"They're celestial longitude and latitude, with celestial north being near Polaris and the prime meridian in Aries. I have the details in my books. But I don't know how to calculate orbits. I don't know the math."
"Fortunately, Herr Farrell, I do know the . . . math. I have the Rudolphine Tables and the rest of Kepler's work on planetary orbits. If you can get me the data, I can do the calculations." Feeling that he was back on familiar ground, Scheiner moved to a chair and waved Farrell to another. "Tell me, what do you know about astronomy? Not the telescope or the go-to. Real astronomy."
Farrell sat and shook his head. "I'm not a real astronomer, just a guy who enjoys looking at stars. I've read some books and magazines, but I'm not any kind of scientist. You've just shown me that I know less about light than I thought I did. I know the words but I don't really know what the words mean. You're the hot-shot astronomer and scientific advisor to the cardinal. History will remember you as an astronomer. History won't remember me at all."
"Herr Farrell, why do you look at stars if they do not tell you anything?"
"But they do tell me things. They tell me the universe is immense and beautiful and that God created it."
"You remind me that I am not only an astronomer but also a priest. You are right, that is a good reason for looking at the stars. My friend, let us learn about God's universe together." Scheiner rose and extended his hand. He was pleased when Farrell extended his own.
* * *
"What a beautiful night for observing." Father Scheiner had just reached the observation position they'd been using.
"Yes, it's a gorgeous night. Nice and warm and not a cloud in the sky."
Scheiner smiled. "Herr Farrell, in the past month you have shown me many interesting things. Now I would like to show you something. Please position the telescope at the right ascension and declination I have written on this card."
Farrell made the adjustments and waited for Scheiner to take a look. Instead, Father Scheiner stood aside and motioned for him to look first. He looked through the eyepiece. "I see a disk among all the pinpoints of light."
"Congratulations, Herr Farrell. You are the first person to see the planet Uranus. Perhaps history will remember you as the discoverer of the seventh planet."
Azrael's Bargain
Written by Terry Howard
Download this Podcast Episode
http://www.grantvillegazette.com/img/pod/bargain.mp3
"Hey, Jimmy. Why don't I ever see you down at the rail yard anymore?" It was a cold winter night and Club 250 had its every-night regulars and as many more folks who weren't. The young man talking to Jimmy Dick was one of the latter.
Jimmy Dick gazed down the length of his beer bottle at the fellow he thought of as "the kid." Right after the Ring of Fire, when everyone was scrambling to pitch in and make things work, he'd taken a job with the railroad and joined the army. The rails kept the power plant in coal and the army kept the town from being overrun. Now he was in the reserves and the scramble to stay alive was over.
"They don't need me," Jimmy replied.
"Bull shit. You were a lot of help."
"Yeah. They could use me . . . but they don't need me. There's enough people to get the job done."
"Yeah, okay. But the money's good, and you were good at it."
"Don't need the money. Why work?"
"Ah, come on. You can always use a little more."
Jimmy had gotten by up-time without working because of the disability payments he picked up in Nam (Agent Orange was a bit more effective than it needed to be), and what little profit there was from the real estate holdings he had inherited. There were a lot of vacancies in town at the time. Now the pension was gone but the real estate more than covered things. He didn't need to work to get by and he saw no reason to get ahead.
"Hey, Ken, give me a glass and another beer." Jimmy had to ask for a glass. Bottled beer was becoming synonymous with cold beer. Down-timers wanted it at room temperature in a mug and it was tapped out of a keg. Up-timers wanted it cold. It's easier to chill bottles in ice than it is to cool a keg. Mugs were a down-time thing so most members of the 250 clan had taken to drinking out of the bottle as a social statement. When it arrived, Jimmy poured the rest of his current beer into the glass and then started pouring the new bottle in after it.
"Damn it, Jimmy, stop pouring. It's over flowing already," the kid said.
"Oh? So there is such a thing as not needing a little more."
"I was talking about money."
"Same thing. When you got enough, why get more?"
"Save it for retirement."
"You ever saved half a beer overnight?"
"'Course not. It goes flat."
"That's my point."
"I wasn't talking about beer. Money's different."
Jimmy sighed. How do you convince a young man that he needs to enjoy the journey because the destination might be disappointing? "Kid, let me tell ya a story.
"Seems a rich man died. When the angel of death came to collect him the fellow was setting there on a pile of baggage. Well Azrael looked at him and . . ."
Jimmy's drinking partner interrupted. "Who's Azrael? I thought he was a character on the Smurfs?"
"Kid, Azrael is the name of the angel of death. I don't know nothin' about what's written on no sponge football.
"Anyway, Azrael says to the rich man, 'Time to go.'
"'Well give me a hand with this,' the rich man said, meaning his luggage.
"'Leave it. You don't need it where you're goin'.'
"'No way,' says the rich man. 'I worked all my life for this I ain't leaving it.'
"'Well, you can't take it with you.'
"'Then I ain't goin',' says the rich man.
"They argued about it for awhile and Azrael finally said, 'Look I don't have all eternity. I'll let you bring whatever you can carry. Grab what you can and leave the rest and let's get goin'.' The rich fellow, he agonizes over what to leave and what to take and finally grabs a suitcase in each hand. By the time they got to the pearly gates he was down to one and covered in sweat.
"Peter looked down at it and said, 'What's that?'
"'It's all the luggage the angel would let me bring.'
"'Well, I can tell you right now it ain't goin' in with you. What did you bring anyway?' The rich man huffed the tote up on the counter and opened it up. It was full of gold bars. A puzzled Peter looked at it and said, 'Paving stones? Why did you bring paving stones?'"
The kid laughed. "That's funny. What's the point?"
Jimmy sighed again and gave up. Sometimes it was just plain too much work to get an idea across. "The point is, I think we need a couple of cold ones down here. Hey, Ken, two more." Jimmy knew there weren't very many problems in this world you couldn't get to go away, at least for a while, if you just kept the beers coming. Maybe some day the kid would figure it out, but probably not.
Land of Ice and Sun
Written by Kim Mackey
The match was tied at four games apiece when I looked up and saw the priest talking to Esteban's navigator, Luke Foxe. He was a strange looking fellow. Oh, he wore the clothing of a priest, but his face was too dark and his cheekbones too high to be a Spaniard or a Basque. He was a forlorn looking man with a black mongrel of a dog for a companion that seemed as forlorn as he.
"Who's that?" I pointed with my chin.
Esteban looked up. He too was catching his breath. Esteban was younger than I, but his time as a whaling captain and successful merchant had made him more portly.
"The priest?"
I nodded.
Esteban smiled. "Father Amancio. He will be quite an asset on our expedition to Greenland."
"Not when I win the next game, Esteban. Then it is back to Cartegena for me. You promised."
He laughed. "Indeed I did, dear cousin Antonio. As did you. And if I win the game, you join us on our adventure to the north lands."
I shuddered. The last thing I wanted was to journey to a
land of cold, dark and ice. But if this was the way to settle my debt . . .
I should have stayed in Cartegena.
I had moved there in 1630 after my dispensation from the pope, Urban VIII. But lady luck, or God, had smiled on me and my gambling had finally earned me a handsome sum. Early in 1632 a coin flip had decided my next destination: heads, Mexico, tails, San Sebastian to pay my respects to my family and perhaps do some traveling in France and Germany before returning to the New World.
It was in San Sebastian that I met my cousin, Esteban Eguiño. One night melancholy (and strong drink) got the better of me and I told Esteban the story of how I had secretly been his father's cabin boy in 1603 and stolen five hundred pesos from him before jumping ship in Nombre de Dios in Panama. At first Esteban merely laughed, but then his scheming brain decided to rope me into the plans of his new patrons, the Dutch banker, Balthasar Coymans, and the industrialist, Louis de Geer.
I resisted of course. But Esteban played me like a fish, and eventually I agreed to help him. I blame my sense of honor. For decades I had felt guilty about stealing from my uncle. But still, I was a wily fish, and I agreed to do only part of Esteban's bidding. The rest of it was negotiable. Thus the pelota match.
Esteban smiled at me. "My serve I believe?"
I tossed him the ball. "And none of your tricks this time, Esteban. Play by the rules!"
Esteban laughed and served.
We were playing the classical version, of course, partido. The first person to win five games, each game to seven points. Our front wall was the back of a church, the side wall the back of the church's brewery. We had started to draw a crowd after the sixth game, and a number of bookmakers were in the crowd. Along with a few tittering whores and the young bucks who were chasing them.
Esteban had used the pause well and reeled off three straight points before I got the serve. We were both tired by then, the crowd was getting more raucous, and we both wanted nothing more but to finish and go quench our thirst in the tavern a block away.
But we were both honorable. Neither of us gave an inch and we fought like lions in the afternoon sun.
Finally the score was tied at six apiece and Esteban's serve came at me. I'd seen this one before and had positioned myself well. It was then that the whores' cries broke my concentration.
"Miss, Catalina. Miss it!"
I missed. Esteban threw his arms up in triumph, then around me.
"A match well-played Antonio, well-played indeed!"
"Except for the last point," I grumbled.
The crowd began to disperse and Foxe and Father Amancio came forward. Esteban introduced me to the priest.
"Antonio, Father Amancio. Father Amancio, Antonio de Erauso, my cousin. A true adventurer who will be joining us on our expedition to the northlands."
I clasped Father Amancio's arm. He had strong hands. "A pleasure to meet you, Father."
"And you, Antonio de Erauso. So you are an adventurer?"
I shrugged modestly. "I have been a few places, I admit."
Esteban laughed. "A few! Father, there is no stone Antonio has left unturned in all of South America, especially in Peru and Chile! His exploits are famous!"
We had begun to move down the street towards the tavern, and one of the two whores still leaning against a wall, perhaps emboldened by the three young bucks she was trying to attract, called out to me.
"Señora Catalina, where are you going? Feeling lonesome tonight?"
"My dear whores," I said, drawing my blade, turning to face them, "I have come to give fifty strokes to your bottom and a hundred gashes to any man who would defend your honor." I advanced on them slowly.
Terrified, the harlots ran away, their bucks in tow.
Esteban grinned as they rounded the corner. "So fierce, Antonio! You have quite a temper, my dear cousin!"
I snorted. It was true, of course.
I turned to Father Amancio. "Sorry about that, Father. I have a certain notoriety in San Sebastian."
Father Amancio nodded. "I had not made the connection until the . . . uh, young lady had spoken. You are the famous transvestite, Catalina de Erauso, then?"
My smile was a thin smile, I admit, but a smile none the less. "Call me Antonio, Father. My life as Catalina ended long ago."
The priest looked at me thoughtfully, then smiled himself. "Of course, Antonio. And, if you would permit, let me offer to buy the first drink to ease the pain of your loss at pelota."
One maxim I had always lived by was to never turn down a free drink. I nodded graciously.
"Onward, my friends," Esteban said, putting his arms around my shoulder and Father Amancio's, "We have a night of drinking, plans, and stories ahead of us!"
* * *
The tavern was cool and dark. The owner, Manuel Ortega, escorted us to our usual corner table. Within minutes we were slaking our thirst on Manuel's beer. Rosalita, Manuel's wife, brought out bowls of stew and loaves of bread.
It was an hour before conversation got around to the topic of Grantville.
"So you have actually been to Grantville, Señor Foxe?" Father Amancio asked.
Luke nodded. "For three months. An intensive course of study set up for me by De Geer's niece, Colette Modi. Geology, mostly. But mathematics and geography as well. And as much as they had on Greenland, which wasn't a lot."
"So they aren't devils as some in the Church would have us assume?"
Luke laughed. "Not at all, Father. Except for the vehicles and roads, you might just think it to be an odd little German town, especially now that the German population outnumbers the original Americans."
He shook his head. "No, what is most startling about Grantville is the information you glean from their libraries and from just talking to the American residents. It is then that you truly start to believe that they come from the future . . . or some future."
"Some future?" I asked. "Not ours?"
Luke shrugged. "How could it be from our future? With the arrival of Grantville everything they knew about their past is changing, and changing rapidly. In Grantville's history Gustavus Adolphus died this past November, and there is nothing in their history books about the formation of the CPE with him as the emperor."
Esteban smiled and leaned in toward the center of the table, motioning us to do likewise. The tavern was beginning to fill now, and while the noise level had risen, it was still possible to understand conversations from other tables nearby.
"We are definitely going to be changing history from what is in the Grantville books," Esteban said quietly. "In their history the mineral we will be seeking, this cryolite, was not discovered by the Danes until 1794. If we can get there before anyone else and stake a claim . . ."
Father Amancio tilted his head. "Cryolite? Frozen stone?"
Luke smiled. "Exactly right! The mineral is very translucent. In fact, it was written that pure samples can almost disappear in water because of what is called it's 'refractive index.' Did your people know of this mineral?"
Father Amancio shook his head. "I don't know. Certainly not under that name."
"Your people?" I asked. "Are you from Greenland, Father Amancio?" And how would a native of Greenland have become a priest? There must be quite a story there.
"No." For a second Father Amancio's face darkened. "I am of 'The People' or the Inuit as they . . . we, call ourselves, but from across the Davis Strait in what is now labeled Labrador on the maps, although I was born further north, on what is now called Baffin Island."
"Inuit? Not Eskimo, Father?" Luke asked.
Father Amancio showed his teeth. "Eskimo is what the Abnaki call my people. An insult. It means 'eaters of flesh.'" Father Amancio's bared teeth turned into a grin. "As far as I can remember from the stories our angakok told us . . ." Seeing our looks of incomprehension, he waved his hand. ". . . Shaman, gentlemen. The most powerful member of the tribe, even more so than the village elders. Anyway, according to our angakok, it was only during the starving times when cannibalis
m was practiced. But before that point was reached we would eat our dogs and boil our sealskins to make soup."
Father Amancio's face turned thoughtful. "Although some say parts of my grandfather were eaten when he died, because of the strength of his spirit."
"Grandfather?" My skin crawled at the thought. Wonderful. Cold, dark, ice and now cannibals.