Grantville Gazette. Volume XX (ring of fire) Page 11

  "Tracy, do you know what time it is?"

  "What?" Tracy checked the clock. "That can't be right."

  "Well it is. Come on, Justin and Terrie are going to forget what their mother looks like if you don't surface every now and again." Ted tugged gently at Tracy's arm, pulling her to her feet.

  "Just another few minutes…"

  "No. Shut everything down now. It'll still be there tomorrow."

  "But I'm nearly finished," Tracy protested.

  Ted smiled. The Tracy that had been missing since her thirtieth birthday was back with a vengeance.

  Magdeburg

  Tracy stood in the basket dangling below Romulus and looked down. Beside her, Ted was checking the rigging on the test dummy. "That's the signal. We're at the end of the cable. We can let Daedalus go. On the count of three. One, two, three."

  The balloon jerked a little when the two-hundred pound test dummy and its fifty pound parachute left the basket. Tracy studied each second of Daedalus' descent. The static line pulled the ripcord of the parachute and the canopy streamed out as Daedalus fell. Then the parachute ballooned open. She felt an arm going around her waist and smiled up at her husband. "Who wants to go first?"

  ***

  It had been a rhetorical question. No way was anybody going to jump with her parachute before she did. Right now Tracy was looking over the edge waiting for the signal from the ground. There it was. Four flashes. Damn. That meant they were under a thousand feet. She wouldn't even reach terminal velocity before she'd have to deploy the canopy. Could she afford to stretch the time out an extra second? Probably not.

  She gave Ted a last hug before pulling on the skydiving goggles. Kelly Construction hadn't been prepared to cut a hole in one of their baskets so she let her husband help her climb onto the edge of the basket.

  Tracy balanced precariously on the rim and held onto the lines with both hands. "There's the signal!"

  "Jump," Ted called.

  Tracy settled her feet on the wicker rim on the basket, leaned forward, and let go of the rigging, pushing away from the basket.

  "One one-thousand."

  She adopted the flared position which gave maximum stability while also offering the maximum amount of air resistance so as to drag out the experience as long as possible.

  "Two one-thousand."

  She knew she was taking a risk skydiving from only a thousand feet. With a static line jump from that altitude she'd have plenty of time to act if the main canopy failed to deploy. But at nearly a hundred and eighty feet per second, if the canopy failed to deploy at five hundred feet, there wouldn't be time to clear her lines and deploy the reserve.

  "Three one-thousand."

  Damn. Her period of freefall was almost over. She really needed to get access to a plane so she could really experience freefall. But how could she do that? She reached for the ripcord.

  "Four one-thousand."

  Tracy pulled the ripcord. There was a crack as the canopy caught the air and deployed. Suddenly her entire weight was pressing against the parachute harness while her plunging body decelerated rapidly. She reached out for the control lines and started looking for a good place to land.

  Ten seconds later she hauled back on the brakes and stepped onto the ground. She immediately turned and started to wind in her canopy before the wind could catch it, or the crowd of onlookers could damage it.

  With the parachute a heavy bundle in her arms she looked up at the balloon. It had been fun, but she needed more. She wondered if Carl would let her go up again soon.

  ***

  Jesse Wood had hot footed it to Magdeburg when he'd heard the rumor that someone intended jumping from one of the Kelly Construction balloons. He'd missed the earlier test using a dummy. Daedalus. When it came to Greek mythology most people could vaguely remember Icarus, the man who flew too close to the sun before falling to his death, but not many remembered that there had been two men in the sky that day, and while Icarus died, his father survived. Daedalus was a good name to associate with a parachute, it implied escape and survival.

  A shape jumped from the balloon and fell towards the ground. The gathered crowd exclaimed in horror, thinking the parachute had failed, but Jesse had seen enough skydiving to recognize the parachutist knew up-time freefall parachuting.

  Impossibly close to the ground the parachute started to deploy. Then, firmly under the control of the jumper, the parachute was steered into a cleared area where the jumper made a gentle touchdown.

  Jesse had to find out more. He made his way towards the jumper. It was hard going as people were crowding the jumper even as he bundled his canopy. Eventually he was able to get close. "Here, let me give you a hand with that." Jesse lifted the bundled up canopy out of the parachutist's arms. "Jeez, what's this thing made out of?"

  Tracy ripped off her jump helmet and goggles and wiped sweat from her face with the sleeve of her jumpsuit. "Thanks. It's a bit heavy isn't it? It's a light-weight linen, but even then it weighs nearly fifty pounds."

  Jesse sighed. Fifty pounds for a parachute would severely impact the disposable war load on a Belle or Gustav. "Pity. I was kind of hoping that maybe we could get some for the Air Force."

  "I can make them lighter. I only used the linen for this one because it was a prototype, and jumping from the balloon, there's no weight constraint to worry about. I should be able to make a simple escape canopy in silk under twenty pounds."

  "Is that twenty pounds all up, or just for the canopy?"

  "All up. Pack, harness, canopy, the lot. Of course I'll need access to an aircraft to test it."

  Jesse grinned. Lots of people wanted to go up in a plane. This woman was the first one he'd met lately who wanted to go up in one so she could jump out.

  ***

  Dafydd and Goliath

  Terry Howard

  North Anglesey Coast of Wales, August 1635

  Squire Dafydd Jones sat at dinner wearing a new velvet jacket over a shirt of the finest linen. The silver on the table sparkled from having been polished and repolished. The finest of everything he had graced the table. His campaign to win the hand of the Lady Elizabeth, a swan whom he had known when she was still a duckling, in the face of rather stiff competition from Lord Sir Anthony Marshall was not going well. The English gentleman had the clear advantage of being frequently at court in London. Dafydd sensed this meeting would be his last chance to sway Elizabeth's father. So he pulled out the stops and spread an elaborate feast.

  Over dinner, Elizabeth was friendly enough, but not really warm. Her father was polite, but Dafydd could see the man was wondering what advantage he gained by marrying his daughter to a country squire on the North Anglesey Coast of Wales. Dafydd stressed that Lady Elizabeth would have a comfortable life as his wife, on the strength of the lands he kept in sheep if nothing else. But he talked at length of reopening the flooded copper mine which had once been the backbone of his family's fortune. It was obvious to Dayfdd that Lord Wycliffe was of the opinion there was no way to keep the mine dry without costing more to bail it than the copper was worth.

  ***

  Actually, Lord Wycliffe was wishing Elizabeth would just state a preference. He would be content either way, as long as she was happy, but the lass told him it was for him to decide.

  "Father," she'd said with a pleasant laugh when he had outright asked her, "that is a decision you will have to make. Surely you don't expect a young lady to have enough wisdom to decide something like that?"

  The only reason to marry her to Jones would be to give her a quiet, peaceful life. If it weren't for the common fact that the Englishman was known for chasing skirts and had already fathered several spurious offspring, there really wouldn't be any discussion at all. There probably wasn't any reason, really, to discuss the matter further anyway. Still, Squire Jones had sent the invitation to dine and to view the project he was working on, which would allow him to reopen the mine. Lord Wycliffe admitted to a mild curiosity. The project was, of late, a freque
nt topic of conversation at many dinner tables. Jones was not the only mine owner with a water problem. If the mine could indeed start producing again, then perhaps there was something to discuss after all. So, the three of them sat at the table enjoying an excellent cut of beef and a surprisingly good wine.

  ***

  First came the sound of the blast, then the shockwave, followed by falling debris, and finally shouts of "Fire!"

  Dafydd threw his napkin onto his barely touched plate, and rushed to the door. The assembly shed was missing half its roof and the walls were engulfed in flame. He sprinted to join a bucket brigade dousing the flames with water being drawn from the trough near the well much faster than the trough could be refilled. When the water was gone, there was nothing to do but to stand and watch the shed burn.

  George, the foreman, noted Dafydd dropping his, now ruined, new coat over the face of the man lying on the ground. He started walking toward the estate's young owner.

  "George, how bad is it?"

  "Well, Squire, you can see the building is a complete loss."

  "Damn the building, man," Dafydd nearly shouted. The young squire rarely raised his voice. George's eyebrows went up. Calming himself, Dafydd asked, "How many people did we lose?"

  "I think six, including Harold," George said. At the naming of Harold, Dafydd closed his eyes and bit his lip. "The others, one was a new hire, four were mayflies."

  A voice behind Dafydd asked, "Mayflies?"

  George spoke past Dafydd to answer Lord Wycliffe's question. "Mayflies is what I call them, sir. People just hanging around getting in the way." The old foreman didn't have a lot of use for a man who would work for free.

  "Be fair, George," Dafydd said. "they were just wanting to help." When word got out they were building a Grantville steam engine, the curious started turning up to see it. Some stayed to help and learn.

  "Who was Harold?" Elizabeth asked.

  "Harold, now, that's a real loss." George said. "He's the one who had been to Grantville. He and Dafydd used to be playmates now and then in their younger days. He came home with this scheme to put the mine back into production. Figured it was good for both families his and Dafydd's. Harold's father was the last mine manager. His brother runs a sheep station from the old mine site now. No, Harold was the real loss, Miss. Someone who has actually seen a working steam engine is not easily replaced."

  "Damn," Dafydd 's gaze turned to the nearly completed windmill water tower. "Damn," he said again.

  Henry approached, hat in hand, limping badly and singed to the scalp on one side. Dafydd stared at the useless tower. "It wouldn't have helped, Squire. The boiler took every soul in the shed to heaven, along with the roof, when it blew." He shook his head. "It didn't need to happen. Thomas said the pressure relief valve would be ready tomorrow, but Harold did not want to wait. Well, we will have a relief valve waiting when we get everything else put back together."

  "Is it worth it, Henry?" Dafydd asked. With Lord Wycliffe and Elizabeth standing right there taking it all in, his immediate reason for wanting the mine reopened was now surely lost.

  "Squire, for Wales to have the first working steam engine in the Isles, before the damned English?" Henry started to put his hat on his head, but stopped with a wince. "For us to have the railroads, so the English are working for Welshmen instead of us working for them?" Harold's dreams, which he had shared freely with anyone who would listen, were of a grand scale. He had read widely while in Grantville; the almost complete loss of Welch identity in the Grantville histories had annoyed him greatly. Henry continued, "I know you want it to pump out the mine, but that's just the beginning. Yes, it is worth it.

  "I've got all of Harold's drawings and notes. I don't know how many times the two of us went over them. He told me everything he knew. The blacksmiths have already done it once. The materials are all on hand. We will see what we can salvage tomorrow when the ashes have cooled. I'll have you a working steam engine within a month, Squire. And I won't be in such a hurry that I can't wait for a relief valve."

  Dafydd turned to Elizabeth and her father. "Shall we get back to our dinner?"

  Looking at the ruins, the older gentleman shook his head. Dafydd did not have to be told: Lord Wycliffe was of the opinion there was no realistic hope of reopening the mine. "No, young man. I think it would be better if we departed now, so you can get on with the business of cleaning up the disaster."

  Considering how he had abandoned his guests to engage in hopeless, desperate, pointless labor, Dafydd was surprised at the mildness of Lord Wycliffe's reproof. "Let me see you to your carriage then," Dafydd replied. The squire handed Elizabeth into the coach and watched it down the lane, around the hill, and out of sight, with a guilty sense of loss. How could losing the woman who infatuated him, no matter how lovely she was, even start to compare with the loss of six good men? Still, somehow, it was what was foremost in his mind.

  ***

  Lord Wycliffe had a surprise waiting for him, once he and his daughter were alone in the carriage.

  "Father," Elizabeth asked, "are you still wondering if I have a preference?"

  "Well, I think it is settled now, isn't it? He has no hope of reopening the mine now, does he?"

  "I don't care. If my preference matters to you, then I prefer to marry Dafydd."

  Completely baffled, Lord Wycliffe stared at his daughter, and blurted, "Why?"

  "When he asked the foreman what the losses were, the man started counting the cost. Dafydd was sharp with him. He wanted to know how many people they had lost. He is a good man with a kind heart. His children may never live in London, or be presented at court-but they will be loved and well cared for, not just well provided for. When he said, "Damn the building, how many men did we lose?" he reminded me of you. Dafydd cares for people. I think that will mean a lot to me in the years to come. No, Father, not just a lot, I think it will mean everything."

  ***

  In the Army Now

  Gorg Huff and Paula Goodlett

  David Bartley and Johan Kipper got off the train at Camp Saale and looked around. It wasn't the first time they had been here, but it was their first time as regular army instead of weekend warriors. The camp was mostly deserted since it was the middle of the week. The headquarters of the SoTF National Guard was neither in Grantville, nor the new state capital of Bamberg. It could have moved when the state capital did, but they wanted to keep access to the phones and other logistical support. At the same time, they couldn't afford the rent in Grantville or even next to the Ring of Fire so it was located on the far side of Saalfeld. Close enough to the Ring of Fire to have phone and rail access for the weekend warriors.

  The national guardsmen could take the train to Camp Saale one weekend a month and drill. The phone service meant that at least a lot of them could be reached in a hurry if a call up were required. All very logical. Then there was the other reason. The distance from Bamberg to the nearest likely enemy was fifty-five miles to the border of Saxony. The base across the river from Saalfeld was all of seven and a quarter miles from that same border. A unit of cavalry leaving Krolpa in Saxony after breakfast would be at Camp Saale by mid-morning. If they waited on the infantry they would still be there before lunch. Of course, everyone knew fat drunken John George would never do that. The up-timer weapons were too powerful. Retribution would be all too certain. Besides, even if Saxony was John George's territory, that didn't mean everyone living there was on his side. If he acted out of desperation there would be warning.

  David headed for the supply office with Johan right behind.

  ***

  "Well, well, well." Major Walker's smile didn't reach his eyes. "If it isn't the seventeenth century's new financial Wunderkind. Welcome, Your Lordship. To what do we owe the honor of your presence?"

  David Bartley didn't say a word. His research department had briefed him on Major Tandy Walker. Sort of a last favor. Instead of answering he reached for his orders.

  "What's this? A lette
r from your mommy, perhaps? No. It wouldn't be from your mother. Who then?"

  "My orders, sir," David managed to get out. His mother wasn't Velma Hardesty by any stretch of the imagination, but she did have a reputation. David's mother wasn't bright, and she hadn't coped all that well with the up-time world. Less because it was complicated than because it lacked some of the personal support that had become available to her in seventeenth-century Germany. She needed an extensive support structure. Major Walker wasn't the first to use that to attack David. And it always hurt because there was some truth in it. But it had been mostly at school; the adults he had worked with had, for the most part, been more subtle. But then a large part of Major Walker's trouble was lack of subtlety. Major Walker glanced at David's orders but spent considerably more time looking David up and down.

  David was wearing a tailored uniform. Officers were expected to buy their own uniforms and, of necessity, there was considerable variation. David didn't think of himself as a clotheshorse. But he did-according to Johan Kipper his aide and Karl Schmidt his stepfather and the SoTF senator from Badenburg, who was considering a run for the USE legislature-have appearances to maintain. Silver-electroplated lieutenant's bars shined on his epaulets and the flaming wheel of supply next to them. His pants were dark blue with a red stripe up the side; his jacket lighter blue with rather more gold trim than David would have preferred. The major's uniform, on the other hand, was a pair of blue jeans that had seen better days and a striped up-time blue dress shirt that was in even worse repair. The jacket was apparently down-time made but the dye job hadn't worked as well as it should have. It was faded in ways that weren't camouflage but were a bit reminiscent of it.