness totally vanished when she heard what the diplomats were doing in Essen.
"Chloramphenicol? You want to make chloramphenicol? Why in God's name would you want to waste your resources trying to do that?"
Louis de Geer started to chuckle but quickly turned it into a cough. "Excuse me, Miss Prickett. Please continue."
Rubens waved his hand. "We have dozens, scores of soldiers dying every day from typhus, Miss Prickett. Surely we should do what we can to save their lives."
Nicki Jo suppressed a sarcastic remark. How typical. Keep the soldiers alive but screw the damn women, children and other civilians.
"I'd like to help you gentlemen, really I would, but the Essen Chemical Company won't be ready to produce chloramphenicol for at least another six months." She took a deep breath. "And when we do, I have to say that it is highly unlikely that we would sell you any for saving soldiers dying of typhus. Are you aware of what's coming to the lower Rhine Valley in 1635 and 1636?"
Scaglia and Rubens both shook their heads.
"Plague, gentlemen, bubonic plague. An epidemic bad enough that we found a few references to it in our books in Grantville, although the details were very sketchy. Even in Amsterdam, if the history holds true, the epidemic will kill twenty percent of the population. In the Rhine valley itself, it'll likely be much worse. In the history we came from, many of the towns saw sixty to seventy percent of their population die. So all of our chloramphenicol is going to go towards keeping plague victims alive over the next couple of years. But chloramphenicol is the cure, anyway. What about prevention?"
Rubens looked at her with a puzzled expression. "Prevention?"
Nicki Jo nodded. "A man named Benjamin Franklin in my country up-time had a wise saying that is very apropos here: 'an ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure.' You would do much better to prevent typhus, rather than trying to cure it after it strikes."
She frowned. "And something else comes to mind, for that matter. How do you know it's really typhus, in the first place? As I recall from lectures I went to in Grantville before I moved to Essen, typhus and typhoid were not distinguished by doctors prior to the mid-nineteenth century. So maybe some of your typhus cases are actually from typhoid, which has a different disease vector entirely. And then there are diarrheal diseases. Similar vector to typhoid. If you really want to lower the death rates for everyone, not just the army, you need to work on prevention."
Nicki Jo smiled at De Geer. "Like we are doing here in the Republic. Isn't that so, Governor-General?"
Louis de Geer smiled back. "Correct, Miss Prickett."
"What you need, gentlemen," Nicki Jo continued, "is a complete arsenal of products to fight disease, particularly bacterial diseases that are easily transmitted by insects. Typhus is a bacterial disease that is transmitted by lice, so you need an insecticide that can be effective at killing lice. You also would like that insecticide to kill fleas, since fleas carry the plague. In addition you want a rodent killer, since rats carry the fleas that carry the plague. Then you also want a disinfectant, an antiseptic, and some antibiotics. Here in Essen we are producing a disinfectant that is also a bleaching powder, calcium hypochlorite. Calcium hypochlorite can be used to purify water, which, in combination with a good filtration system, can cut typhoid and diarrheal diseases practically to zero. Our insecticide of choice is hexachlorobenzene, which is easier for us to produce than the DDT that Grantville is making. Most of our benzene feedstock right now, however, is going to produce aniline dyes. As an antiseptic a good choice is a pure, high-proof alcohol. In addition, to prepare for the more difficult process of making chloramphenicol, our chemists are producing small quantities of an antibiotic called sulfanilamide, which can be used to prevent wound infections.
"Something to keep in mind, however, is that the Essen Chemical Company is a business. We can't give this stuff away or we'll go bankrupt. Research costs and the capital costs of building production facilities alone have run into the hundreds of thousands of guilders. We could indeed sell you, right now, hexachlorobenzene, as well as plenty of bleaching powder that could be used to prevent typhoid and other water-borne diseases. The only difficulty is, our number one priority customer has pre-bought all our production for the next year. So you'll have to talk to them if you want to purchase any."
"Your number one customer?" asked Rubens.
"Yup," said Nicki, "the Republic of Essen." She waved her hand towards Louis de Geer.
De Geer rubbed his hands. "Shall we begin negotiations, gentlemen? I am sure we can reach some accommodation beneficial for all."
* * *
The cardinal-infante was silent for a long time after Rubens had finished communicating the terms of the agreement that the Republic of Essen had offered.
"Well," said the infante, "the terms do not seem too bad. They will sell us the insecticide, the bleaching powder and the water filtration units for the cost of production plus ten percent. But why do I get the impression that there is more that you are not saying, Pieter?"
Rubens nodded. "You are correct, Your Highness. There is indeed more. De Geer will sell us what we need, but only if we allow the Republic of Essen the chance to transport an equal amount of each product into Amsterdam."
"Is that all?" asked the infante.
"As far as the health products are concerned, Your Highness, but De Geer had more to propose."
The infante motioned him to continue.
"De Geer said that he was willing to accept up to ten thousand Counter-Remonstrant exiles in Essen, provided you acquiesce to the annexation by the Republic of County Kleve and County Moers. In addition, he proposes a secret twelve-year truce, effective upon the termination of the siege of Amsterdam, between the Republic of Essen and the country or political entity you represent at that time."
"Interesting," said the cardinal-infante quietly. "Anything else?"
Rubens nodded. "He also proposed that the Netherlands—however that term winds up being defined—negotiate what he calls a 'NEFTA' with the Republic of Essen. To promote trade and commerce."
"A 'NEFTA'?"
Rubens smiled. "It's one of those acronyms that the Americans are so besotted with. It stands for 'Northern European Free Trade Association.' De Geer, being a businessman, feels that the Republic's natural partners, other than the new United States of Europe, are the United Provinces and the Spanish Netherlands. Particularly the latter, actually, at least in the immediate period, given the current transportation networks and commercial markets. He was also quite explicit about his fears of French hegemony. He has read some of the same histories we have, Your Highness. With regards to the French, he said, a few ounces of prevention may indeed be worth many pounds of cure."
So, thought the cardinal-infante. De Geer knows, or guesses, what I have planned. And is willing to help.
Rubens knew as well, although the cardinal-infante had never said anything explicitly to him on the subject. But the man was almost as good a diplomat as he was a painter, and the Spanish prince was quite sure he had deduced the situation. And, over the past months, Rubens had made clear enough for his part that he'd transferred his allegiance from the Catholic powers of Europe in general to the rising new Catholic power in the Low Countries.
"So. Pieter, are you ready for another trip to Essen? I think Governor-General De Geer will be expecting an answer, don't you?"
Rubens nodded.
Burmashave
By Chris Racciato
May, 1633
Ernst Frohlich looked at the man sitting across the table from him. He was nondescript, clean shaven, and dressed in contemporary clothing, but his accented German identified him as one of the now famous "up-timers" from Grantville. The fact that the man had requested to meet him anonymously in a public house in Meiningen late at night in the middle of winter both puzzled and intrigued Frolich. Meiningen was quite some distance from Grantville, and separated from it by the entire Thuringenwald, to boot.
Still, the offer in the letter of a guilder and free meal for an hour of his time insured that he was there in the pub that evening. As a locksmith, he was used to traveling at the whims of customers to install locks in houses, estates and stores after they had closed for the day. He was no stranger to working by lamp light far into the night.
"So, may I ask what this meeting is about?"
The man looked around the room to insure that they were alone. It was late on a Tuesday night, and most of the other patrons had either left or were too drunk to pay much attention to the two men.
"Let me start by saying that I was told that you are a man of discretion, and I was assured that you could be counted on to keep any matters we discuss tonight strictly confidential. That is all that you need to do to earn the guilder I promised. For my part I can tell you that nothing that we will be discussing is in any way illegal. Do you agree to those terms?"
Ernst hesitated only for a moment and then nodded. The up-timer placed a heavy silver coin on the table and slid it over to him.
"Very well. I need an honest opinion from you." He reached into a pouch on his belt and withdrew a small metal object. He placed it next to the guilder on the table. "Can you make something like this?"
Ernst picked up the object and turned it over in his hands. He brought it closer to the candle on the table to look at the details. The metal work was exquisite. Not extremely ornate, but all of the parts fit together tightly. The clamp at one end was spring loaded, and there was a small amount of filigree work. All of the surfaces were polished to a silver gleam. There were a few places where this silver layer had worn through, and yellow brass was showing. Whatever it was, it had obviously come from whatever future world these people had come from. He sighed and handed it back reluctantly.
"No. I cannot. I have no idea how to coat the brass with the other metal. I am sorry."
The other man frowned. Then he pushed the thing back towards Ernst. "I am not worried about the plating. I am interested to know if you could do the rest of it."
"Yes. It is fairly straightforward. It is only made of a few pieces. If you just want one made out of brass, I could do it in a few days."
"Good. That is what I wanted to know. My next question is would you like to learn how to plate the brass like that?"
"Of course!" he said instantly. Over the past two years, the rumors of what these "Americans" could do had virtually flown across Thuringia and Franconia. Their metal work was renowned. To learn some of their techniques would give Ernst's shop a decided advantage over several of his competitors, if only in novelty value. "But now I have a few questions for you. Who are you, and what exactly is that thing"
The man leaned back and smiled. "You can call me Mr. Smith for right now. And that 'thing' is half of a small fortune if everything works out right."
"If it is worth a fortune, then why are we meeting secretly in a pub? Your people are supposed to be such wizards with making things. Why aren't they making these?" He eyed Mr. Smith suspiciously. "And most importantly, why me? And why do you want someone in Meiningen? I would think somewhere closer to
Grantville . . ."
The up-timer shook his head. "As I said, I was told that you are a man of discretion. One of your former clients assured me that you were both skilled, and exceedingly honest. I needed someone that I could trust with this project. The reasons I don't want to do it in Grantville—or anywhere nearby—are simple. First, everybody there has other projects that are considered more important. Second, nobody else so far as I know has thought of it yet. And third—this explains why I came to Meiningen—I don't want anyone in Grantville knowing what I'm doing. Not till I'm ready to start selling the product."
He leaned forward again. "If you look here"—he pointed to some stamped numbers underneath the clamp, barely visible in the flickering light—"it says 1912. That is when this was patented in the United States. That was almost ninety years before the Ring of Fire hit us. And the original models go back maybe twenty years before that. By the time we got here, this was old technology. Almost nobody used it anymore."
Ernst thought about that while he sipped his ale. He put the tankard down. "So I make you one of these things, and you can show me how to coat the metal? How is that worth a fortune?"
"No. You make several hundred of these things, I pay you for them and I show you how to plate them. Plating is the process. We can use gold instead of nickel to plate them. It is easier for me to get my hands on, and it will last longer."
"I still don't see how this is a fortune. I would be more than happy to make these for you, though to do hundreds would take some time, and you would have to pay some of the costs up front. I can't afford to have my shop only making these for you, and neglecting our other customers." He paused and looked back at the metal tool. "And you never answered my question. What is it?"
"It is called a 'safety razor.' It allows you to shave without having that six inch blade waving around your throat."
Mr. Smith picked up the razor and inserted a small, square blade into the clamp. He then held out his forearm and proceeded to shave the hair off a patch of it with remarkable ease.
"The reason I picked your shop to do this is because you have the ability to make these, I don't. I am not a metal worker. You are small enough that you should be able to keep this a secret until we are ready to hit the market."
"We?" Ernst asked, startled.
"Yes, we. In addition to payment for the handles, and the information on plating, I am prepared to offer you a quarter of the ownership of the business. Another quarter of the business is owned by the sword maker who is currently making the blades for these."
Ernst thought about that while he finished the ale. A quarter of a business for staying quiet. And he would be paid for the razor handles. It was an intriguing proposition.
"So why all of the secrecy?"
"It is simple. As you can see, this is not a complicated device. Any competent smith could make one. The key to this market is name recognition. You want people to always think of your name when they think of a product. In our century, advertising was a fine art. It was done on a scale that has never been attempted here and now. People spent lifetimes coming up with ways to get the customers to remember the company names. To draw them into buying something that they didn't really need, but felt that they could not live without. Safety razors took the market by storm when they came out. One of the first men to sell them sold less than a hundred of them the first year. And maybe a few hundred blades. Within a few years, he was selling hundreds of thousands of razors, and a proportionate number of blades. He had found a need in the marketplace, found a product, and made sure that his was the name people thought of when they went to buy a razor. There were
literally hundreds of other companies that sprang up within a matter of years that copied his idea and tried to take the market away from him. That razor there was made by one of his competitors. But his company had the advantage of name recognition. And better marketing plans. A hundred years later Gillette, the man's company, was still around. Almost none of his competitors were."
He paused and looked around the mostly deserted inn. "The razors have to look good, and must be designed to last. That one there is at least eighty years old."
Ernst picked up the safety razor from the table and again examined it critically. He carefully removed the blade. It was rectangular, made of blued steel. Incredibly thin, it was sharpened on one side. He drew it across his thumb, and gasped as it drew a tiny drop of blood. He stared at the up-timer. "You expect me to believe that this is over eighty years old? Impossible!"
