Grantville Gazette 43

  Ahmedabad Airport

  August 7, 1999

  Sumitra was leaving home to become a high-school senior in a tiny town in the USA. Her destination was a mystery; the only info that the internet could dig out about Grantville, West Virginia was that its high school was adequate and its cost of living was cheap. Which, she supposed, was all she needed to know.

  Now Sumitra's flight was being called. The family was so emotional, they actually hugged in public.

  The second-to-last thing that Bhaskar said to his daughter was "Don't eat meat over there."

  "We know you won't," Ahimsa said. "You're a good daughter."

  Sumitra wasn't paying total attention. Part of her was noticing what soft skin one of the Air India stewardesses had.

  The home of George and Hilary Chehab

  Grantville, West Virginia

  September 24, 1999

  Mrs. Chehab was serving her own family a casserole of broccoli, cheese, and chicken. Sumitra was eating rice and broccoli topped with cottage cheese.

  Sumitra didn't eat any of Hilary Chehab's chicken casserole, nor did she ask for any of it. But after hearing the third "This is delicious, Mom," Sumitra was sorely tempted to try it.

  Sumitra distracted herself away from the chicken by thinking about her new close friend, Samantha Salerno.

  "You're smiling, Sumitra," Terri Chehab said. "Are you thinking about a boy?"

  McDonald's Restaurant

  Grantville, West Virginia

  Six weeks before graduation

  Enterprise "Ent" Martin and his brother "Dev" were sitting at a table by a big glass window of the McDonald's. Ent gave Sumitra a smile and a jaunty wave.

  Then he yawned.

  Grantville High School had held its 2000 "Foolish Youth" Prom the night before. Sumitra Patel was the only senior, on this sunny Sunday afternoon, to be sober, hangover-free, and well rested.

  Sitting across a tiny table from Sumitra in the McDonald's, sophomore Samantha Salerno had seen Ent Martin's smile and wave. Samantha leaned forward. "You know Ent won't shut up about your great hair, and he thinks your accent is sexy. You should date him before you go back to India."

  Sumitra smiled. "To India? I hope this is not soon. I hope I win the scholarship for the Georgia Tech. Also, I have not heard yet from the WVU or the California State or the Harvard. Perhaps I will date the Harvard man."

  The Grantville girl's smile said Checkmate in one move. "Then you need to date Ent now, so that you know the game when you date that Harvard man." When Sumitra still hesitated, Samantha threw up her hands. "C'mon, you need this!"

  Sumitra smiled at her American friend. "Perhaps Ent fancies me. But I am not whom he took to the prom, no?"

  Samantha looked embarrassed. "Look, we Grantville kids all have grown up together, and we'll be seeing each other in years to come. This is why no boy asked—"

  Sumitra smiled. "You are most kind. The prom is not part of my custom, so I did not cry when I did not go to the prom. I was more gutted, missing the Navratri, than I was about missing the prom. But too bad for Grantville. You lot gave a miss to see a chaniya choli costume at the prom."

  Sumitra didn't mention now that she had another reason that she was unbothered about missing prom. Two months ago, Sumitra had realized that she'd rather go to the prom with Samantha than with any boy. Sumitra had no idea how Samantha would take such news, so she had kept her desires hidden.

  Meanwhile, Samantha was changing topics: "One day you'll be back in India. You think you'll ever miss here? Grantville? West Virginia? The USA?"

  Sumitra shrugged. "I have not seen the USA. I have not seen the West Virginia. The Marion County—what I saw of this—is different from Gujarat. You have the rain here! Gujarat is dry." Then Sumitra rubbed her elbow. "You also have the ice and snow in winter, and they attack the innocent India girl. I shan't miss the ice and snow."

  Sumitra added with what she hoped was a casual voice: "I will miss you. You have been the good friend, Samantha."

  "Aww," the Grantville girl said, and touched Sumitra's left hand with her own right hand.

  Samantha's hand was soft, and her skin smelled wonderful. Sumitra wanted to step around the table right then, and kiss Samantha's soft lips. Then Sumitra would unbutton Samantha's clothing, in order to smell and kiss more and more of Samantha's sweet-scented skin, eventually to—

  In McDonald's, Samantha drew her hand back, picked up her hamburger, and took another bite.

  As Samantha was chewing her beef sandwich, Sumitra said, "About I go back to India . . . um, I have the favour to ask." Sumitra eyed the hamburger in Samantha's hands and added, "Please, do not tell this to anyone."

  Puzzled, Samantha asked, "What's the favor?"

  Sumitra said, "You give to me some of your hamburger. I eat the ground beef."

  "What's wrong, the salad didn't fill you up?" Then clearly realisation hit Samantha. "Wait, you're Hindu. You're supposed to avoid beef, right?"

  "Yes," Sumitra admitted. "So please, do not tell to anyone. In India I do not find the beef, or this is the scandal if I eat this. Here, I have no scandal. But still, say nothing."

  In reply, Samantha picked up her purse, then stood up. "Gosh, I'm still hungry. I'm going to order me another burger."

  "Wait," Sumitra said, "I do not ask for you to spend your—"

  Samantha was standing at the order counter by then, so Sumitra's choices were to yell or to shut up. Sumitra shut up.

  A minute later, Samantha lifted the hot, paper-wrapped hamburger off its red plastic tray, and set the hamburger in front of Sumitra. The Grantville girl leaned down and murmured in the Hindu girl's ear, "The cow was already dead. You didn't kill it. Now eat up."

  Sumitra had eaten about a third of her hamburger when the light from the windows suddenly flashed much brighter.

  Ent Martin exclaimed, "Holy shit!"

  An instant later, the entire McDonald's went dark. Somebody in the food-preparation area said "Dammit!"

  Seconds later, thunder-sound came, which echoed for several more seconds.

  Meanwhile, Ent Martin was saying, "Y'all should've seen it. The whole sky turned bright white for a moment."

  "You're pathetic," Samantha said. "Ever heard of lightning?"

  "Come over here and see for yourself, Miss Smartypants," Dev Martin said. "The sky is blue everywhere you look."

  Ent added, "It wasn't part of the sky that flashed light, it was the entire sky. Weird."

  "Maybe somebody dropped a nuke someplace?" Dev said. Sumitra was surprised to hear eagerness, not worry, in his voice.

  Ent stood up, as he glanced at Sumitra. "If somebody did drop a nuke, we should go look for a mushroom cloud. Find out if people in Grantville are in danger."

  Samantha stood up too. "If there's been a nuke, Grantville will get refugees soon, and our doctors are gonna need help."

  Sumitra put the remainder of her hamburger on the table, then followed Samantha and the boys outside.

  The Martin brothers had denied that a thundercloud had made the flash. Sure enough, the only clouds above the teens' heads were standard white puffs, with lots of blue sky showing. In fact, the sky was a darker and richer blue than Sumitra had ever noticed before.

  "I don't see any mushroom cloud," Dev said. Was this disappointment that Sumitra was hearing?

  "Doesn't mean anything," Ent said. "They'd have to hit Fairmont for us to see the mushroom cloud over the tops of these hills."

  "Okay, so maybe it was a glitch at the power plant. Maybe somebody threw a bucket of water on one of the generators."

  "Maybe it was a storm," Ent said. "Notice how it's windy out here and it's getting cooler?"

  "Huh, you're right," Dev said. "I'm going inside."

  Meanwhile, Sumitra noticed that Samantha was standing in the car park, facing the sun.

  Instead of following his brother inside, Ent looked at Sumitra. She smiled at him and gave him a little goodbye-wave. Ent shrugged, then walked toward the Mc
Donald's entrance door.

  Sumitra walked up, to stand only inches away from Samantha. The younger girl looked puzzled by something. Sumitra asked, "What are you doing?"

  "Being young and silly, probably. Besides proving I'm no astronomer."

  Sumitra glanced at the sun then, and realized that she'd never noticed it in that part of the sky before. But then, Sumitra had lived in Grantville for only eight months, so she promptly dismissed the thought.

  Sumitra looked around. Nobody inside McDonald's could see Samantha and Sumitra, because of where the two girls were standing. Nobody outside was looking at the two girls. Nobody was near the two girls, except for the McDonald's manager; he was taping a sign to the drive-through menu. To add to temptation, Samantha's hair smelled quite nice. Sumitra thought, I could kiss Samantha right now, and nobody would see.

  Sumitra would never know if this thought were true or not. The "daring gambler" didn't try to kiss Samantha.

  For the rest of her life, Sumitra Patel would be asked about that one special second, and the minutes before and after it. Only Stephanie Turski and Nicki Jo Prickett got told the whole truth:

  When the Ring fell, Sumitra Patel, a Hindu, was chewing on grilled ground beef. In the minutes before and after, Sumitra was wishing to kiss her best friend Samantha.

  Stephanie's art classroom, Grantville High School

  Right after Final Bell, Monday, September 8, 1636

  Art teacher Stephanie Turski was at the classroom deep sink, washing out mixing bowls for paint, when she heard someone knock on the doorframe of her open classroom door.

  She glanced over. Standing just inside the door was playwright and GHS drama teacher Shack (Shackerley) Marmion, and another down-timer man. Shack was holding a piece of paper in one hand, while the other man was holding two rolled-up cloths. The other man was in his thirties, and expensively dressed; he was looking at Stephanie with skepticism.

  "I bid you good day, good lady Stephanie," Shack said. "Are you free to converse?"

  Stephanie blinked. Shackerley, she had noticed, addressed up-timers as "good lady X" or "good lord Y" only when he was being formal.

  She replied in kind: "Welcome to my classroom, sirs. Please make yourselves comfortable while I finish my business."

  The well-dressed stranger murmured a question to Shackerley, who murmured a reply. Stephanie couldn't hear what either man said.

  Stephanie finished cleaning the mixing bowls, then washed blue and green paint off her hands. Wiping her hands on a rectangle of hemp, she walked toward the men.

  Shackerley said with careful diction, "Stephanie Turski, may I present Cecilio Moretti of Venice. Cecilio, this be Stephanie Turski, unmarried but she doth keep her married name. Cecilio doth journey hither to trade with a certain manner of up-timer, and he doth hope that his search be not in vain."

  The Venetian bowed to Stephanie, though his face still showed doubts about her. "Well met, Miss Turski," he said.

  Stephanie asked Shackerley, "So what is this about?"

  Before Shack answered, Moretti asked Stephanie, "Pray pardon, but you do lecture here at this school, Miss Turski? What be thy—your specialty?"

  "I teach art and art history, Signor Moretti. Can't you tell?" Stephanie replied, smiling. The walls of the art classroom were a feast of colors, especially the giant hot-pink heart by the door.

  "Wherefore she?" Moretti asked Shackerley, doubt clear in his voice.

  "Mister Marmion, what's going on?" Stephanie demanded, her voice no longer cheery.

  Shackerley said, "This doth tell all." He thrust toward Stephanie the paper he'd been holding.

  The paper turned out to be a letter, complete with a red wax seal—

  God grant thee good day, old friend Shackerley!

  Courtesy doth compel me to salute thee. Months after thou didst leave London, everyone doth still speak of you. Is't true, thou didst flee in darkness to evade creditors? Forsooth, as I have with mine own eyes seen thy love for cards, I do easily credit this rumour. Rumour doth also claim that thou doth abide in the town of the future, and moreunto thou wast invited to lecture at their school. I am privileged to long ago have drunk ale with such a worthy.

  If this second rumour be true, I have a tale to tell, and a boon to beg.

  After my elder brother died and I did with tears cease my studies at Wadham College, I came home and learnt the wool trade from my father. My father himself did die in 1631, and so I did take ownership of his company.

  Soon after, we of England did hear rumour of an English-speaking town from North America of the future, whose people did boast to be Englishmen no more. In 1631 I thought the tale to be the lie of a madman or an idiot. But alas, I was shewed wrong, for no Englishman may deny what did betide English soldiers and sailors in 1634.

  About this time of 1634, one of my partners in trade, Cecilio Moretti who standeth afore thee, did learn a rumour that a Spanish Don had aped up-time knowledge, in the making of better woolen cloth. This tale did inflame Cecilio, who doth loathe all men of Spain. Cecilio then did vow to match the hidalgo in wool wizardry, and then to better him.

  Shackerley, Cecilio hath done this. Now in 1636, I sell wool to him, and he doth sell to me wool cloth finer than any English wife can make. I sell this wool cloth in England, and God's wounds, I do prosper! This man who beareth my letter, he doth make me rich!

  Recently Cecilio wrote to me to share tidings: What he hath done with wool, so now doeth he with India cotton. Work with India cotton is i'truth easier, he claimeth.

  He maketh cotton cloth, and doth wish to sell it. But he seeketh to sell his cotton cloth first to the up-timers, afore he doth make trade to anyone else. I forstand not his reasoning, in that he doth wish his cotton cloth to be like unto a Turkish drink. Mayhap he will explain it well to thee.

  Cecilio maketh request to me, to introduce him to an up-timer who would buy his cotton cloth. I know no man as this. But I know thee, and so I pray thee to aid Cecilio in his quest.

  For thine aid to Cecilio, I thank thee aforetime.

  Yr. humble servant,

  Roger Wyndford

  Stephanie handed the letter back to Shackerley. To Moretti she said, "You say that cotton cloth is like coffee? How are they alike?"

  Moretti glanced at Shackerley. Shackerley made a small hand gesture: Get on with it.

  Moretti said to Stephanie, "The people in Europe did not drink the coffee, ere you up-timers came. Now, to drink the brown water be high fashion in every place. Now, north of yon Mediterranean Sea, I am told, 'Cotton? Fie on cotton! Its price be dear, and it doth keep not me warm.' Ah, but if you up-timers buy my wares—"

  "—you'll get rich, fast. Gotcha."

  "She forstandeth," Shackerley translated.

  Cecilio frowned. "I wish not to seem as an unmannered lout, but . . . you did ask, and I did answer. Now 'tis my time to ask: Wherefore was I brought hither, to you? How canst thou—can you aid me?"

  Shackerley said, "In that she doth—"

  Stephanie held up a hand. "Shackerley, allow me."

  Stephanie turned to Cecilio; her face, which smiled often, wasn't smiling now. "You have heard of the Higgins sewing machine." He nodded. "I am in partnership with another woman, a tailor's widow named Tilda Gundlach, and together we sew skorts and skirts. Do you know what a skort is?"

  He said no; she explained. It turned out that he'd seen skorts in Venice, but hadn't paid attention to what they were named.

  Then Cecilio shrugged. "So you two do sew clothing for women. And so? Without vexing myself, I can find three other seamstresses who do likewise, in Grantville alone. Wherefore thou?"

  "We aren't seamstresses. A seamstress is told what the skirt must look like, then she measures the woman and makes a skirt for that one woman."

  "Yes. And so?"

  "What Tilda and I do is, we design a skirt or skort in one of twenty-nine different sizes, a woman gets measured, she figures out her size from a chart, she tells us her size and w
hich of six colors she wants, she pays us, and we send her a skirt in that color and it already fits. When we run low on a size/color combination, we make more."

  Stephanie turned to smile at Shackerley, adding, "We now have two skirts in the Wish Book: The 'Magdeburg' and the 'Morgantown.' The 'Morgantown' stops just above the knee, and is selling very well. We think down-timer women are buying it as lingerie."

  Stephanie noticed that Cecilio looked puzzled. She asked him, "Have you heard of the Wish Book?"

  Cecilio hadn't, because with Venice's down-time mail system, a mail-order catalogue would be a bad idea. Cecilio had heard of the USE's mail system, but hadn't realized that someone could build a business from it.

  Cecilio asked, "Ye women make garments when no woman hath paid, hoping for her custom afterwards? Nay, nay, 'tis perilous and foolish."

  Stephanie laughed at him, then said, "You of Venice build a cotton mill when no one has paid, hoping to get up-timers' business afterward? Perilous, definitely. But what do you say, is it foolish?"

  Cecilio stared at her, as gobsmacked as if she'd hit him across the face with a tuna.

  Then he made a courtly bow. "I would be most honoured to have your custom, Mistress Turski."

  Stephanie noted that he had said your custom instead of thy custom. Finally, Cecilio was not dissing her.

  ****

  Seconds later, Cecilio walked to a classroom table and laid down the two cloth rolls that he'd been holding. The first cloth turned out to be white plain-weave cotton cloth, five feet wide and six feet long. The second cloth was like the first, except that—

  "It's gray!" Stephanie exclaimed. "Why is the cloth gray?"

  "Grey is how it seemeth," Cecilio said, "when 'tis cut from the loom and ere we bleach it. 'Tis proof what I be not, be not"—muttered words in Italian—"I sell not what I own not."

  "He be not working chicanery upon thee," Shackerley said.

  "Ah," Stephanie replied. She walked to her teacher's desk and, after some rummaging, came back with a ruler, a magnifying glass, a safety pin, and a cheap solar-powered calculator.

  She looked at Cecilio. "Every up-timer woman is going to ask me the same question, and you probably don't know the answer."