The Crosstime Engineer

by Leo Frankowski

  Vitold crossed himself but remained silent.

  “A loom for making cloth,” I said. “I wish you would knock off this nonsense about witchcraft.”

  “Nonsense, is it? Then how do you explain that witch’s familiar of a mare you own?”

  “I bought Anna in Cracow not two months ago. She’s nothing but a good, well-trained horse.”

  “Indeed? Do you know what I saw last night? I saw your familiar leave the stables, go to the latrines, and relieve herself there! I followed her back to her stall and saw her putting the bar back in place. That’s no natural horse!” He was glaring at me.

  “Yeah, the stable boy told me she didn’t soil her stall, but so what? If a dog can be housebroken, why not a horse? I told you she was well trained.”

  “Well trained? She’s some manner of demon! Conrad, know that my father is Baron Jaroslav, the greatest of Lambert's vassals and well known to Duke Henryk. I swear that they will hear of your warlock's tricks!” he shouted as he stomped out into the snow.

  Vitold crossed himself again.

  “Damn it, Vitold, don’t you start believing that horseshit! You've been building this thing. You know there is nothing magic in it!”

  “I can only do as my betters bid me.” He returned to work, but you could tell that his heart wasn’t in it.

  We were a month getting the loom built, and then I asked for 1,728 spools of thread, each perhaps 500 meters long, to string it with.

  I was looked on with horror. That amount of thread simply did not exist.

  I said that I had to have it or I couldn’t thread the loom. At least that much more would be needed for the short threads.

  So the girls dug out their distaffs and went to work.

  It was my turn to be horrified. The distaff was nothing more than a small wooden cross. You stretched some wool between the cross and your left hand, and then your right hand gave the cross a spin. This twisted the thread. Then you wrapped the half meter of thread around the cross, stretched some more wool, etc.

  The truly labor-intensive part of clothmaking wasn’t in the weaving at all. It was in the spinning. I had taken off on a project without first knowing what a the parameters were. You might expect this of a beginner but not of a seasoned engineer.

  I told the girls to put away their distaffs and went to work on a spinning wheel.

  We were five weeks getting a spinning wheel working, partially because I had to come up with a wood lathe first. Also, we lost a week because I didn’t realize that you have to have two loops of string from the wheel to the spindle, one to turn the spool and one to turn the twister a little faster.

  Our first spinning wheel looked a lot like what you would see in a modem museum, because that’s what I modeled it on. There were a lot of design flaws that were cleared up on subsequent models. The bench seat was uncomfortable, and one couldn't wear a long dress while using it. Our ladies wore a floor-length dress or nothing. Calf-length dresses were for field workers. The foot pedal gave the operator leg cramps, and it was discovered that if one tied a string from one's big toe to the crank of the wheel, it worked a lot easier.

  I had learned a long time ago that if the operators don’t approve of your engineering, your machines don't work. If they wanted a string on their big toe, they got a string on their big toe.

  It was a lot easier to work if the spindle faced the operator at about an arm’s length rather than being placed horizontally under her breasts.

  Our third model had places for six operators, who sat facing each other in a circle. The job was boring, and they liked to talk.

  It took six spinsters to keep up with the loom. Lambert solved this problem by putting on a few more ladies-in-waiting.

  Also, it took two men-one holding the chisel, one turning the crank-six weeks on our new wood lathe to make enough spools to put the thread on.

  I subsequently found out that spinning and weaving are two of the seven production steps necessary in making the crudest of homespun cloth. To produce the best commercial cloth required some thirty production steps. It was going to take a while.

  “Look, Sir Conrad, you’ll be able to get this going by Easter, won't you?” the count asked.

  “Well, the spinning and weaving at least, my lord. I don’t think that we have enough washed and carded wool to keep us going for long.”

  “I’m ahead of you there. I've already sent word to my knights to send me all of their wool, and all of it washed and carded. Also, they are to send me two-thirds of the wool from this spring's shearing, and the acreage in flax is to be doubled.”

  “Excellent, my lord. You realize that weaving linen takes a slightly different loom, don’t you? It takes more threads, closer together, and only two spreaders.”

  “What of it? Vitold can build more now that you’ve shown him the way. We'll have a dozen looms going by next year! You just put your mind to the problems of washing and carding.”

  “The washing is simple enough, but I’m still not sure of the carding.”

  “You will solve it.” I wasn’t sure if he was expressing confidence in my abilities or giving me an order. Sheep's wool is much finer than human hair and a sheep goes all year without combing it. As a result, it is incredibly tangled, and untangling it is what carding is all about.

  “Sir Conrad, thus far you have seen us only as a small agrarian community. You must realize that Okoitz is the capital of a fairsized province. After Easter, all sorts of people will be coming through, my uncle and liege lord, Duke Henryk the Bearded, among them. It is essential that we make a good impression.”

  “Yes, my lord. You say that Henryk is your uncle?”

  “Well, of sorts. Henryk’s father was Boleslaw the Tall; my grandfather, Miesko the Stumbling, was Boleslaw's brother, both sired by Wladyslaw the Exile.”

  Western countries give their rulers numbers. We Poles prefer nicknames. It’s friendlier.

  “In addition, after our father’s untimely death, Henryk raised my brother Herman and me until we came of age. Being the eldest, he got the established city of Cieszyn and its environs. I got the Vistula-Odra Road and perforce have had to build my own town.”

  Another difference between eastern and western Europe was that in the west, inheritance was by primogeniture. The oldest son inherited everything, and the rest were out of luck. They might get a good job with the Church or in the army, but they were commoners.

  In Poland, the rule was to divide things fairly evenly between the sons, with a very substantial dowry for the daughters. This was a nicer system, but it had the disadvantage of shattering the country and weakening-often destroying-central authority. A hundred years before, Boleslaw the Wrymouth, the last king of Poland, had divided the country up among his five sons, giving only nominal authority to the eldest. That is all very well unless you are about to get invaded.

  “Certainly an ambitious project, my lord.”

  “So it is. But we are midway on the road, and Okoitz has to grow. Now that you’ve had time to look it over, what do you think of it, Sir Conrad?”

  The place to build cities is at the end of a road, where pack mules change cargoes with riverboats, but I thought it wise not to mention this. And as a military defense, wooden walls only four meters high were a sick joke. The Mongols could take it in hours. But for now, there was nothing I could do about it, and I saw no reason to irritate my liege lord. “In many ways excellent, my lord. This business of building cottages side by side, sharing a wall and built against the outer wall, saves materials and heat. But I worry about fire. A single fire could bum down all of Okoitz. I have seen places where they build every other dividing wall out of brick to serve as a fire-stop.”

  “I can see that you haven’t priced bricks and mortar, Sir Conrad.”

  “No, my lord, I haven’t. But the new mill should give some protection. It will have a water tank higher than the church. I plan on having a fire hose long enough to reach any part of Okoitz.”

  “Then see
to it.”

  Dismissed, I went out to the bailey just as a strange procession was coming through the main gate. Sir Stefan was riding proudly in the lead, followed by a dozen peasants holding on to strong chains. Between the peasants, snarling, tugging, trying hard to get away, was a fair-sized brown bear chained around the neck.

  “What on earth-” I said to Stefan.

  “A bit of sport, Sir Conrad,” he -said, getting down from his horse. “We were a month trapping him and most of the day getting him chained and out of the pit. But he’s a beauty, hey?”

  “But what would you want with a live bear?”

  “Why, to bait him, of course! Look you, Sir Conrad, what would you say to a gentlemanly wager? I’ll bet you a thousand pence that that bear can kill six dogs before it's brought down. What say you?”

  I heard someone behind me whisper, “That’s a sucker bet. That bear is good for a dozen, easy.” But I ignored it.

  “What do you mean, bait him?” I asked.

  “You don’t know the sport? Well, we'll chain him to that post and turn the dogs on him. A good bear like this one can go for hours before he's ripped apart.”

  “That’s horrible!” I said, meaning it. “What a disgusting, brutal, ugly thing to do.”

  “Well, damn! If you don’t like it, don't look!”

  “But you can’t do this! There are children here!”

  “What of it? They’ve seen bear baiting before. Anyway, how do you dare tell me what I can or cannot do with my property?”

  “Then I’ll buy it from you! What is a bear worth?” I poured some silver out of my pouch and into my hand. “Is a hundred pence enough?”

  He swatted my hand aside, spraying my money onto the snow. None of the peasants dared touch it.

  “It’s not for sale, damn you! Anyway, what would you do with a bear? Make another warlock's familiar out of it?”

  Actually, discounting the stupidity about familiar creatures, Stefan had posed a good question. What could I do with a bear? I couldn’t possibly keep it-it might break loose and kill somebody. I couldn't let it go-as angry as it was, it would surely kill somebody.

  By this time, the bear had been fastened to the post, and a large crowd had gathered in a wide circle around the animal. It was on its hind legs, straining at the chains trying desperately for vengeance.

  I walked into the circle. “Blood sports are cruel and wicked!” I shouted. I looked to the priest for support, but he just looked away. “If you won’t think about the bear, think about the brutality to your dogs!”

  “What else are the dogs for?” Stefan smirked. “Sir Conrad, you look as funny as the bear.”

  The peasants had sense enough to keep quiet, to not get involved. But they didn’t want to miss the action, either.

  “Laugh if you want to, but I won’t let you do this.”

  “Just how do you plan to stop it?” Stefan had an ugly laugh.

  Another good question. Once the bear was chained to the post, he couldn’t be unchained without getting past him, and that bear was irate. The only thing I could do for the animal was to give it a clean death.

  “Like this,” I said. I drew my sword and stepped close to the beast. On his hind legs, he was taller than I and must have weighed three times as much, swatting at me with his massive paws.

  I timed his swipes and swung at him when both his paws were down, catching him horizontally at the neck a centimeter above the chain.

  The head flew clear in a spray of blood, and the suddenly freed body lunged at me, almost falling on top of me. As I leaped aside, it brushed my leg.

  “All right!” I shouted, trying not to show the pity that was welling up in me. “I want that carcass skinned and the hide tanned. And I want the meat served up for tomorrow’s supper.”

  As I turned to leave, sheathing my sword, Stefan shouted, “You bloody bastard! You filthy scum. You blow by of an incestuous-”

  “That’s enough!” Count Lambert shouted, running up to us. “You two are supposed to be knights, not kitchen dogs fighting over garbage! We will speak of this in private! Come with me, both of you.”

  “Yes, my lord,” I said, following him to the castle, trying to control my emotions.

  “It’s not over, Conrad!” Stefan shouted, but I didn't turn.

  Something heavy hit me square in the back, knocking me flat on my stomach in the dirty snow. I looked up to see the bear’s head bouncing down the path toward the castle. Rage enveloped me as I got up.

  As I turned toward him, Stefan hit me square in the face, almost knocking me down again.

  I was too angry to fight efficiently, but Stefan didn’t know anything about unarmed combat in the first place. For a few seconds we swung at each other wildly, and I gave a lot more than I got.

  Suddenly, a naked sword divided the space between, us. Lambert’s.

  “I swear, the next one of you who strikes will get this in his guts,” Lambert hissed. “My own sworn knights fighting in the dirt, in front of the peasants no less! Now, to my chambers, and this time both of you walk in front Of me.”

  In his chambers, Lambert ordered us to sit on opposite sides of the room but was so angry that he couldn’t sit down himself.

  “Dogs blood! My own knights! Men who are supposed to enforce the peace, fighting each other like squalid beggars! You shame me, the both of you!”

  “First you, Sir Conrad! I saw you deliberately destroy the property and sport of a brother knight. I fine you two hundred pence for that and order you to pay Sir Stefan another fifty in damages.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “Is that all you have to say? Just why did you do such a despicable thing?”

  “My lord, he was going to torture that animal, chain it to that post, and turn the dogs on it.”

  “So? Bears kill our people and our cattle. We have the right to vengeance! You don’t like our sports? I know you don't like our holidays. Very well! You can sleep through them, doing night guard duty before every one of them from now till Easter.”

  I groaned. Lately one day in three had been a holiday of one sort or another. Stefan smiled.

  “Wipe that damn smirk off your face, Sir Stefan,” Lambert said. “Your sins are worse than his! On slight provocation, you struck a brother knight with a dishonorable weapon-a bloody bear’s headwithout proper challenge and in the back! You did it when I had specifically ordered you to follow me immediately! Some lords would have you hung for that, and were it not for your father I'd be sorely tempted. Instead, I'll be lenient. I fine you, three months' additional guard duty, from Easter to midsummer, on the night shift.”

  “Now I want no more bad blood between you two. Knights of the same lord should be like brothers! Stand up and give each other the kiss of brotherhood, then get out of my sight!”

  As I kissed the smelly bastard, he whispered, “It’s not over!”

  Standing guard duty for fourteen hours in the dark gives you a lot of time to think. My engineering work was seriously hampered for lack of a decent system of weights and measures. In the cities, the guilds used a hodgepodge of gills and pennyweights and yards, mostly unrelated except that a pint of milk was supposed to weigh a pound. Nobody cared if the specific gravity of milk varied by five percent, with richer milk being lighter.

  Here in the country, things were even worse. The blacksmith and the baker did things until they felt about right. The saddler just cut and trimmed until it fit. The carpenter did a bit of measuring-in cubits and spans and finger widths-but he used his cubit, from his elbow to his fingertips.

  We didn’t even have a meter stick.

  Of course, I could invent my own system of weights and measures easily enough, and it would at least have the advantage of consistency.

  But I would lose a lot doing it. Every person, and certainly every engineer, knows hundreds of numbers. I knew the speed of light and the diameter of the earth and the distance from the earth to the sun. I knew the tensile strength of wrought iron and what co
uld be expected of concrete and, well, all sorts of things.

  But I knew all these values in terms of the metric system. Without a meter stick, I was stuck with guesswork. With one, I could derive all of the weights and measures and from there translate the data I remembered into any other system at all.

  But none of my equipment contained a single reliable measurement. I had nothing that I knew was a definite length or weight.

  At gray dawn, the answer hit me. I had my own body! My weight might not be reliable-I had put on muscle and lost some fat since arriving-but surely my height hadn’t changed. I was precisely 190 centimeters tall. I had only to measure myself in stocking feet, divide by nineteen, multiply by ten, and I had my meter stick. With that, a cube of cold water ten centimeters to the side has a volume of a liter and a mass of a kilogram.

  From there it was simple arithmetic to translate it into the basetwelve system that these people could use.

  Dead tired, I got Krystyana out of bed and had her standing on a chest, marking my height on the wall with a piece of charcoal.

  “Sir Conrad,” Lambert said as he saw us. “Just what are you doing now?”

  I tried to explain how I was developing a standard meter and about engineering constants. Some things I had to repeat three times, perhaps because I hadn’t slept in twenty-four hours and Lambert was just out of bed and bleary-eyed.

  “So by measuring yourself, you will somehow know the distance from earth to moon? My dear Sir Conrad God may have spanned the universe to his own measure: but it is rank blasphemy and profound hubris for a mere mortal to do so. In all events, the standard of measure here is the Silesian yard, not this foreign meter thing. I won’t have you changing it.”

  “Yes, my lord.” After yesterday the last thing I wanted was to irritate Lambert. “Uh, how long is a Silesian yard?”

  “I’ll show you.” Taking Krystyana's charcoal, he marked it on the wall. With his head turned left, it was the distance from his nose to his right fingertip.

  “Thank you, my lord,” I said, and he left.