The door edged open. "Huh?" said Eddie.
It took them three hours—plus the fifteen minutes it had taken Jimmy to find his ninja mask in the litter of his room; he'd refused to go without it—two frostbitten fingers, a set of flashlight batteries, one skinned knee, and a fuming half-hour putting all the drill bits back into the storage bin that Eddie had knocked over before they switched on the lights; but when they finally staggered home with six one-quart containers of canola oil, Larry knew that it had been worth it.
Then the real work started. Batch Two.
"I didn't know you could get blisters from peeling things," complained Jimmy.
"Shut up. Keep peeling, it's almost dawn."
"Never mind!" yelled Eddie from the living room. The kitchenette wasn't big enough for three to work in—not with a pot of hot oil on the stove. "I've already got enough sliced for a batch. Is the oil doing okay?"
Larry stirred the big pot doubtfully. "Looks pretty hot. All right then, load!"
The cooking rig was an old oversized egg basket, with additional levels of mesh provided by screening pulled out of the bathroom window and wired in place. As Jimmy had pointed out, mosquitoes were a distant problem compared to Jeff. They arranged the slices within; Larry thought he saw a wisp of smoke and hastily backed down the burner, although the connecting door was duct-taped around its seal now. "Let's try two minutes of cooking."
The resulting chips could have been used themselves for lubricant. "Okay, too long. Load! Half a minute."
Jimmy crinkled up his face at the first bite. "Pthaw!" He flicked the half-chip at the window; it stuck. "Ugh. That can't be good."
"One minute, then." Larry was sweating, and it wasn't entirely from the burners. "Load!" A minute later the basket came out of the oil. The things inside actually, sort of, looked like potato chips . . .
Another anxious minute while they drained and cooled. Jimmy snagged one, blew on it and popped it into his mouth. It crunched in a very satisfactory manner.
"Not bad! Bland, though."
"Crap, we forgot the salt!" Larry dug a shaker from a cupboard and unscrewed it. "I think there's enough here for now. Get them salted fast, before they cool off. Load!"
They didn't stop for breakfast; semi-failed batches kept all of them nourished. By the time it was fully light and Jeff's motorbike rumbled into the driveway, there were several bowls stockpiled.
Larry turned off the burner. "Show time, troops."
"He's gone inside their trailer," reported Eddie, holding the Venetian blind open with two fingers; he was a scout, after all. "Maybe he'll want to wash up, eat breakfast first . . . Uh oh. Guess not." He released the blind and strolled casually toward the bathroom.
"Oh no you don't," said Larry. "That's not why we took the screen out. All for one, one for all."
"Gretchen did it for her folks," muttered Eddie; but he slumped onto the sofa with the others. "Is the door open?"
Jeff slammed the panel inward, catching its expected rebound from the computer desk with his arm.
"Is now." Larry leaned forward. "Hi, Jeff! Sorry about the trouble. We're . . ." He trailed off. Courier duty? Looks like mud wrestling instead. Jeff was slathered in road gruel from boots to cap; he'd taken off his goggles, leaving a raccoon mask of clean skin around his eyes. He'd also taken off his gloves, Larry noted, as Jeff cracked the knuckles of first one hand, then the other. The room got more crowded as he advanced into it.
Hans was back in the third bedroom. They'd asked him to speak to Gretchen, but he'd explained that the phrase death wish had originated in German. . . .
"You. Stupid. Shitheads. What were you doing? You scared the crap out of my entire family. You scared my kids."
Jimmy opened his mouth, but said nothing. Thank God for that, Larry thought. They were Jeff's kids now, no matter whose genes they had. "Jeff, we're all really sorry about that. It was our fault—my fault. We were cooking . . ."
"Sorry doesn't cut it around here!" bellowed Jeff. "Would've served you right if she had shot you, you stupid jerk! You know what they've been through?"
"Yes," said Larry evenly. "I was there at that battle. We all were."
Jeff checked momentarily at the mention of Gretchen's rescue. "Yeah, you were. So you should know better! Waking her up like that—smoking up two trailers—we need a new smoke alarm, and they're goddamned expensive now—"
"Pretty much ruined a broom, too," muttered Jimmy.
"You're right," agreed Larry as Jeff stooped, closed a hand in Larry's shirt, and lifted him to his feet. "Absolutely right. Here, have a potato chip." He edged a bowl between them.
"What? There's no chips since—" Jeff looked down. "Where'd you get these?"
"We made 'em last night," said Eddie proudly. "We're gonna make enough for everyone."
"Probably taste like crap." He scooped up a handful. "Hmnoh. Y'know why Gretchen didn't whale you, Larry? In German families, the husband does all that stuff . . . Hmnoh. Not bad. Y'see, I know Gretchen can take care of herself, but I still gotta do the right thing. Hmnoh. Six hours riding with nothing to eat . . . C'mon outside a minute."
Larry sighed and put the bowl down. "No, bring that," said Jeff. He dragged Larry onto the stoop and down the steps, taking fistfuls of chips with his off-hand, until they both stood on flat ground; then he let go, his breath smoking in the freezing air. "Here, gimme those."
Larry complied. Jeff grinned and took the bowl—
—with his right hand. Larry didn't even see the left hook coming. He was just suddenly there on the cold, hard ground, his head ringing. Some pretty-looking red clouds filled the morning sky. Is that a hawk circling, or a vulture? Jeff looked awfully big, standing up there. . . .
"Hmnoh. That settles that," said Jeff. He turned. "Hey, kids! Gretchen! You gotta try these!"
* * *
Larry leaned against the row of lockers and let the chattering crowd flow past him. Conversations just didn't sound the same after cell phones had stopped working—they all had at least two sides. His eyelids drooped. God, I'm tired. Two more classes, some more fun at the machine shop, then home and more chip-making . . .
"Larry!" He jerked upright. "Oh, your face looks awful! Were you fighting again?"
"Uh, sort of, Bonnie. So, how are you doing?"
"Never mind that!" She twisted out of the crowd's current. "Is it true? You're making potato chips for the feast?"
"Well, it was supposed to be secret, but I guess I can tell you." A few feet behind her, Eddie bounced on his toes to be seen over the crowd, dragging one hand's edge repeatedly across his neck. What's with him? "The prototypes have been a success, my minions served me well—and we're gonna change German agriculture, one chip at a time."
"Great!" Bonnie squealed. "I'll tell all my friends so they can be first in line! Oh, this is gonna be great!" She dove into the crowd.
"Didn't you see me?" snapped Eddie a moment later. "You told her anyway, didn't you?"
"Well, why not? You're just ticked 'cause you don't have anyone to impress yourself."
Eddie pressed his palms to his forehead. "I've been trying to get you for— Never mind. We're screwed. Why'd you have to go and—"
"What?"
"Don't you listen to what they tell you here? Do the math, Larry. It took us two hours to make a few bowls of chips—and Jeff and Gretchen ate all of them already! There's gonna be four thousand people at the feast. We can't make nearly enough in four days! Are you gonna tell ninety-five percent of 'em that 'there's no chips left, try again next year'?"
He felt a sinking feeling. "We'll get faster at it."
"Not that much. None of the Germans are gonna help, either. Maybe some of our people would . . ."
Larry frowned. "They're all our people now, Eddie."
"Sorry," said Eddie, looking as though he meant it. "But they're all gonna be hungry people, too." He looked over his shoulder. "Damn! I'm late. Look, just stop telling everyone, okay?"
"Okay." But it wasn
't okay; and Larry brooded on that for the rest of classes, for his shift at the machine shop, and for the slow ride home. He wiped out twice; the roads had melted during the day and were already refreezing at dusk, making them treacherous. After the second fall he just lay there a while until a truck rumbled up and someone asked him something loudly in German. He staggered to his feet. "I'm not hurt, just tired. Thanks. Danke."
"Naw, he's sayin' to get out of the way!" yelled the driver of the truck. One of the figures in the open back stooped and straightened; a shovelful of sand fanned over Larry's feet.
Well, that figured.
Lights glowed in all three trailers when he wobbled into the driveway. At least we won't wake anyone up. Eddie's right, but we've gotta keep trying. He trudged up the steps. Why is there a brick in the doorway? He looked to his right; the other two doors were also chocked open. He shrugged and pushed open the door.
A row of hulking garbage bags barricaded the living room. Are they throwing out my stuff? Jeff said it was settled! But the bag that toppled against his leg hardly seemed to weigh anything. It rustled when he touched it. Chips?
Then he saw the kids sitting beside a composting bin, peelers flying like cavalry sabers—Johann and the girls, plus another boy he recognized from down the street. They hardly glanced up as the door clunked against the brick behind him. Hans' voice sounded from the kitchenette. "Driese!"
"I'm out!" called Eddie from the next room. Johann jumped up with an armful of peeled potatoes, scurrying around the corner. Larry followed him in a daze. Eddie sat cross-legged on the floor; Johann dumped the potatoes beside him. "Thanks, Johann. Hi, Larry!" He held up an orange plastic food-slicer. "Found this baby in the shed—whoever lived in this trailer before us already thought like we do, and they didn't throw out anything." He skimmed a potato into a blizzard of slices. "I'm just not as fast as Gramma with a knife. Look at her go!"
Larry leaned past Eddie to look through the open connecting door. Gramma stood at a counter that had been covered with a plank; her dark iron cooking knife hammered out a volley on the wood, and a potato dissolved under it. She caught Larry's eye, grimaced, spat out "Teufelwurzten chippen! Ist skandal!" and looked down again.
"Einse!" barked Hans. Larry turned and stumbled four steps to the kitchenette. Gretchen had just lifted a cooking rack from one of three pots at full flame; she held it over a fourth—unheated—pot to drain, blew a strand of hair out of her eyes, and looked witheringly at him. "Stupid men," she growled. "Not to use kitchen right." She shook the drained chips out onto a towel, then dropped the rack onto the counter. The half-familiar neighbor behind her—Traudi?—dealt fresh chips into it.
"Triese!" cried Hans, wedged into a corner of the kitchenette and holding three wristwatches. The open window beside him wafted in cold air—ah, that's what the brick's for. Why didn't we think of that? Gretchen lowered the freshly loaded rack into a pot and drew another out. "Jeff likes po-ta-to chips much," she said. "Und Jeff is husband, und you Jeff's kamerade, zo I make chips. But not stupid way! Jeff talkink about man Henry Forhd . . ."
Melissa will kill Jeff if she finds out, thought Larry dazedly. Death by liberal feminist. "Ah, where is Jeff?"
"In our kitchen, mit Grossmutter und Jimmy, und Dolores und children from next . . . road. Need strong arms, to lift chippenmaaschen so many from kettle."
All right, maybe not . . .
"Billy Wallins from Reynolds Crescent is in the last trailer with his wife and kids," put in Eddie. He massaged his slicing hand while he paused. "They brought all their cooking pots—"
"Edvard! Schnell!"
"Yes'm." Eddie bent to his task.
"Driese!"
"I'm out! Johann!"
As he watched in amazement, another trash bag filled with chips was added to the pile. This timeline's United States is gonna be unstoppable, thought Larry.
* * *
By the next day they had used the last potato. A rough guess told them they had enough chips for about a quarter of the people who were going to be wanting them. A quick trip and a generous sample of their work, and an enthusiastic endorsement by Gretchen convinced Willie Ray Hudson to write out another slip for three more bushels. He even authorized the gas for a pickup truck to deliver them to the trailer. Nothing succeeds like success, I guess, thought Larry, shaking his head.
Two days to go and fortunately there was no school. They cut back on the frantic production pace a little so there was some time to sleep. Still, they were hard at it on Christmas Eve.
"Hey, guys, it's snowing!" said Jimmy, looking out the window during a break.
"Hard?" asked Larry.
"Coming down like gangbusters right now."
"Damn, if we get a lot of snow it will screw up the celebration!"
"And no weather forecasts so we don't know what's coming," said Eddie. "What a pain not knowing what the weather's going to do tomorrow." Several of the Germans looked at him like he was insane.
About two in the morning, the last potato was peeled, sliced and cooked. Almost every cubic foot of all three trailers was packed with bags of chips. They couldn't leave them outside for fear the raccoons would get into them.
"How are we gonna get them all to the school tomorrow?" asked Jimmy.
"We'll figure that out in the morning," yawned Larry. "Assuming we can get to the school at all with this snow. Right now, I'm going to bed. Great job everyone!"
* * *
Christmas morning dawned clear and bright. Larry guessed that there was about three inches of fresh snow on the ground. Not too bad, but it was going to make it harder to get their chips over to the school. He was still worrying about the logistics when the roar of a diesel engine outside caught his attention. He squeezed past the mound of bags in the living room and opened the trailer door. Outside was one of the town's two dump trucks. This one had a plow fitted to the front of it. He thought it might be the one that had almost run him over the other day. The driver was swinging down from the cab.
"Hey! I understand you've got a special delivery for the school?"
"Sure do!" cried Larry. "And Merry Christmas!"
* * *
The high school was the only building in town big enough to handle the crowds—barely. Naturally enough, the food would all be served in the cafeteria, although people would have to find other places to actually eat it. As Larry gently tossed bags of chips down from the back of the truck, he could see that he and his fellow-chippers had not been the only ones laboring through the night to get the feast ready. Hundreds of other people were already bustling about, making sure there would be enough for everyone. He and the other chipmeisters were assigned spots in the serving lines and they piled up their bags behind them so they could keep the serving bowls filled. By about ten o'clock, most of the preparations seemed to be complete. Larry could see a huge crowd forming outside, as nearly the entire population of Grantville—new and old—converged on the school.
But before the feast there was something far more important to do.
An announcement over the school's loudspeakers sent everyone heading for the football field. It was cold outside, but not really bad: bright sun, no wind, and snow beginning to melt here and there. Crews had already swept the snow off the bleachers, leaving dry seats. Larry and Jimmy and Eddie and Hans and Jeff and Gretchen and Gramma and all the kids grabbed a section for themselves and huddled together near the forty-yard line. At midfield a podium had been set up on a platform, framed by an arbor of evergreen branches. Folding chairs lined the field in front of the podium, but most folks were heading up into the bleachers where their feet could stay out of the snow. Another, higher platform stood behind the podium; the choir had assembled there. He could just make out Bonnie Weaver.
Mike Stearns appeared, ushering the movers and shakers from the town and the community toward the metal seats. Larry grinned when he saw a few of them glance towards the bleachers enviously. Sometimes rank's privileges were uncomfortable ones . . .
> Rebecca Abrabanel came over to Mike, spoke with him and pointed. Larry followed Becky's gesture and saw a small group clustered by the south goalpost. He recognized Becky's father and Mr. and Mrs. Roth and a few others. He puzzled for a moment; then nodded. Jews at a Christmas celebration. No wonder they're hesitating!
But Mike Stearns walked briskly over to them and took Mrs. Roth by the arm and led her and the others over to the folding chairs. Larry had seen military formations maneuvering on the field before, and there was a certain military precision in what happened next. The group were seated, but somehow there were no unoccupied sections big enough for all of them. They had to split up—just enough to create a mingling, a merging. No ghettoes here in Grantville! Not even temporary ones!
Finally, everyone had found a seat. The stands were filled with people and the blending of brightly colored synthetic fabrics with dull wools and leathers made a patchwork pattern in the morning light.
The people of Grantville were assembled. All of them.
The crowd fell silent as three small groups of people entered the field. Father Mazzare, wearing colorful robes, strode in from one sideline. Reverend Jones, in more sedate clothing, approached from the other. And a third group was coming in from the north goal. The first two groups had people carrying books and small crosses. The third had someone carrying a small menorah. There was a stir in the assembled crowd and Larry realized he was witnessing something that must have taken a lot of planning.
All three groups met in the center of the field and bowed to each other; and four thousand people looked on in utter silence.
A man from the third group came forward and hesitantly approached the microphone; Larry didn't recognize him. He must have been one of the German refugees. No, refugee no longer—one of the new citizens of the town. He glanced back at Father Mazzare and Reverend Jones; the two men smiled and gestured for him to go ahead. The man began to speak, and after a momentary flinch when his voice boomed out from a dozen loudspeakers, he went on. Larry could not understand the words, but he recognized that it was Hebrew he was hearing; and the effect on the Jews seated in front of him was plain. Rebecca clutched at her father and the Roths seemed to be crying, too.