Grantville Gazette, Volume IX

  Martin Wackernagel and the rabbi continued their discussion of stencils and duplicating machines. Both of them talked to Sergeant Hartke and his wife Dagmar about pamphlets. Dagmar recalled the Menig-Bodamer connection. Wackernagel recalled the Bodamer-Schlitz-Mangold chuckling convention. Gertrud Hartke and Jeffie Garand recalled the odd-looking contraption that was on the stand at Menig's paper mill the evening they had walked up to check if Emrich and Liesel were okay. They hadn't thought about the room being full of stacks of paper at the time, Jeffie admitted, since a person really expected to see stacks of paper in a paper mill. Then someone remembered seeing Mangold at Menig's.

  Jeffie said that he thought he had better tell Derek—Major Utt, that was.

  Major Utt got them an appointment with the NUS administrator, Wesley Jenkins. Not "one of these days," but first thing on his calendar the very next morning, even though the whole day was scheduled for a big celebration of the up-timers' first down-time "airplane."

  Fulda, September 1633

  The NUS authorities arrested a lot of people, of course. First Jodocus Menig, who identified Karl von Schlitz as the person who paid for the import of the duplicating machine and stencils. They could not arrest him, of course, or his sons, since Schlitz, although in the CPE, was not in the NUS.

  Captain Wiegand felt considerable relief that the miscreant had not been someone from Fulda. That lasted until Emrich Menig said that, by the way, they had just been getting ready to run off another set of stencils. He and Liesel Bodamer had made them, he reported proudly. They had followed the instructions in the manual and been entirely successful. These stencils had been brought to them by Lorenz Mangold.

  Wiegand's apprehension lasted until someone read the manuscript, which proved to contain not anti-Semitic tracts but rather some of the worst heroic poetry ever written. Andrea Hill made some rather biting comments on the probable impact of "duplicating machines" on vanity publishing in the seventeenth century.

  Wiegand's relief lasted until a search of Mangold's house, authorized before anybody got around to reading the manuscript found at Menig's, turned up several crates of pamphlets that were virulently anti-Semitic. And some more which advocated the resumption of witchcraft trials. Plus quite a few which were just weird. Nothing indecent, though. Mangold appeared to be downright prudish.

  To the great disappointment of almost everybody else, Wes Jenkins refused to authorize the use of torture, even under these circumstances. Even though they pointed out that it was perfectly legal under the Constitutio Criminalis Carolina, which remained the law of the CPE because nobody had ever gotten around to repealing it. Wes said it wasn't legal under American law and that was that. And, moreover, it wasn't a capital offense anyway, as far as he knew, just to own the things.

  All of which was terribly unsatisfactory.

  Magdeburg, September 1633

  "It's because we were thinking presses," Mike Stearns said. "Thinking inside the box. That's why we haven't been able to identify the bastards who are producing this filth. Even the Committees of Correspondence were thinking presses. Small presses; those are what they are distributing to their local organizations. That is what the Venice Committee of Correspondence is going to get. Improved small presses, but still presses using movable type. Because for copiers, we were thinking high-tech. We knew that the down-timers did have presses and that they did not have copiers."

  He slapped his hand on the table, turning to Don Francisco Nasi. "How many of these duplicating machines are there now, Francisco? Inside the USE, spewing out this poison. Is there any way to make an estimate?"

  Francisco Nasi shook his head. "I have people trying to find out how many Vignelli has shipped from Bozen. Some of the pamphlets are printed on presses, of course. We may still be able to trace those. But the duplicating machines are so simple that there is no way Vignelli can possibly maintain a monopoly on them. Any decent craftsman who sees one can copy it. Successfully, I must add."

  "So these things, these libels, whether they are specifically anti-Semitic or not, will just continue to proliferate. Anywhere, essentially undetectable. Unless we open every large envelope in the postal system—which, I emphasize, we most certainly will not do—the stencils will travel for no more than the normal porto, anywhere east of a line running from Sweden's Baltic provinces to Hungary."

  This time, Don Francisco nodded. "They do not even need to send the stencils. That is clear from the statements made by the young boy and girl in the Fulda case. They only need to send one copy of a pamphlet, or a manuscript. Anyone who has a duplicating machine can prepare a stencil. Some will be better than others, but then some printing presses turn out much better quality copy than others. It depends on the skill of the operator, the quality of the paper, the quality of the ink. For longer books, I expect, printing will continue to be the preferred method."

  "Yeah, that was true up-time, too."

  "So unless you wish to duplicate the Porte, examining everyone's mail for possibly dissenting literature . . ."

  Mike shook his head. "No. No, of course not. We are not going to stop the mail and inspect every item. That would be against every principle of intellectual freedom, freedom of the press, that we are trying to introduce. It's just so . . ."

  "Loathsome," Don Francisco suggested.

  "'Loathsome' is a very inadequate word."

  Hanau, November 1633

  "It's a personal thank-you letter," Martin Wackernagel said. "From Prime Minister Stearns."

  Menahem ben Elnathan took it. "I am honored."

  "And one from Don Francisco Nasi."

  "Perhaps I should be apprehensive."

  "From all that I hear, they are sincerely grateful for your contributions. Not to a solution of the problem of these scurrilous pamphlets, since perhaps there is none, but for assisting in defining it."

  "No one among us did anything remarkable," the rabbi said. "But, then, most large events are the result of many small ones coming together."

  "Exactly what do you intend to do to solve David and Riffa's problems? Perhaps I shouldn't ask, but I'm curious."

  "It is well under way. There was no prospect that Abelin Kronberg and Bessle Zons would consent to young David's new job and proposed marriage. They have too much pride invested in preventing him from joining the post office and in arranging the Wohl marriage. I suggested that they should release their parental rights in regard to this son who has caused them so much trouble and heartache, so that he may be adopted as heir by his uncle Meier and Zorline Neumark. Once that is completed, then the new parents can—and will—consent to the marriage. I have correspondence for you to carry to Frankfurt today. If all goes well, you should be able to bring me the completed legal papers on your return trip."

  Martin looked at the rabbi for a few minutes. Then, in the up-time manner, he saluted him.

  Frankfurt am Main, November 1633

  "Where did you get it?" Crispin asked suspiciously.

  "The administrator in Fulda for the New United States said that he owed me a favor. So I said that he could do me one, since they had confiscated it as evidence. It's the duplicating machine that Menig had at his paper mill, producing those scandalous pamphlets. It's yours legally. I have receipts."

  Crispin looked at it with distaste. "Do you have an exorcist to get the evil spirits out of it?"

  "Not exactly. But you'll be paying for it for several years, so don't feel that you got something for nothing."

  "How?"

  "I brought Menig's son to apprentice with you. He's at my rooms. No fee."

  "I thought he was the one who actually ran the machine."

  "He is, but the up-timers think he is not old enough to be held, as the woman named Mrs. Hill put it, 'criminally responsible.' I offered you and Merga as an alternative, which Mr. Wesley Jenkins accepted. He is, from what I have observed so far, an incredibly ingenious boy who will occupy a great deal of your time."

  Merga looked at her husband.


  "All right," he said. "We'll take it. Him. Both of them. The machine and the boy."

  "What about the girl?" Merga asked. "Bodamer's daughter. Liesel. What have they done to her?"

  "Gone to her mother's people, for the time being, at least. Bodamer is one of Schlitz's subjects and the Ritter's lawyers asserted jurisdiction on his behalf, even though he is under arrest himself. Mrs. Hill was very angry about it."

  "Beyond that," Martin asked after a while, "How's business?"

  "I'm developing a new line," Crispin said. "Merga's idea. We haven't heard from the merchant selling the duplicating machines, yet, but then he is certainly not in Frankfurt. These things take time. I am creating a new small newspaper to circulate locally and present advertisements for things that people want. There must be many people in Frankfurt who want some item, and other people who have it but no longer want it, but who do not know one another. With the duplicating machine, now, the cost of production for these 'want ads' will be reduced a lot . . ."

  * * *

  "Stop delaying, Martin," Merga said. "You have to go upstairs and say hello to Mutti."

  When Wackernagel came back down the stairs, he moaned. "You've got to do something, Merga. You absolutely have to get her off this 'settle down and get married.' Find her an avocation. A 'hobby' as the up-timers say. Some other interest."

  She looked up from the stand where she was watching Emrich Menig piece the duplicating machine together. "Getting you married and settled down more than an avocation. It is her vocation, her calling."

  "Merga, you have got to do something." Martin's desperation was clear from the tone of his voice. "I can't settle down. Not here, not anywhere."

  "Why on earth not, Marty?"

  "Because I am married. In Erfurt. Well, in a village right outside the city. And in Vacha. And in Steinau. With calling of the banns and everything. They were all such darling girls when I met them. I couldn't bear to disappoint them, so I told the local pastors that I was an orphan from Breslau. And if any one of them finds out . . . ever. Or the church! There are a lot of really good reasons that I love the Imperial Road."

  "How many reasons?" Merga asked. She put as much "foreboding" into the tone of her voice as she could possibly squeeze through her vocal cords.

  "Besides my girls? Eight, right now."

  Merga gasped.

  Her brother gave her the grin he had used—in his older sister's opinion, with an unreasonable degree of success—to get out from under impending disciplinary measures since he was three years old. "But Maria is expecting again."

  Those Daring Young Men

  by Rick Boatright

  The door into the building opened, spilling young men and sunlight into the space.

  "Rotgut, Henrich, all around. And the paint."

  "We're out of the Grantville Rotgut. You'll have to make do with the Italian version."

  "As long as it's corn liquor, and burns, it will do."

  Heinrich scanned the faces, quickly assessing who was missing. "Johan?" He took the container of bright pink paint down from the shelf behind the bar and handed it across. Then he placed a tray of shot-glasses on the counter.

  "Ja. The left aileron hinge tore loose from the wing root, but not cleanly. The Marie was never built to attempt an immelman. The main wing spar cracked, and he came in hard." Georg's hand made a twisting swoop through the air, and fluttered to the bar top.

  A sound of scraping came from the far wall as tables were moved. Eleven bright pink pairs of wings flew in perfect coordination in two rows along the top. Quickly, tables were piled and a young man stood and added another pair.

  Meanwhile, the pink silk scarves they all wore were folded and placed under their epaulettes.

  The tray made its way around the group. Each man took a glass, then twelve shot glasses were placed in a "missing man" formation with one out front.

  Isaac looked around to see if everyone was ready. "To Johan! And to the SKY!"

  "TO THE SKY!" Twenty shot glasses arced towards the fireplace, while the other twelve began burning with the odd blue flame that only rotgut produces.

  Barmaids began passing around beers, while the notebooks and slide rules began appearing. Marie would be salvaged for her wire, and fasteners, and fabric, but Emily was almost ready. They might not have engines, but the catapult functioned well; the cabling seldom broke. Only one pair of wings represented a young man decapitated as the tow cable snapped. Since then, they had learned the value of bunkers for the tow crew.

  They already flew, and it was, by God, 1635 in this modern era. How far away could engines be? A year? A month?

  The slide rules slid. The beer puddled. The drawings and the arguments proceeded as they held their wake for the latest of their number to earn his wings in the only way they could think of that honored him. They prepared to go back into the sky.

  The youngest of the barmaids approached Georg as he was sketching a truss joint. "Sir?"

  He looked up. "Yes?"

  "Sir, I just wondered. Why pink, sir?"

  Georg gestured to the wall. "It's an American tradition. Pink is the color of bravery and honor and manliness. That is why Colonel Wood made his first plane down-time pink, so all could see. It's in honor of the Belle."

  NCIS -Young Love Lost

  by Jose J. Clavell

  People sleep peaceably in their beds at night

  only because rough men stand ready to do violence on their behalf.

  George Orwell

  I rode to the crime scene in the early morning calm of Magdeburg's streets. It was not difficult to find. The area, surrounded by the flickering light of torches, oil storm lamps, and at least one up-time flashlight, was in one of the worst-looking parts of town, and in a city that has been subjected to sacking and burning, that says a lot. The flashlight—one of the very few still left with some battery power—was being used sparingly, but it gave me a good idea of my goal. That was very fortunate because this area was far from our usual security rounds haunts around the riverside navy yard. I dismounted and left the reins of my "horse pool" mount in the care of one of the Marine military policemen who formed the outer cordon of the scene.

  Some members of the city watch leaned on their pikes nearby, observing us, talking and joking in low murmurs, apparently without a care in the world. Their common seventeenth-century finery looked—now, to me—too ornate, especially contrasted with the simple subdued style of the up-time uniforms, armbands and weapons of the MPs and navy masters-at-arms who were present. Their disrespectful attitude towards the dead also bothered me but showed clearly that whoever was inside the area was no longer their concern. That made it one less turf fight for me. The young military policeman, on the other hand, was having problems dealing with their care-free stance and his clenched jaw and stern face failed to hide his contempt. In situations like this one, relations between military personnel and civilians tend to fray rather quickly, which, apart from the late hour, explained the absence of curious bystanders.

  . I nodded to the MP and murmured my thanks, purposely ignoring the watchmen as I entered the cordoned-off area. I saw more MPs and masters-at-arms and sensed the air of contained fury that emanated from them. I braced myself for what was waiting. I could now see two bodies on the ground and, long before I got close enough to see them properly, I smelled the coppery odor of blood mixed with the pungent smell of feces and urine, the ultimate indignity of death. Finally, I came close enough to make out the full details. A woman in a modest civilian dress lay facedown across the body of a man; she looked vaguely familiar. I racked my brain trying to place her. The man was in the undress greens of an enlisted Marine, a Private First Class by the single red chevron on his sleeve, and a stranger to me. Both were barely in their twenties, just children really; a young couple out on an evening stroll, not unlike dozens of others, and who, now, would never grow old. The scene filled me with sadness at the unnecessary waste of young lives and anger at the unknown killers. The area aro
und their bodies had been blocked off with staked cords. It had helped to keep it mostly undisturbed but it still didn't answer my first question of the night. What the hell were they doing out here, so far away from the yard?

  The owner of the up-time flashlight joined me and stood quietly by my side as I pondered that and many other questions, taking in the scene. Brunhilde Spitzer is a few years younger than I am, a comrade and more, from our Committee of Correspondence days. Brunhilde was not really her given birth name either; once she had been a camp follower and prostitute before heeding the message of Gretchen Richter, changing her name and starting a new life. Like Gretchen, you don't stand in her way. Perhaps that explained why she adopted the name of one of the Valkyrie warriors of the old tales; I have never inquired. I knew first-hand the power of that message; it had also changed my life, although in my case I got to keep my old name. When Admiral Simpson asked me to join and later lead what would become the Naval Criminal Investigative Service, I, too, followed Gretchen Richter's message and, emboldened by the love of a good woman, accepted and embraced the opportunity for a fresh start away from the petty thievery of my old life.