by Eric Flint
Natasha, being Natasha, had come right back with, “What is a bra and why would I want to burn it?”
While Bernie was more than willing to talk about bras and their disposal with servant girls, it wasn’t a place to go with the boss. Which, it had turned out, Natasha was, in fact if not in title. Especially when she had a whole retinue of men at arms who gave Bernie hard looks any time he got within twenty feet of her.
Talking to noble ladies about their undergarments was definitely chancy territory. Bernie got his revenge in a way by directing her to a barmaid who could answer her questions. Brandy Bates was a friend of his who worked at Club 250, where Bernie had drunk until the Gardens got its own building. Bernie talked her up a bit because it seemed like a good idea. Who knew? Maybe the barmaid had something to teach the princess.
Besides, the truth was that Bernie didn’t like the way the peasants were treated here and now. Bernie didn’t think it had been near this bad in Germany. He had to remind himself quite often that he wasn’t here to fix the soul of Russia, just the plumbing. He didn’t like it but he kept his mouth shut. So let the princess learn about bras from the barmaid. Maybe she’d learn something else as well.
Natasha was at her desk, at last. There were several letters to write. She, as was her nature, started with the hardest.
To the Up-timer Citizen of Grantville, United States of America, Miss Brandy Bates, I make free to write to you at the suggestion of your fellow up-timer, Bernard Zeppi. I hope that this missive finds you in the best of good health.
Natasha hated this part. She was a regular correspondent with several women of Russia and even a few men. But writing to someone new was always a challenge, especially someone from a foreign country. Worse, in this case, because the up-timers probably thought of everyone from this century as barbarians. But she really did need an answer to this question.
Let me apologize if I have failed to include the titles appropriate to your station. It is not with the intent of insult but from simple ignorance. Goodman Zeppi informs me that you are a woman of great accomplishment and considerable status among the up-timers. Also that you are of good family and possessed of a G.E.D. I gather that the G.E.D. is a title? But I confess my ignorance in how it is to be applied to a salutation. Mr. Zeppi professes ignorance of your other titles, not being a student of heraldry. I fear this may be a delicate matter to broach on first acquaintance, but what is a bra and why should one burn it in the grand market square?
Natasha filled in the context of the discussion then added her signature. Princess Natalia Petrovna Gorchakovna
Natasha knew she should be saying more, introducing herself more clearly, but she was uncertain of what degree of formality she should use in writing to an unknown up-timer. She set the letter aside and started working on the next. It would go to Vladimir, and would discuss the Grantville Section of the embassy bureau and the agreements reached between the family and the government.
Chapter 12
“We can’t do it,” Andrei Korisov said with disgust. “You don’t understand what we have to deal with. Less than half the service nobility can read, and just one person in three hundred is of the service nobility. Even with the occasional priest and overeducated Streltzi, less than one person in a hundred can read, even in the cities and large towns. In the countryside, probably less than one in a thousand.” He paused, allowing the translator to catch up, before adding: “This is not Germany. It’s not even Poland.”
Bernie listened with a certain amount of irritation. Not only because having a translator was a pain in the rear, but because Korisov was a generally irritating guy. He was very good at his job and more. The man was a master gunsmith who had taught himself to read and calculate ballistics. Through skill and hard work he had moved from the Streltzi to the service nobility. Not an easy thing to do in Russia, Bernie had already learned. Still, Korisov’s contempt for the average Russian was irritating to Bernie, and he wasn’t even Russian.
Meanwhile, Natasha spoke up. “Why isn’t it possible, Andrei Korisov?”
“Because they’re too complicated. No, it’s not simply that. It’s a combination of things. I could build a rifle like the American’s by hand. It would take me about a month and it wouldn’t be as good as his Remington model 7400, but it would work and it would fire a. 30–06 round, if we had some to put in it. Then I could build another, and it would take me about a month again. And ten years from now, after Poland had invaded and taken Moscow, I would have made about one hundred and twenty rifles.”
Natasha just looked at him and Andrei blushed, then continued. “I’m sorry, Princess. But it’s hard to explain. To make rifles like Bernie’s, in any number, we need so many tools that we don’t have that I can’t even imagine them all. Most Russians are still spending all their time growing food.”
At this point, Bernie took up the argument. “It’s the ‘tools to build the tools’ problem, Natasha. We had the same problem in Germany, although apparently not as severely. Up-time we could do incredibly complex things, precisely the same way, time after time, very quickly by using a variety of machines, each of which did one simple thing. But to get there, you have to build a lot of machines. I think Russia can get there, and that’s what your brother hired me to do, help you get there. But it’s not going to be fast. And from what I’ve been hearing about the political situation, it’s not going to be in time to help you at all with Poland.”
“Well, can’t you build the machines you need to build the rifles quickly?” Natasha asked.
“We don’t even know what most of those machines are, much less how to build them,” Andrei Korisov said dejectedly.
Natasha nodded and switched to English. “Very well. Bernie, I want you to get together with Andrei, and try to figure out something that we can make. Something that will only take a few machines.” They had their marching orders, and if Bernie didn’t like them much, it was pretty clear that they didn’t thrill Andrei either.
Natasha looked around the table, then switched back to Russian. “Now, what’s next, gentlemen?”
“I have made a battery,” Lazar Smirnov said. “However, coils will take longer and I’m just beginning to study the theory of radio. It will be a while, Princess.”
After this, the people at the table began to discuss other projects. The Fresno scrapers were ready to test, but the ground was still frozen, so that project had to wait. They also had a plow, but again, they would have to wait for the spring thaw.
Filip said, “I understand the steam engines. The principles behind them make sense. I’m not sure of their practicality because of the amount of work involved in producing even one.”
Filip was the translator, so Bernie interrupted him. “They’re worth it. Believe me, engines are worth it. I’m not a big fan of steam, but limiting yourself to muscle power is the wrong way to go.”
“It’s not that I doubt you, Bernie,” Filip said, “but we’re back to the tools to build the tools problem. We don’t know how much power we’ll get and they are going to be built by hand like Andrei’s handmade Remington that he is even now building for the czar. Granted, we don’t have to make bullets to go in it, but we do have to make boilers and, well, we’re a long way from anything useful.” He turned to Princess Natasha. “We’ll keep working on it, but don’t expect much progress soon, Princess.”
“The aspirin is not a problem,” said the apothecary, Anatoly Fedorov. “But the antibiotics are well beyond us. Certainly we’ll try for penicillin, but don’t expect much. We don’t even know what mold it comes from, much less how to process it to get the effect we want.”
Nikita Ivanovich Slavenitsky, who was there by grace of being one of Natasha’s most trusted armsmen, spoke up with a smile in his voice, clearly trying to lighten the mood. “Bernie has been teaching us about up-time football, which is played with a ball that is not round, and strategy games. So at least we’ll have an amusing winter, Princess.”
The princess gave him a qu
elling look, but Nick wasn’t noticeably quelled and Natasha turned back to the table. “What about aircraft?” Natalia asked, but Bernie was shaking his head before she’d even finished the question.
“Not without some pretty powerful engines,” he said. “And I don’t know anything about aerodynamics. Nor is there anything in the books we brought with us.”
The meeting went on for a couple of hours, a disheartening mix of “not yet” and “it can’t be done,” with only a sprinkle of things they could do.
Disheartening, yes. But not that disheartening. It was early days yet and they all knew it.
Chapter 13
March 1632
Vladimir took one look at Boris and knew he had made a rough, fast trip back. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. I want to get done here and get back to Moscow as quickly as possible. How is the network progressing?”
“I’m not sure. It seems to me to be working fairly well. The number of spies, artists and philosophers that are living or visiting here seems to grow every day. Trotsky is starting to see spies under his bed.”
“I doubt anyone cares what happens in Trotsky’s bed, even his wife,” Boris said. “Still he knows his business.”
“Oh, there are spies enough.” Vladimir agreed. “However for the most part they don’t seem to care about us.” He shook his head, caught between laughter and embarrassment. “What few attempts we’ve had to penetrate our network have been clumsy. Almost as though they didn’t really care what we were doing but were too polite to simply ignore us. The Spanish and the Austrians want to know what the Swedes are doing here and the Swedes want to know what the Hapsburgs are doing here. The French want to know what the Catholics, and, well, everyone is doing here. The Italians want to know what the other Italians and the Spanish are doing here. The closest thing to a real attempt to subvert me has been an offer by a group of merchants and agents to go in together in the copying of the Encyclopedia Americana 1963 and such other books and periodicals as we can agree on. I accepted, of course. They were already doing it and were simply looking for more subscribers to defray expenses.”
When Brandy Bates received the letter from Natasha Gorchakova she was on her day off and getting ready to go to a play with her mom at the high school.
Her mom answered the door and the first thing Brandy heard was, “You have a letter for Brandy from who?”
“Who is it, Mom?” Brandy asked as she came into the living room to see a tall, dark-haired man with deep blue eyes and a neatly trimmed black beard.
“I’m Kniaz Vladimir Gorchakov,” he said. “The letter is from my sister.”
Brandy wasn’t a true adherent of the philosophy of Club 250, but she had taken in enough of the attitude while working there that she wasn’t the least bit awed by the title or the fancy clothes. Well, maybe the least bit. But she responded by being just a bit snooty herself. “And why is your sister writing to me?”
“Apparently Bernie Zeppi recommended you as a correspondent,” the guy said.
Bernie had gotten a job in Poland or Russia or someplace like that. The pay was supposed to have been pretty good and Mom was giving her the “you behave” look. Oh, what the hell. She could at least read the letter. “Well, if Bernie suggested it at least it’s not out of the blue.” Brandy held out her hand and with clear reluctance the guy handed her the letter.
Mom asked him to have a seat as Brandy examined the letter. It was folded over with a wax blob holding it closed and the wax had been imprinted with a crest.
Brandy shrugged, popped the seal and looked at the letter. The handwriting was good but with way too many flourishes. Working through the letter she got to the part about burning bras in the market square and burst into laughter.
Both Mom and the guy were looking at her with curiosity clear on their faces. Brandy handed the letter to her mother and smiled. “For once Bernie did the right thing. This is not a matter for men of any rank.”
The guy turned a little pink and her mom, who was struggling though the letter, started laughing too.
All in all, though she wouldn’t know it for months, Brandy had managed by accident to make a fairly good first impression on Vladimir.
In the meantime, after they had said goodbye to Kniaz Vladimir Gorchakov and seen the play, Brandy was left with the letter. Its very sparseness made it clear that this Natalia Whosis didn’t know what or how much she could ask without giving offense. So Brandy put together a female care package. 1995 Victoria’s Secret, a 1993 Glamour, 1997 Vogue, a Better Homes and Gardens plus cold cream, nail polish, eye shadow, and a pair of the stretchy one-size-fits-all pantyhose, with instructions. Brandy considered sending an actual bra, but she didn’t have Natasha’s sizes. So instead they sent a tape measure and more instructions.
Chapter 14
Ivan Nikitich Odoevskii didn’t look like a book worm. He was tall and as richly dressed as a prince and a member of the Boyar Duma ought to be. He rode, he was a skilled falconer, but he did love to read. He read anything. Account books. Treatises. Stories. Anything he could get his hands on. His fierce black beard was twitching and his blue eyes squinted as he thought. “It’s complicated, Patriarch. Yes, the up-timers use paper money, but their system is a tortured mix of the government and… well, anarchy.”
“Anarchy?”
“They have something called federal reserve banks…” Vladimir had sent several tracts on economics-not very detailed or all that complete-back to Moscow, which had arrived about the time Boris had gotten back to Grantville. Along with them had come a very rough outline of what Vladimir thought might work for a banking system in Russia. That outline would have the great families issue money, having bought the right from the Czar’s Bank or the Gorchakov Bank. With some vague limitations based on how much their property was worth. Going from those tracts on up-time economics, Ivan Nikitich explained his understanding of how the future economic system worked.
Patriarch Filaret was a man of no mean intellect, but his eyes were glazing over within a paragraph. He tried to follow the salient points for a while, but finally gave up. “Enough. Can we use it, Ivan Nikitich? Can we use it?”
Ivan Nikitich sighed like the wind gusting from the north. “Yes. But it is dangerous. The tracts made that clear, even if I could only understand one word in three without talking to that idiot Bernie.” Ivan Nikitich snorted. “And only one word in two after talking to him. The danger is more than the simple temptation to print ever more and more as it loses its value. That’s a danger, true enough. It is made worse by the fact that failing to print enough can hurt the nation even more. That is one thing the excerpts young Vladimir sent taught me. Half of Russia’s troubles are caused by not enough cash.”
“You needed a tract from the future to tell you Russia is not a wealthy nation?” Filaret snorted in exasperation.
“No!” Ivan Nikitich almost shouted, then visibly got hold of himself. “Patriarch, what I needed the writings from the future to tell me was that Russia is a wealthy nation. A wealthy nation with what the up-timers call a ‘cash flow problem.’ That Russia has everything it needs to have a booming economy, except the economy.”
Filaret glared a bit. “Speak sense!”
Ivan Nikitich sighed. “We have grain. We have timber. We have pitch, not to mention furs of all sorts. We have rivers that in summer give us clear roads from China and India to the Baltic Sea. In hard winter, the sleighs are more efficient than wagons are. What we lack is a means of tying all those things together. Much of our trade is just that. A peasant trades a bushel of grain to another peasant for bit of cloth. It happens that way because neither peasant has any money. Did you know that over ninety percent of the up-timers’ purchases were made with money? Everything from their homes to a piece of candy for their children. Everyone had money, even the very poor. That-along with their transportation system-made the manufacturing of goods in one place to be sold in another much more practical.”
Ivan Nikitich
spoke with passion. He even stood and began pacing the room. “The raw materials are here. The trade routes are here, mostly. Even the skills are here. Every peasant in Holy Rus spends half the year at some craft because you can’t farm ice.” Ivan Nikitich shook his head. “The only thing really missing is some practical means of letting the people in one place buy the products from the people in another place. Buy them, Patriarch, not trade for them. Because barter simply won’t work for what we need. The things we must have are: money, ways of transferring money from one place to another without bandits robbing the caravan, banks where bureau men and even peasants can save money or get loans. As I said-everything we need for an economic boom except an economy.”
“What you’re saying is we’re rich in goods but not in money?”
Ivan Nikitich nodded. “What we need is money and the writings of the up-timers explain how to do that without silver or gold. The idea, as I understand it, is to have just a little more money available than there is product for it to buy. That encourages the peasants to work harder to get the last bit. It’s like hanging a carrot in front of a mule. Too close and he eats it. Too far and he gives up. Russia’s carrot is hanging off the mule’s ass.”
“So, you think Vladimir is right.” The Odoevskii didn’t get along all that well with the Gorchakov family. If Ivan Nikitich could find a way to say Vladimir’s report was wrong, he would.
“No, absolutely not,” Ivan Nikitich said by reflex. Then he laughed. “Well, perhaps a little bit. The way the boy proposes to go about it is all wrong. We are not some barbarous western nation. It will need to be the Czar’s Bank and all the little banks part of the Czar’s Bank. The Gorchakov boy’s proposal will just make the Gorchakov family richer than they already are.”
