Grantville Gazette, Volume 68

by Bjorn Hasseler

  "It's still a work place accident, and as such, it has to be investigated," Christina said.

  "What a waste of money," Gottfried muttered.

  "Maybe, but it is in your best interests to have the accident investigated."

  Gottfried stared at the girl. "In my best interests? How do you work that out?" he demanded.

  "Well, you wouldn't want one of your employees to lose a finger in the same manner."

  Gottfried snorted. "If they're that careless, they deserve what they get."

  Christina raised a brow. "They would be entitled to four weeks paid sick leave while the injury heals, and you'd be liable for their medical expenses, which, based on the last finger amputation case I dealt with, could be upwards of five thousand dollars."

  "Five thousand dollars? For a few stitches?"

  "It's actually a bit more complicated than that," Christina said. "With that much of the tip of a finger removed the surgeon has to cut back the bone so a flap can cover the injury, and he or she has to remove all of the nail's root system, so that it can't grow back. All of which has to be done under anaesthetic."

  "Okay," Gottfried agreed reluctantly, "that's a little more complicated than a few stitches, but why remove the nail? Isn't it supposed to protect the fingertip?"

  Christina shrugged. "I can only repeat what I've been told, and I was told that leaving the nail to grow back will result in all sorts of nasty complications."

  Gottfried sighed. That meant one of his people having a similar accident could leave him out of pocket to the tune of six thousand dollars even before they got to compensation for pain and suffering. He walked over and opened the cupboard, revealing his strongbox. "There you are," he said.

  Christina moved over to the strongbox and crouched down to examine it. "A Kalt Security two hundred-pounder." She ran her fingers along the gap between the recessed lid and the front plate. "Dropping the lid closed would be like having a guillotine fall on a finger," she said as she stood up. "Would you mind opening it, please?"

  Gottfried dutifully unlocked the strongbox, and then stepped back, a smug smile on his face.

  Christina looked at Gottfried and rolled her eyes. Then she stepped up to the strongbox, bent down, and using straight arms, lifted the lid by standing up. She opened the lid as far as it would go, but as Gottfried knew, couldn't lean it far enough back that it would stay there.

  "Do you use something to prop it open?" Christina asked as she struggled to hold the sixty-pound lid open.

  Gottfried grinned. "Usually I just lean against it to keep it open while I do what I have to do with the contents." He took pity on the girl and stuck out a hand and leaned on the lid. "You seen all you need to see?" he asked.

  "It's fairly obviously not a mantrap," Christina said, "but I'd like to see if I can work out how an accident might have occurred."

  "MANTRAP?" Gottfried roared. "I wouldn't have a mantrap on site."

  "Of course you wouldn't," Christina said as she edged back from Gottfried. "However, in the event that the thief is apprehended…"

  "As if that's going to happen," Gottfried said. He'd talked with the police forensics expert and learned that the chances of matching the fingertip to any of the fingerprints on record were slim to non-existent.

  Christina carried on as if Gottfried hadn't interrupted. "…his lawyer is likely to accuse you of excess force and demand compensation for his client."

  "COMPENSATION?" Gottfried's roar this time was almost an order of magnitude louder. "I would have pay the person who stole from me compensation?"

  "No," Christina said, smiling. "Not now I've determined that you didn't have a mantrap in place." She surveyed the strongbox. "You can lower the lid now," she said.

  "Is that all you need?" Gottfried asked as he closed and locked the strongbox.

  "Yes, thank you. It's clear that that nothing you did could have caused the accident. I'd guess that, from what I've seen, the thief was fully responsible for his own misfortune. I'll see that you have a copy of my report for your insurer."

  Gottfried winced. That was something else he had against his thief. This little accident was going to result in his workplace insurance premiums going up.

  A week later

  Gottfried was sitting at his desk carefully sorting out silicon carbide crystals according to their size and color when a man in a dark, up-time-inspired, pinstriped suit was shown in.

  "How can I help you?" he asked as he carefully folded up a paper containing ten maybe-gem quality stones.

  "Fabian Schrapel, Department of Energy, at your service, Herr Schubert," he said, presenting Gottfried with his business card.

  Gottfried stood to accept the card and looked at it. "Energy Analyst?" he asked.

  "That's right, Herr Schubert, we've been reviewing your energy usage, and I've been assigned to help you reduce how much energy you consume. I'll just be assessing what you do and comparing it to best practices and…"

  "How much is this going to cost me?" Gottfried demanded.

  Fabian stepped back in horror. "Oh, Herr Schubert, it won't cost you a cent. I'm paid by the government."

  Greetings! by Mike Watson

  Early Spring, 1633

  Under most circumstances, Harley Thomas was an even-tempered man—slow to get riled and slow to cool down. It was early morning, before dawn, as he peered into the steamed mirror. He wiped a final trace of beard from his face. The harsh lye soap caused the small cuts to sting. He rinsed the straight razor and dried it carefully.

  He stepped out of the bathroom after wiping his face a final time. The movement triggered a deep ache in his left knee. He had jumped from a C-130 over South Carolina thirty years ago and had landed in a tree ending a promising, or so he thought, military career. The knee was proof to Harley, now in his late fifties, that old injuries always came back to haunt you.

  He glanced at his watch and picked up the Second Chance vest from the bed and strapped it on over his heavy undershirt. This model extended below the belt line. It was somewhat uncomfortable while on horseback, but it had an upside; it protected his kidneys. With the vest firmly in place, he reached, out of habit, for his army shirt.

  He caught himself in time and chose, instead, his old faded blue Marion County Deputy Sheriff uniform shirt. After the Ring of Fire, he was only a part-time law enforcement officer when not on active duty with the National Guard. Due to the lack of supply of Grantville PD shirts, the Chief had agreed that he could wear his old uniform shirt with its USA flag embroidered on the left sleeve and pewter-colored Corporal chevrons on the collar points and retain the title of Deputy Sheriff. Harley had discovered that down-timers viewed a police officer as nothing more than the equivalent of a down-time watchman. Sheriff deputies, on the other hand, were held in higher esteem. The title of Deputy Sheriff helped when dealing with down-timers and the minor nobility.

  A Marion County Deputy Sheriff badge was pinned above the shirt's left breast pocket. He tucked ithe shirt into his jeans, slipped his suspender straps over his shoulders, and moved to the dresser beside the bed.

  On the dresser was his service pistol, a worn blue Government model Colt .45, three loaded magazines, a gunbelt and holsters for the pistol and magazines. He threaded the gunbelt through the belt loops on his jeans, through the leather holster, shifting the holster slightly to make sure it rode just to the rear of his right hip and attached a dual magazine holster containing two magazines on the belt opposite of the holster. With two pounds of steel on one hip and two loaded magazines on the other, a pair of handcuffs looped over his belt in the back, he needed both belt and suspenders to support the weight.

  It's time to go.

  Dressed for the day, Harley left the bedroom and walked toward the kitchen in the rear of the house. He could hear his wife, Vina, talking with their down-timer neighbor, Greta Issler, and Harley’s mother, Emma Lou. Vina and Greta worked in the day care center and helped as needed at the hospital and at Grantville Assisted Living Ce
nter.

  Emma Lou sat at the kitchen table sipping from her favorite glazed mug watching and listening; she was learning German slowly. Greta was a good teacher, but a lifetime of speaking English made learning a new language difficult for Emma Lou.

  Vina was kneading bread dough when Harley entered the kitchen. Greta has been teaching her how to make bread and buns in exchange for the use of the Thomases' electric oven. The heat from the stove and oven filled the room along with the aroma of baking bread.

  Greta and her husband, Dieter, had been born in Vienna—Greta to a family of bakers and Dieter to a family that bought and sold glassware. Dieter had been a glassware factor in Magdeburg but when Tilly approached, they fled—eventually finding their way to Grantville and becoming permanent residents.

  "Herr Alte Thomas was better yesterday," Greta said in German referring to Harley’s father living in the Assisted Living Center. His time appeared to be measured now that the supporting drugs had been withdrawn. It was a difficult decision to make. Doctors Adams and Nichols had sent a plea to the residents and relatives of those living in Assisted Living Manor asking that a portion of the life supporting drugs be set aside for emergencies. The elder Thomas had volunteered. He, Emma Lou, Harley, and Vina had talked long into the night after the plea. Vina had felt that it was almost like asking someone to commit suicide. She also knew that when the drugs ran out there would be no refills. The result would be the same with the only difference being how much time Harley’s father had. After much discussion and turmoil, Emma Lou and Harley agreed with the senior Thomas. Vina had quit arguing against it but Harley knew she would never agree. The decision had built a barrier between her and her husband, and Harley knew it would be a long time before it would come down.

  "His heart seems to be stronger. Our German air helps his breathing."

  As Harley entered the kitchen, Greta asked, "Are you riding today?" She referred to Harley's occasional horseback patrols at the behest of Dan Frost as riding. Vena refused to look at Harley wearing his old Deputy Sheriff uniform shirt. Harley was home on furlough from the National Guard now that another class had graduated from basic training. She knew he would have to return soon. Dan Frost had no right! Harley already has a job.

  "Ja. Max, Archie, Dieter, and I are going to a place near Rudolstadt. There's been some thieving and some of the villagers have been knifed. They appealed to the count's man in Rudolstadt who passed the buck to Dan Frost who asked Max, Archie, Dieter, and me to check it out."

  "Will you be home for supper?” Vina asked sharply. She had flour coating her arms halfway to her elbows. At some point she'd unknowingly deposited some flour on her forehead and cheek.

  "I think so, if Dan doesn't come up with something else."

  "Good! We're having several folks for supper; it's our turn for the neighborhood potluck. Greta has made turnip soup, and I'm adding some sausage.”

  "Here's some willow-bark tea to get you going, Herr Thomas," Greta said handing him a mug. Harley had grown used to the tea, bitter as it was. It wasn't coffee nor the tea he was used to but it did help to dull the pain in his knee. He had heard rumors that someone was trying to get tea imported. That would be welcome if it came to pass.

  “Dieter left to get the horses saddled. He said he would meet you at the stables,” she added.

  Harley nodded his thanks and sipped the hot tea. I think I'd kill for a mug of plain old Lipton tea. He and Vina had grown to prefer hot brewed tea rather than coffee since their return from Europe and his discharge from the Army. A long time ago now.

  "Do you want to take some willow-bark tea with you?" Emma Lou asked.

  "No, thank you. My knee will be fine." Harley finished his tea and set the mug next to the kitchen sink. He hoped willow-bark tea would be half as good as up-time aspirin.

  His jacket and scarf hung next to the back door. He wrapped the scarf around his neck, tucked the ends inside the front of his shirt and slipped on the thick nylon jacket with "Marion County Sheriff's Office" printed across the back.

  Harley, along with Archie Mitchell and Max Huffman, had been reserve deputies until the Ring of Fire. Now, he helped train recruits for the Army and train those who would be trainers. When home from the National Guard, he and the others helped Dan Frost as needed.

  Keeps me out of the house, he thought. He retrieved his weathered blue trooper’s hat and its blue plastic weather cover and placed it on his head instead of his usual army headgear. Everyone seemed to have multiple roles since their arrival in Germany. Today, he was a deputy sheriff. Next month, he would be a DI, a drill instructor, again. He retrieved his M1 Garand rifle leaning next to the door, a relic older than he was, and picked up his saddlebags loaded with other outdoor essentials, emergency kit, extra ammo, canteens, and enough trail food for three days.

  With the saddle bags over a shoulder, Harley walked through the kitchen door, across the back porch and down the steps to the alley that led towards the center of town, cradling the M1 and keeping alert in the darkness as he walked toward the city stables. The residents of Grantville had learned the hard way that when you needed a gun, you needed it quickly. Now, most homes in Grantville had at least one firearm always loaded and near-at-hand.

  ****

  The other two reserve deputies, Max Huffman and Archie Mitchell, were in their late fifties like Harley. The three had agreed to work for Dan Frost when not on duty with the National Guard. They had worked together for years before the Ring of Fire and Dan Frost had decided they could help best by riding mounted patrols on the outskirts of the Ring and in the neighboring communities. Some of the neighboring towns and villages quickly took advantage of Grantville’s offer of mutual assistance. Whenever trouble appeared, they asked for help without hesitation. Harley, Max, and Archie were all combat veterans and weren’t intimidated by marauding packs of outlaws.

  Dieter Issler had joined the Grantville Police last fall initially as an interpreter. Dieter spoke passable English with Polish and Italian thrown in as well. In his early thirties, Dieter most often rode with the three deputies acquiring on-the-job law enforcement skills while performing his translator duties.

  Harley spoke twentieth-century German. Max and Archie didn't. They were learning, but that didn't help them in the here and now. Dieter called the three Deputies, Die Drei Alten Soldaten, or the three old soldiers. From Dieter's perspective, that is what the three Deputies were. They didn't act like any city Watchmen Dieter knew.

  Max, Dieter, and Archie were already mounted when Harley arrived. The horses were now owned by the police department. Horses were more appropriate along the edge and outside of the Ring of Fire where roads were not well maintained or didn't exist.

  Harley slid his Garand into the scabbard on the remaining horse and mounted while the three waited. Like Harley, the two other deputies wore Marion County Sheriff jackets and blue trooper hats, and each was armed with a rifle and pistol. Archie would have liked to have had a pump or autoloading shotgun but those had been given to the National Guard. Dieter carried one of Harley's spare pistols and a twenty-inch double barreled coach shotgun in his saddle scabbard. Good for close work but Dieter couldn't hit the broad side of a barn with a rifle.

  "Any more information?" he asked ignoring a sharp stab of pain from his left knee as he mounted the horse.

  Max saw the sudden wince in Harley's face. "You should mount from the other side Harley," he said. Receiving no answer, he continued, "It appears to be a gang. They broke into some houses and a mill. Looking for food and loot, I suppose. Beat up the miller pretty good but he'll live. They killed a villager while leaving the mill so they’ve been given outlaw status. They would have anyway for stealing food. The count's man, Helmut Reinart, thinks there are four or five of them."

  "That’s not much more than what Dan told me last night. Well, let's go. Vina and I are the hosts for the neighborhood potluck tonight and she wants me home for supper. They can’t wait if I’m late."

  "What ar
e you having?” Archie asked.

  "Turnip soup and sausage."

  Glancing at Dieter, Archie leaned towards Harley and whispered, "Do you want to eat with Marjorie and me? We're having some leftover pig from the last boar hunt and Marjorie still has some potatoes from last summer’s garden."

  "No,” Harley said softly. “Vina sets great store in this. I'll never hear the end of it if I don't have a good reason for not showing up. She's adding the last of my homemade steak sauce to the mix. That'll help and Greta is baking some fresh bread and buns. They were fixing something when I left the house. Vina was telling Greta about doughnuts and cinnamon rolls, so I hope there is something special tonight."

  The throb in his knee was lessening. He kicked his heels in the horse's flanks and headed down the street towards Route 250 with the others following behind.

  This wasn’t the first time the four had been sent out to help the neighboring towns when the local watchmen had more than they could handle. The mutual assistance agreements had significantly increased the good will being built between Grantville and their neighbors. Sometimes a small effort paid big dividends, and Grantville needed friendly and cooperative neighbors. As they rode down the road in the early morning gloom, Max muttered, "I feel like I'm in a western. A bunch of sheriff's deputies riding out to catch bad guys. Where's my white hat?"

  "Shut up, Max!" Archie said. “You say that every time we ride out. It's getting old.”

  ****

  The deputies and Dieter rode down Route 250 past the high school. Foot traffic appeared, walking toward Grantville in twos and threes. Some were heading for the school, some towards the mine on the southwest side of town and others to jobs in Grantville or at the power plant beyond. By dawn, the three had reached the edge, leaving the up-time highway and riding up the graded, graveled ramp to the dirt road that continued to the junction of the Saalfeld and Rudolstadt road. The right turnoff went to Saalfeld, the left to Rudolstadt. They turned left.