Grantville Gazette, Volume XII

by Eric Flint

  Rounding a corner onto the main street, Gerbald led her to the city park where a small group of down-timer women were talking in hushed tones.

  "Dore!" Pam exclaimed as one broke from the group to approach her and Gerbald as they came to a halt at the grasses' edge.

  "Pam! Oh, it is good. Look, look!" Dore's chubby finger, flushed red from the hot water of the laundry, pointed up into a tulip tree near the town's bandstand. Pam's eyes followed, a look of stunned disbelief now on her face.

  "It is the one, ja? The red bird? The American bird?" Dore's voice was filled with hope that she was right. Dore reached for her, beckoning her to come closer.

  Pam slowly advanced to take Dore's offered hand, her eyes unblinking as she continued to stare into the tulip tree's branches. It was there. It was really there. A red bird. An American bird.

  The male cardinal tipped its head at her as if in greeting, just as it used to do at her feeder every morning. His mate, rosy blush on peach in the spring sun, hopped down a branch to join him. A third cardinal appeared above them. He looked to be a yearling. The young bird threw back his scarlet crested head. He opened his beak with a thrilling song, the loveliest music Pam had ever heard, a symphony in the park, a serenade, the bright music of her heart's desire. Tears came, soft warm streams of relief and hopes satisfied. She felt Gerbald's comforting presence at her side as Dore squeezed her hand—the woman was grinning like a kid on Christmas morning.

  "How? How did you know?" Pam asked. Dore chuckled.

  "Know? We know much! Pretty smart!" Dore tapped her temple with her free hand. She started to laugh happily aloud, but quickly realized the need for quiet and clapped the hand over her mouth so as not to startle the nearby cardinals, hazel eyes sparkling with delight.

  Gerbald spoke softly in his deep tones. "I show her picture. We tell everybody we meet, look for that red bird."

  "Der Amerikanische rotvogel!" Dore interrupted proudly "My friends, washerwomen same like me, say today they see here in park. I send Gerbald!" If Dore grinned any wider Pam swore her head would split in two.

  "I must thank them. And you." Pam hugged first Dore and then Gerbald who froze stock still in discomfiture. Shyly, he gave Pam's back a gentle pat with his large hand.

  "You are happy now, Pam. We are happy, too," he told her. To his relief, Pam released him in order to take another long look at her wonderful cardinals. A number of Grantville children and their German schoolmates had approached, drawn closer by the scarlet birds in the tree.

  "Hi, Ms. Miller!" one of the Grantville youths greeted her. "Those are cardinal birds up there, aren't they? Like back in America times?"

  Pam looked at the earnest young face, a face full of curiosity, and wonder. I have another job ahead of me now. Her decision was made so quickly and so decisively she didn't have time to be surprised by it. Who are you and what have you done with Pam Miller!?

  "They sure are, honey! They came through with us. But see that smaller one up there? It was born here, in Thuringia. They live here now, same as we do. They even have a name in German: Amerikanische Rotvogel!" The name cardinal might be a touch problematic given the religious tensions of these times. Back up-time I heard some folks calling it "redbird," I recall. "'American Redbird," yes. That has a nice ring. Why not a new name in a new place?

  The girl smiled at Pam. "I saw a whole bunch of them over by my uncle's orchard. Ten or so! They sure are pretty." Pam's heart left her body to fly around the sun a couple times. Joy, oh joy, oh joy!

  "Hey, who is your school teacher?"

  "Mrs. Clinter."

  "Okay. I'm going to come see her pretty soon. Do you think your class would like to learn more about birds?"

  "Yeah, I sure would!" The other children who had gathered around all chimed in their agreement.

  "That's good, kids. That's really good."

  * * *

  A week later Pam sat at her window in the dawn hour. She had grown to appreciate the sun's new path; it had given her garden more light in the morning. The cardinals— rotvogels!—had rediscovered their source for sunflower seeds and now joined the tufted titmice , blaukehlchen and chickadees for breakfast nearly daily. She had counted as many as twelve of her treasured birds at once so far. Reports were coming in from Dore and Gerbald's word of mouth network that they had been seen on the road to Magdeburg! The species had adapted and was now spreading.

  Pam leaned back contentedly in her chair. She had prepared her notebooks and paintings for the show and tell sessions she was going to do at the school today—Mrs. Mason had been so taken with the idea that Pam had been asked to visit every class! Birdwatching field trips were being planned as well as a special summer nature program series that Pam would help implement. Pam learned that many of the town's educators shared her hopes to avoid some of the ecological misdeeds of the up-time past by engendering a love and knowledge of nature in the school kids. What a good place to start! She looked down at the two documents on her table.

  The first was titled "Birds of the USE. A Field Guide to Native and Transplanted Species." She had made her lists and written up a plan for organization by bird type. What she was going to do about the scientific names of the European species she still had no idea—she would figure out something. "Is Linnaeus around these days?" The question was only half in jest—she had better find out!

  The second was a proposal she was drafting. It could certainly use a lot of polish but she felt she had made a good start.

  Citizens of the United States of Europe and their official representatives,

  The following is a formal proposal submitted by myself, Pam Miller of Grantville, based on my personal observations and field studies. The proposal contains two separate yet related issues.

  In Brief:

  1. All transplanted American bird species (A list of sightings will be provided) be given protected status in the USE until we can determine what, if any, positive or negative effects they will have on the local ecology. I believe these animals have as much right to a new life here as we do and that we should allow them the chance to adapt as we have.

  2. I would like to move that the cardinal, also known as the American red-bird and Amerikanischer rotvogel , be considered for status as the national bird of the USE. We are a new nation. We need a new symbol. I give you a bird that was once hailed as the state bird of West Virginia, a bird that is quickly gaining recognition amongst the down-timer population who admire its unusual beauty.

  A bird from the Ring of Fire. A bird which has survived the journey. A bird which is thriving here and spreading its range.

  A bird like us.

  The Monster

  by Gorg Huff and Paula Goodlett

  The Eagle Flies

  Magdalena van de Passe stood outside the building and stared. She paid not the slightest attention to what was going on around her; she had eyes only for the plane that was flying overhead. She had seen airplanes on TV, but she had seen dragons and giant apes on TV, too. A civilized person and old Grantville hand, she knew that just because they had it on TV didn't mean that they could do it in the here and now. It didn't even mean that it was real up-time.

  She couldn't hear the engine, or maybe she heard it just a little; it might be her imagination. It didn't matter. The plane was real. Man had learned to fly and could do it in the here and now. And she was going to. She didn't know how, she didn't know when. But she was going to fly. Whatever the cost. She felt almost like she was flying now. After the plane had gone over and while people were running off to wherever they were running off to, Magdalena went back inside. She needed to be alone and to think. Her life had just taken a sharp turn and was running off in a new direction. She needed to catch up with herself.

  Back in the building, she looked at the books that had accumulated over the last months. She had come to Grantville at the combined request of her father and her patron. An engraver from a family of engravers, Magdalena was here to learn about opportunities in that field and o
pportunities in general. To facilitate that, she was studying up-timer business practices. She had found it interesting; now she found it positively engrossing. Right there on her desk was a paper on the costs of mule trains and how they compared to barge traffic, the new rail lines, and trucks on the improved roads. What about airplanes? How much would they cost? How much could they carry? What were their hidden costs?

  Suddenly, Magdalena's life was making another turn or perhaps she was catching up with the last one. The outline of a plan was forming. There were a lot of pieces missing, but she could fill those in; she was sure of it. Meanwhile she had some letters to write.

  * * *

  Dearest Father,

  I pray that you will put aside your reasonable skepticism and gift me with a continuation of that trust you gave me when you sent me to this place of wonders. For what I have to tell you next may make you wish you had sent my brother instead.

  Magdalena had been sent instead of her brother because she was probably the least trusting member of the family. Her brother was a talented artisan but "he'd buy the Brooklyn Bridge without even arguing the price," as she had heard Cora Beth say.

  I would not believe the report I must now make lest I had seen it with my own eyes. Not ten minutes ago, I stood outside this very building and watched a flying machine overhead. With my own eyes, Papa. I would not accept such a claim on lesser evidence. Nor can I truly expect you to. What I do ask is that you begin to let yourself consider believing that it is possible.

  I make this request because one thing came very clear to me as I watched the manmade bird sail over head. There are no toll collectors in the sky.

  Your Services No Longer Required

  "Sorry, Georg. But with Jesse Wood running the Air Force . . ." Vanessa Holcomb actually seemed sorry, though they hadn't gotten along. Kitt Aviation was letting all the down-timers go, because Jesse Wood had beaten them into the sky and would be deciding who got the government contracts. They said they were going to have to cut back. The rest sort of flowed over him as he dealt with the fact that the sky was no longer his to claim.

  * * *

  Two days later Georg Markgraf paced back and forth outside the Gardens. This was a crazy idea. He wasn't any good with people; he knew that. Maybe he should try to join the Air Force . . . but the line was long for pilot training. Besides, he wanted to build planes more than he wanted to fly them. And the up-timers had that part pretty much sewn up, so far as the Air Force was concerned. He had tried the Kelly's; they weren't hiring either. That left starting his own company.

  * * *

  Georg finally ran down and most of his guests left, but Farrell Smith stayed. "Kid, you are not good at public speaking. Your presentation skills are pitiful. You're not well organized and you get distracted. In fact, you pretty much suck at it."

  Georg slumped and buried his head in his hands. "I know. I know. But I can build a plane." He thumped his chest. "In here, I know it. I have seen the designs at Kitt. Seen the designs at Kelly. I understand aerodynamics; the numbers and concepts make sense to me. I can do as well. Better. Because they are not considering what we can do now. They all concentrate on what can be salvaged, not what can be built anew."

  "How do you mean?"

  "Craftsmanship!" Georg held up his hands. "I don't mean fancy doodads. I mean the ability of a good craftsman to judge wood, its strengths and weaknesses, by feel. To shape it using the structure of the wood itself. I mean the skills of a good leather worker to make a saddle or a wine sack and pick the right leather for the right job. Those skills can be combined with your up-time tools and knowledge to craft airplanes."

  Farrell kept him talking late into the night. Because the kid had a point. Just before Farrell left, Georg asked, "Do you think any of them will invest?"

  "Not a chance, son. I'd be running too, if I didn't know you a bit and Dad hadn't said some good things about you." Farrell shook his head. "Those folks came here half sold after Jesse Wood's flight. You managed to convince them that investing in flight was crazy."

  "What do I do now?"

  "You wait. Just hang on and let me see what I can do." Farrell assured Georg that he'd contact him in a couple of days. The boy had good ideas. After listening to him talk about the monocoque design he had in mind, Farrell was convinced of several things. Georg Markgraf was as qualified as anyone in Grantville, outside of Farrell's father, Hal, to design aircraft. Georg wasn't, however, qualified to run a company whether it designed aircraft or made thumb tacks. And, finally, Georg had to be prevented from making presentations in front of potential investors at all costs.

  Farrell paused, then turned back. "Georg, where are you staying?" With the kids moving out, the house was a bit empty. He'd have to clear it with Mary but perhaps the kid could stay with them. Farrell wasn't really qualified to run a business, either. He could put together a presentation, even if it would end up sounding like a lecture.

  "I was sharing a room with a friend. It's paid for the rest of the month."

  * * *

  Farrell wasn't all that much of a salesman himself, but after years of teaching shop at least he could sound like he knew what he was talking about and keep on point. He made the presentations. The fact that his father was the one and only aeronautical engineer who had been brought with the Ring of Fire didn't hurt and the timing was good. After Jesse Wood flew and, especially, after Hans Richter soloed, people were ready to throw money at flight projects. It had been proven that it could be done down-time and the down-timers—even more than the up-timers—saw the potential benefit.

  There were more than rational reasons for this. The simple fact was that the New US, and much of the CPE, was caught up in the romance of flight.

  We Need a Bigger Plane

  Vrijheer Abros Thys van Bradt found it necessary to leave Amsterdam due to the sudden arrival of unwelcome guests, an army of Spaniards under Cardinal Infante Don Fernando. He was forced to leave behind most of his wealth, taking only his wife and immediate servants. From there he had gone to an estate owned by a cousin. There he lived in the Orange portion of the Netherlands till the news of Hans Richter's heroic death reached him. It brought to mind a fairly minor investment he had made.

  As the primary patron of the de Passe family, he had been allowed to read the letter she had written to her father and he had believed it. More than the word of the flight he was impressed with the cost analysis of other forms or transport that she had sent along. It was nothing he didn't already know, but it had taken him years of experience to get the feel for it.

  Reminded of the investment by the events at Wismar, he arrived in Grantville on November fourth, with very little cash on hand and much of his wealth locked behind a siege hundreds of miles away. He still had connections and, surprisingly, the Amsterdam guilders were worth more than expected.

  "So, girl. Tell me about airplanes and this airline you want to start."

  Magdalena told him. She told him about the other investors she had lined up, about the costs she had calculated and what they would need. They discussed where they would get fuel, oil, pilots, aircraft and a host of other things.

  He provided introductions to other investors and helped to persuade them to invest. The strategic reserve of fuel had been used, which had driven the price of fuel through the roof but that was a temporary problem.

  "Yes, but," Fredrich Klein, one of the investors said yet again. "There is still the problem of shipping the fuel. That doubles the price right there, more than doubles it, I'd say."

  "No, it doesn't," Magdalena said, "the fuel is a mix of fifteen percent gasoline and eighty-five percent methanol. Methanol is really just alcohol—twice distilled spirits, but not the drinkable type. So even when you do need to ship the gasoline to the airport, you only need to ship fifteen gallons for every hundred gallons of fuel."

  Vrijeer van Bradt nodded. "It will take organization to set up airports and find the most economic way to get this gasoline to them. But Magdalena m
akes a good point. Spirits are available almost anywhere and—since they are not for drinking—the cheapest, poorest quality can be used."

  * * *

  December 5 1633

  Dear Sirs:

  TransEuropean Airlines is seeking bidders to produce one or more aircraft to open passenger and cargo service to various cities within and without the USE. The planes must be capable of carrying at least ten passengers or one ton of cargo for a distance of at least three hundred miles non-stop.

  We will provide partial funding on approved designs. Further, we will provide aid in acquiring or constructing engines, within reason. We will provide final payment after successful test flights are completed.

  On successful completion of testing of the first aircraft, we will guarantee to buy up to ten more, if the manufacturer can provide them to us within a reasonable period of time.

  Contact M. van de Passe

  Address: 2613 Makem Rd

  Phone: 85-767

  Magdalena looked at the letter and smiled. It had taken some wheedling, something any artist learned to do early. Still, it hadn't taken all that much. For every lord who controlled a pass, there were a dozen merchants and lords who resented having to pay the tolls. It was only partly economics; a big part was anger and the desire to get some of their own back. They liked the idea of their cargos sailing over the toll stations of "Baron-I'll-take-mine-off-the-top." That was where most of her investors had come from, people that had been hit with tolls or robbed by bandits.

  Yes, it was a potentially profitable venture but the way their faces lit up at the thought of flying over all the tolls and risks of land travel . . . Magdalena honestly thought that some of them wouldn't care if they lost money on every flight as long as "Baron-Off-the-Top" didn't get it. Of course, each of the investors had their own unreasonable "baron" that they had to deal with, whether it was a Lutheran school or a group of merchants that collected the tolls. In fact, more than a few of the investors collected tolls of their own. That didn't change the fact that they resented it when they had to pay them.