Eric Flint - Grantville Gazette - Volume 7

Grantville Gazette: Volume VII

Compiled by Eric Flint

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are

fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

form.

A Baen Books Original

Baen Publishing Enterprises

P.O. Box 1403

Riverdale, NY 10471

www.baen.com

DOI: 10.1125/0017

First electronic printing, April 2006

Production by WebWrights, Newport, TN

ASSISTANT EDITOR'S PREFACE

Eric said, in the preface to Grantville Gazette Volume Five:

"Sigh. Not one of these stories deals with Ye Big Picture. Not one of them fails to wallow in the

petty details of Joe or Dieter or Helen or Ursula's angst-ridden existence.

Pure, unalloyed, soap opera, what it is."

And we continue in our grand soap operatic tradition with Grantville Gazette (count 'em) Volume

Seven.

Is Jon and Linda Sonnenleiter's introduction of up-time style pizza to Naples critical to the war?

Nope. Don't think so. Neither is Mark Huston's quiet story about an elderly couple and their choices.

But the fans don't much care, we've found.

Ditto for John and Patti Friend's crew of misfits who, somehow, make their way to Magdeburg.

They're not important to the events we'll all read about in 1634: The Baltic War, at all. Neither is

Virginia DeMarce's Minnie Hugelmair or Tina Marie Hollister. They're just not at all the type to get

involved in politics and war.

No more so is Russ Rittger's Chad, who manages to find himself as something of a laundry mogul, or

Terry Howard's Jimmy Dick, who seems to drink himself into a philosophical mood with some

regularity.

On the other hand, Rick Boatright's radio heads just might have an effect on that little altercation up in

the Baltic, and there's just no telling what Kerryn Offord's Dr. Phil might come up with next. Kim

Mackey's Colette . . . well, she's got this really, really rich relative who just might come in handy to

know.

And, if you'd like to build a Victrola, explore the mass media implications, plan the route for a

railroad—not to mention learn about the engines for the trains, well, this is the place. Chris Penycate,

Gorg Huff, Carsten Edelberger, Iver Cooper and I will tell you what we know about those.

So, grab your coffee (or whatever beverage), load up on the chocolate bonbon's, kick back in the

chair, and have a good time. We hope you enjoy reading it as much as we enjoyed putting it together.

Paula Goodlett and the Editoral Board

April 2, 2006

FICTION

Canst Thou Send Lightnings?

By Rick Boatright

In like manner the lightning when it breaketh forth is easy to be seen; and after

the same manner the wind bloweth in every country.

(Deuterocanonical Apocrypha, The Epistle of Jeremiah:61)

To: The Provincial of the Society of Jesus in Rome

From: Adolph Wise S.J., University of Eichstaett.

Enclosed with this letter you will find an example of the 'Crystal Radio' that is being

distributed throughout Thuringia. I enclose also instructions for the construction of more of these

Radios as distributed by the American government.

I testify, of my own knowledge, further attested by the witnesses signatures hereto affixed and

sealed, that anywhere within fifty miles of Grantville on most evenings, when you place your ear

next to the opening in the box, you can hear voices and music and other sounds which originate

miles away in Grantville. These voices are sent through the air itself by the lightnings into the

wires of the Radio. The Radio is delicate and fails to function with the least mis-adjustment.

However, when adjusted properly, at the correct time of day anyone can hear the Voice of

America sent forth from the great stone tower of the Radio Station in Grantville.

No one that I have spoken with here in the university can begin to understand how this works.

The Americans insist that this is nothing but another of their mechanical arts, related to the

"electricity" of which I wrote in an earlier letter. They maintain that there is nothing more

involved than the proper arrangement and composition of mundane physical materials. If so,

then, as with so many other devices to be found in and around Grantville, it is the knowledge they

possess that is important.

I have spoken with the local clergy, and they inform me that the Radios are being built mostly

by jewelers and others who are used to working with fine wires and small detail work. There are

others who are working on the equipment to send the lightnings from the great tower to the

Radios. Again, the local clergy tell me that this equipment, although considerably more robust

than the Radios, is still remarkably delicate in some ways and requires the deft touch of jewelers

and similar folk.

The Americans insist that they welcome students. They also are training workers to assist in

building their next "Radio Station," which they plan to locate in Magdeburg. When completed, it

will be placed at Gustav Adolphus' disposal. It is said that he intends to use this voice to promote

Lutheranism.

I beg of you to find within our ranks a young man, skilled in the jeweler's arts and firm in the

Church, and send him to us. Some one of us must take this training, in order that we may first

gain the knowledge of how this art works, and second, perhaps in some way delay or prevent the

establishment of Gustavus Adolphus' Voice of Luther. Simultaneously, we must work to produce a

Radio Station that can bring to the people the saving grace of the Holy Mother Church.

Signed

Adolph Wise S.J.

(and 12 other witnesses.)

Father Nicholas Smithson lowered the letter, and looked at Father Andrew White, his superior in the

Society of Jesus. "Do you believe this, Father Andrew?"

"It does not matter what I believe, Nicholas. The Father General of the Society may or may not

believe it, but he has indicated it shall be treated as fact until it is proved otherwise."

"So be it. What the Father General orders shall be done." Nicholas nodded, then pursed his lips.

"This is all very interesting, Father, but why is this letter here in London, and why are you discussing it

with a humble parish priest?"

Father Andrew smiled. "Read the letter again. Paying particular attention to the skills of the workmen

and the request made by Father Adolph."

When Nicholas set the letter down again, he was stunned. He could feel that his eyes were wide. He

opened his mouth a time or two, but nothing came out. Finally, he coughed. "They have chosen me?"

"Aye, Nicholas." Father Andrew was sympathetic. "You are the son of a jeweler, trained in his craft,

who is also a Jesuit. You are the very man that Father Adolph has called for."

"But . . . but what of my parish? Who will serve Mass, and catechism, and the rites to those hidden

members of the true church if I leave?"

"My son." Father Andrew stood and walked to the window to stare out at the busy evening London

street scene. "The situation in London—indeed, in all England—grows ever grimmer. Despite the fact

that King Charles at one time did seem disposed to provide some little relief to those who follow Rome,

since the advent of Grantville he is of no mind to tolerate dissent of any kind, even from priests. I am

afraid he sees gunpowder under every chair. It may well be that we are returning to the dark times we

walked under during Elizabeth's reign."

Turning back to the room, the older priest leaned against the window sill. "Nicholas, I do not doubt

your courage. I am aware that if a martyr's crown called, you would respond willingly. The society has

many brave, fervent men who can and will serve as priests in the darkness of London, perhaps to

become martyrs if God so wills. But you, you are best suited to another task. You are called to a

different work."

Nicholas sat quietly, staring at the hands folded in his lap. There was only one decision he could

make, as much as he might desire otherwise. When he accepted that, peace descended. When he finally

raised his head to look at Father Andrew, he felt calm.

"Adsum, Domine. Here am I, Lord."

* * *

For when the lightning lightens, the thunder utters its voice, and the spirit

enforces a pause during the peal.

(Apocrypha, The Book of Enoch 60:15)

John Grover, head of Voice of America and de facto head of radio communications in the USE,

rubbed his eyes and massaged his aching temples. This weeks' staff meeting hadn't gone any better than

the previous meetings had gone. Oh, they were making progress on the mundane stuff, things that just

needed the application of some brute force and some material, like putting up lightning arresters and

lightning rods in various locations in town. Likewise, those issues that just required the application of

money were going pretty well; witness the report of the purchase of two more video cameras and the

completion of the second studio setup.

Even the weekly Murphy report, detailing the things that had gone inexplicably wrong—such as the

episode where someone took a glass of water into the studio and inadvertently poured it into the primary

beta recorder, or the Marine radio man who for some unknown-but-very-stupid reason elected to save

his rifle and powder instead of the radio when he fell into a creek—wasn't too bad. Every Murphy

incident caused rules and procedures to either be amended or created. But the ability of people and

situations to be act outside of those rules and procedures was ever astonishing.

John rubbed his eyes again.

Bottom line—the local cable TV team, the communications team and the Voice of America team all

had enough up-time resources to keep going for a few years, more or less, unless a major disaster

occurred. The problem was preparing for what would happen when those up-time resources began to

burn up, blow up, or otherwise quit functioning and the spares were used up.

John fingered the screwdriver he kept in his shirt pocket, thinking hard. Everything depended on

tubes. Everything. The sniping and the infighting at the staff meetings was starting to move from sarcastic

to vitriolic. If they didn't make some real progress soon, he didn't know what he was going to do,

especially since his only real tube-head, Gayle Mason, was stuck in the Tower of London.

Opening a drawer, John rooted around until he found his aspirin. Dry swallowing three of them, he

looked at the clock on his desk. Six p.m. Time to leave. Maybe something would happen tomorrow . . .

correction, maybe something good would happen tomorrow.

* * *

Canst thou lift up thy voice to the clouds, that abundance of waters may cover

thee? Canst thou send lightnings, that they may go and say unto thee, Here we

are?

(King James Bible, Job 38:34-35)

Claude Yardley had been a power plant operator for a lot of years. He had torn apart his share of

alternators and put the pieces back together. But he had never seen anything like this. He pushed back

from the paper and debris covered table. "I'd say Murphy got to you again, John."

John snorted. "Yeah. He really got behind us on this one. This design should have been a non-starter.

Look at this stuff." John gestured. "Wires stretched beyond their breaking points, coils ripped from their

armatures, and we got what? 1000 Hz out of it?"

"Something like that." Claude looked at his notes. "3600 RPM router feeding a sixteen lobe

alternator gives 960 Hz."

"We need seventy-five times more."

Claude pointed at what was left of the radio team's latest creation. "You won't get it this way. I

understand why you came to me. Bill Porter and I probably know more about alternators than anyone

else in the world at this point." He chuckled. "Not that that's saying much. But you need something like no

alternator we've ever heard of. I think it was fictional."

John pushed the photo of the Brant Rock installation across the table.

Claude shook his head. "I don't care, John. Look, walk through it with me one more time. That thing

is what? Five feet across?"

Nod.

"Okay. That makes it fifteen feet eight inches around. Times twelve is a hundred eighty-eight inches.

Assume one inch coils around the rim. There's no way to modulate the coil less than it's full width, so if

you assume that they alternate north and south, then you have eighty-four sine waves per rotation."

Nod.

"So, to get eighty thousand waves per second, you have to rotate the thing a thousand times per

second, or sixty thousand RPM."

Nod.

"So, any one coil is going around a fifteen foot circumference a thousand times a second, or traveling

fifteen thousand feet per second, or call it three miles a second, or something in the neighborhood of

eleven thousand miles an hour. Just under mach twenty, in other words. And they say it was done in

1906?"

Nod.

"It's impossible." Claude shook his head. "It must have been a fake."

John pushed the photo across the table again.

"I don't care. I don't believe they had materials that would handle those stresses, and we definitely

don't."

The room was quiet.

"John, I'm sorry," Claude said gently, "but I'm fresh out of ideas. I'm going home."

* * *

His lightnings enlightened the world: the earth saw, and trembled.

(King James Bible, Psalms 97:4)

Father Athanasius Kircher watched as John Grover wandered from one empty table to the next. For

once, it wasn't that crowded in the Thuringen Gardens. John banged each table with his pewter mug.

Curious, Father Athanasius began following him. Once he got close enough, he heard John mutter, "Too

hard."

Now Father Athanasius was really intrigued. Most of the tables in the Thuringen Gardens were quite

new, solidly built against the general gaiety of a popular tavern. Sturdy was not a description that did

them justice.

John hadn't noticed the priest. He drained his mug and looked around the Gardens. "There!" He

headed for a table in one of the back corners. Father Athanasius trailed behind.

The table was one of the up-time folding tables, matched up with metal folding chairs that were also

up-time in origin. Having been around Grantville for some little time now, Father Athanasius was certain

that they represented an unauthorized loan from a school, or church, or one of the "civic organizations" of

Grantville.

John sat carefully in a chair and banged his mug against the table top. The priest saw that it was that

strange wood-like substance called "masonite." Unlike the other tables in the room, it was not sturdy, and

when struck by the mug, it flexed and boomed.

"Perfect." John carefully set his cup down on the floor, and centered his chair on the table. He

pressed the center of the table firmly with the heel of his hand. It flexed.

"Yes." John leaned forward, and banged his head against the center of the table.

Shocked, Father Athanasius stepped forward and grabbed John by the shoulder. John stopped in

mid-bang. "No, John!"

John looked up at him. "Oh, hi, Father A."

"Let me buy you another round, John." Father Athanasius sat down across from John. "We'll talk it

through. Whatever the problem is, it should not drive you to self abuse."

"I've been beating my head against a wall at work," John said, somewhat truculently. "I might as well

do it here as well. Maybe it will break an idea loose." Father Athanasius reserved comment, and just

looked steadily at one of the men he thought of as a friend.

John slumped a little. His voice grew quieter. "You're a good man, Father." He sighed and his hand

crept toward his shirt pocket. He started stroking the screwdriver he kept there. "But you can't bring

Gayle back from the damned Tower of London, you can't bring all those jewelers back from Prague, and

you can't push skills I don't have into these hands."

There was a moment of quiet. John shook his head. "It isn't Mike Stearn's fault. Gayle Mason is the

best QRP CW operator in the world. I agreed that she had to go to London. But that means that the best

source of knowledge about radio tubes is hundreds of miles away."

Father Athanasius picked up John's mug, and waved at a waitress.

"It isn't Morris Roth's fault that every jeweler in the world wants to be near the world's only source of

knowledge about faceted gems. But that means that the people with skills in working with very small

wires and parts that I need don't come to Grantville anymore.

"It isn't my fault that I have an associate's degree in business, not a masters in electronic engineering.

I'm the best available for running VOA, but I don't know the background of the history and development

of radio. No one in Grantville does."

The waitress arrived with two fresh mugs. John took his without even noticing it.

"It's nobody's fault. But you put it all together, and Murphy has arranged the world so that we cannot

get Gustav's Radio station on the air. And I have to. Mike is counting on me."

"We have talked about this Murphy before, John," the priest said gently. "Most would blame Satan

when faced with such adversity."

John shook his head. "It isn't evil I'm dealing with, Father. It's just perversity. It's like the bread

always falling butter side down. If things can go wrong, they will. Wasn't that true when you built your

water organs?"

Father Kircher nodded firmly. "It was. It is." He thought back to those days, and grimaced.

"Everything that could go wrong did. Indeed. We just did not express it so compactly."

"Imps, daemons, gremlins . . . name them as you will, Father. But Murphy acts in the world as sure

as God does. But he isn't evil." John took a swallow from his mug. "The best decisions have been made.

I know that. Gayle being in London, Morris being in Prague, are absolutely for the best. Godly. But

Murphy arranges that the Godly best causes something else to go wrong. We have the Voice of America

running, but we can't make the tubes for Gustav's station."

Father Kircher nodded. "I know. The station manager has asked each religious leader in town to give

the morning invocation before the dawn news broadcast. Yesterday was my turn! It is amazing to have

your words carried by the lightnings across the heavens to say, 'Here I am!'"

John smiled at the nod to Job. He remembered using the line himself when defending his interest in

getting his Ham license to his Baptist pastor thirty years earlier. My sword John thought.

John heaved a big sigh. He took his screwdriver out of his pocket and fidgeted with it. "The worst is

the alternator."

"Alternator?" Father Kircher prompted gently.

"That's the most perverse of all, Father. It's a tease. We know that Reginald Fessenden and Ernst

Alexanderson built an RF alternator in 1906. We know they broadcast voice to crystal radios without

tubes. We know they were heard over a hundred miles away. We know all that. We even have a

picture. A poor, dark, grainy picture, but a picture nonetheless. We can look at that picture of

Fessenden's alternator at Brant Rock, Massachusetts. But that's all. We have no idea what was inside

that round case. Just that it was 'an alternator.' I can't build a photo. It's a tease. We have to invent an

alternator. And so I started, thinking, 'Gee, we have all the alternators out at the power plant, every car

has an alternator, how hard can it be?'" John looked back towards the folding table. He looked back at

Father Kircher. "So we pulled most of the people off Gunter's team, since working on tubes without

Gayle was very slow going, and started in on the alternator. I know now how hard it can be. It can be

very hard."

Father Kircher's hand made the beginnings of a gesture that he knew would be of no comfort to his

Protestant friend. "I know, John. I will think on it. Perhaps we can find someone to help. Perhaps we can

find a way to put Murphy behind us."

John shuddered. "No! Never behind you, Father. You always have to keep Murphy in front of you.

Dead in your sights, never allowing him a moment to screw anything up. Out of sight, out of mind. We

need a way to keep Murphy before us."

"A talisman, then. Something to help you remember to focus on the possibilities both good and bad,

to keep at the work."

"Yes, exactly. Well, that and a jeweler with an interest in radio who can help with the wire and the

forms and the work on the damned alternator."

"I will think on it, John, and I will pray."

"No one can ask more, Father." John drained his cup and stood. "Thanks for listening."

"You're welcome." Father Athanasius' "my son" was unspoken, but heard nonetheless.

* * *

The vision of dreams is the resemblance of one thing to another, even as the

likeness of a face to a face.

(Deuterocanonical Apocrypha, 3 Sirach)

"Nick? Is that you?"

Nicholas Smithson froze. God in Heaven, how could this happen? How could it be that there would

be someone in Grantville who knew him?

"Nick? Nicholas Smithson!" The voice was insistent. Nick slowly turned around, and almost

groaned. Of all people. Father Augustus Heinzerling. What was Heinzerling doing here, and why hadn't

that information been given to him? There was no possible way that he could convince Augustus that he

was someone other than Nick Smithson. They had spent too much time together at the English college in

Rome.

"Hello, Gus."

"It is you!" Heinzerling looked delighted, but then suspicion began to creep across his face. "It is you.

What are you doing here?"

"I. . . ." Nick hesitated, torn between telling the truth and concealing his mission. "I cannot tell you

that, Gus."

Now Heinzerling's face took on the appearance of a thunder cloud. "What do you mean, you cannot

tell me?"

"I have orders."

Heinzerling's jaw tightened. He took a firm hold of Nick's arm. "You will come with me and explain

yourself to Father Mazzare, then." He started off, and Nick perforce went with him. Father Gus in a

mood was no one to trifle with.

* * *

Father Lawrence Mazzare looked at the young man accompanying his curate with some confusion.

Father Kircher watched from the back of the room. "Okay, Augustus. What exactly is your problem

again?"

"Where do I start?" Father Heinzerling ran his hands through his hair. "I see this man at the radio

station this morning asking for work. I knew him when he was at the English College of the Society in

Rome studying. We spent many hours together in Rome attempting to find an Italian who knew how to

brew beer. I thought he was my friend." Heinzerling glared at the young man.

"Go on."

"I greet him as brother of the Society and as a friend, calling him by his name, and he refuses to tell

me what he is doing. He is dressed in common garb, had not come to see you. I say he's a spy for the

Jesuits!" Heinzerling looked confused for a moment, then surged on. "Or a spy at least for someone in the

Society. I am the official spy for the Society in Grantville, not some upstart impudent Englishman!" His

frown was truly impressive.

Larry repressed a grin. No wonder Gus had looked confused. He turned to the young man. "And

you are?"

Nicholas looked at this up-time priest, Father Lawrence Mazzare. What little he had been able to

find out on his way to Grantville indicated the man was very well educated, and could give lessons to a

saint in propriety, probity and rectitude. However, no one had mentioned his gaze—that calm, straight

gaze that seemed as though it could see through four inches of oak, much less his own flimsy pretenses. It

reminded him very strongly of the Father General of the Society. Nicholas abandoned all hope of

dissembling; forthrightness was the only course with a man like this.

"I am Father Nicholas Smithson of the Society of Jesus, late of London."

"Nicholas?" Are you named after Father Christmas or Saint Nicholas Owen then?" Larry calculated

in his head. "You look a little old for it."

"Saint Nicholas Owen?" Nicholas exclaimed.

Larry walked over to the bookshelf and took down a volume of the Catholic Encyclopedia. "Here."

Turning the pages, he found Saint Nicholas' entry. "In 1970, Nicholas Owen was, umm, will be, umm,"

Larry made that vague hand gesture that had come to indicate the other world. "Would have been

canonized by Pope Paul VI among the Forty Martyrs of England and Wales. Their joint feast day is kept

on October twenty-fifth."

He handed the volume to Nicholas who looked it over with astonishment, reading of the events and

the names that rang with meaning to English recusants. Margaret Clitherow, Edmund Campion, Henry

Walpole, and then . . . "Edward Ambrose Barlow? But I know Edward! We were at St. Gregory's in

Douai together. He's alive. Or at least he was three months ago, chaplain to the Tyldesleys in Leigh."

Father Mazzare laughed. "Yes. Things like that happen a lot here. Remind me later to tell you the

story of the name of this church." He put the book back on the shelf, then resumed his seat.

"But we were talking about you," Mazzare continued. "Are you named after Saint Nicholas Owen,

then? And what are you doing in Grantville?"

"I am named after 'Saint' Nicholas Owen. I suppose I will have to change my feast day." Nick

smiled. "My mother was reluctant to name me after a dwarf, but father insisted that Nicholas Owen did

the work of three normal men and was a great champion of God. He met Owen while he was building

some of his secret rooms at homes of customers of my fathers."

Larry lifted an eyebrow. "And your father was?"

"James Smithson. He is a jeweler, a specialist in fine metal work and elaborate braided wire pieces.

He trained me and my brothers to follow in his craft." Nick shrugged. "That is why the Society sent me to

Grantville. We have heard of the call for jewelers and metalworkers to work on the Radio. And we

know that this Radio is planned for King Gustav's use, for his 'Voice of Luther.' Thus my disguise. It is

highly unlikely that a Lutheran king would want a Jesuit learning the secrets of his Radio."

"Nicholas, you have a lot to learn about Grantville, and not just our list of saints. Father Kircher will

introduce you to John Grover, the head of Voice of America. Unless I miss my guess, he will be

absolutely delighted to meet you. If you can make the coils he needs, no one here will care about your

religion.

"You can also resume your priestly functions. Fathers Heinzerling and Kircher and I can use the help.

You can stay here, and in return you will take your turn for the morning and evening masses.

"Father Athanasius will introduce you to the director of the radio project in the morning. For now, let

Augustus find you a place to put your things, show you around the church, and you can try the local beer.

It's not English ale, but I suspect it's better than anything available in Rome."

Father Mazzare stood and held out his hand. "Welcome to Saint Mary's."

* * *

Yet a man is risen to pursue thee, and to seek thy soul: but the soul of my lord

shall be bound in the bundle of life with the LORD thy God; and the souls of

thine enemies, them shall he sling out, as out of the middle of a sling.

(King James Bible, 1 Kings 25:29)

John presided over this weeks' staff meeting in a much better frame of mind than last week. The

interminable list of reports didn't faze him. Even the bickering between Ken Butcher, Andrew Rogers and

Jennifer Hansen didn't bother him. The final report was from Gunter Klein, the only down-time team

head.

"The vacuum pump works, but is not yet good enough. We get a glow, we get a pretty light bulb, we

do not get a tube. It is slow, but each week is better. You will have tubes before you need them. I swear

it."

Ken opened his mouth to say something, but John forestalled him. "Drop it, Ken. They're doing the

best they can, especially with Gayle gone." Ken sat back, and sullenly nodded.

"One last item. I need to introduce a new staff member this morning. This is Father Nicholas

Smithson. He is not our new chaplain. Father Nick is a trained jeweler specializing in fine wire work. He

is going to be starting on the alternator project with us immediately, so if he asks you for information or

assistance, please try to make yourself and your folks available.

"That's about it for today, folks. No one ever got any engineering done sitting in a staff meeting." John

stood up. "One last thought. We do have to think of everything. We're stretched way too thin. We need

something to help us focus. We need some way to keep in our minds that we have to bust the problems

before they happen. Father Kircher said the other night that we need a talisman. I think he's right. When

you have a minute, try to think of something, a talisman, a touchstone, something to keep our minds on

the goal and on the nitty-gritty at the same time."

John knew his people would try. He knew he would try. Still he thought it slightly unfair that Father A

Eric Flint - Grantville Gazette - Volume 7

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