Grantville Gazette, Volume X Read online

  * * *

  Larry was nudged awake gently by Reverend Green. "Telephone, Larry. They want to talk to you. The mine. It's Stacks."

  Larry eased to a standing position and every eye that was awake followed him. When they saw he was moving toward the phone in Reverend Green's office, the people who were already awake woke the others. Larry let his wife stay asleep, closed the office door behind him, and picked up the phone.

  "Masaniello."

  "Larry, Stacks. The drill got in, we pulled a sample, and it was only eight percent O two. There's no way . . . they took a couple of samples just to be sure. They've been down there too long. We think we need to call it. I have been in touch with Hank and he's going to do one more crosscut, then we'll transition into a recovery mission. But he and his team need to come out, no matter what." Stacks' voice was flat, almost emotionless. It was as if he let any emotion into his voice, he wouldn't be able to control it."

  "Thanks, Stacks. You did what you could." Larry hung up the phone and turned to Reverend Green. He simply shook his head.

  "You did what you could too, you know."

  Larry scoffed. "Did I? I don't think so. There's always something else I could have done, or should have done. Some procedure, some rule about safety. I don't know . . . something. I'm responsible for their deaths. Nobody else. My mine, my responsibility."

  There was a soft knock on the door and Erica poked her head into the room. "Someone here to see you." She opened the door and Mike Stearns walked in. The look in his eyes mirrored the one in Larry's. Grief and pain. Mike and Erica came in, and closed the door behind them.

  Larry looked directly at Stearns. "They're calling it, Mike. They're all dead." Erica came to him and gave him a gentle embrace. Mike just nodded.

  Larry looked at the ceiling, tears welling in his eyes. "Mike, I'm a coal miner from a little town in West Virginia. I got no business runnin' a mine. Crew of guys, yeah, maybe, but a whole fucking mine? What was I thinking? Hell, what were you thinking? I wasn't the right guy for this at all. No wonder Quentin Underwood is such a prick all the time. Who could live this way?"

  Erica pulled herself closer to him. Reverend Green looked at Mike, and his eyebrows went up, as if to say "Well . . .?"

  Mike took a step forward. "Would it help you to know that I have been anticipating this for over a year?"

  They all looked at him with surprise. "What we're doing here isn't trying to make a buck off of the backs of our brother miners, Larry. That's how Quentin thinks. That's all he thinks about. That's how he can do what he can do. He has skills, but no, I dunno—no humanity, I guess. He's perfect for this shit, precisely because it doesn't bother him." Mike leaned back against the door. "But you and me, we're different. We're not trying to make a buck. Do you know what we're doing, Larry?

  Larry was confused and angry. "We're digging a hole in the ground and killing people for coal."

  There was a brief flash of anger in Mike's eyes. "That's right, Larry. But why do we have to do that? Think about it. Why?"

  Larry hung his head, and stared at the floor for a moment. He then looked up at Mike, then his wife, and finally Reverend Green. He pointed to the door, and the people gathered outside the office. "I need to talk to them."

  Mike nodded, slowly at first, then empathically in a final nod. His wife—"thank you Lord, for Erica"—just hugged him.

  Reverend Green spoke next. "We'll follow your lead, Larry. You take the pulpit and we'll be behind you. We'll be there."

  Larry took a deep breath and let it out. He straightened and headed for the door. When the phone rang, he was caught off guard, and actually jumped a little. Larry stopped as Green answered, "First Baptist." There was a pause. "He's right here." He handed the phone to Larry.

  "Masaniello."

  "Larry, Stacks." The tone of Stacks' voice wasn't anything like the last call. The emotion was overflowing, and he was close to tears. "We found two guys! We found them alive!" Larry could hear a background of cheers and celebration. "I just got the word from Hank. We're sending down two spare SCBAs and a stretcher team. One of them is pretty bad, but Hank thinks he'll make it! You won't believe it! Metzinger, that clever SOB, was living off of compressed air. He was in the tool crib—and you know that air is piped in there for testing the pneumatic tools—so he set up a compressed air line, a valve, and they got under some plastic sheeting. They've been there for over sixteen hours! They're fucking alive!"

  "Thanks, Stacks. What are the names?"

  "Wilhelm Metzinger and Willy Huenefelder."

  Larry wrote the names on a pad of paper from the desk. "What does Hank say about the rest of them?"

  The tone of Stacks voice changed again. "He—Hank, uhh." Stacks volume lowered on the phone, somewhat conspiratorially. "Larry, I don't know that I agree. Now that we've found these guys, I think we should keep this a rescue mission, not a recovery. Hank is saying that it should be a recovery from here on out. I don't know, and some of us think that—"

  "Stacks, if Hank says it goes to recovery, it goes to recovery. That's his call. That's what he does for us. Does the compressed air go any further than the crib?"

  "No. Metzinger had to rig up something because it was damaged downstream from the tool crib."

  "Then there's really no hope, is there, Stacks?"

  "No." He heard Stacks half sigh and half sob into the phone.

  "Thanks, Stacks. And, Stacks . . . good job."

  "Thanks, boss."

  Larry placed the phone back in its cradle, and double checked the two names on his paper. He turned to the others in the office. "They found two of them alive. Metzinger and Huenefelder."

  Smiles broke out across the room. Then Mike very quietly asked a question. "And the mission changing to recovery?"

  Larry nodded. "Hank called it. One miracle is all we can expect per day, I suppose. This actually makes it harder for the twenty-six other families, doesn't it? And it won't be easy for the other two, either."

  Larry straightened with as much resolve as he could muster, rubbed his face with both hands to clear his eyes, picked up the paper, and strode to the doorway. The others filed out behind him.

  * * *

  It took almost a month of working around the clock to get the mine back in operation. Things were tight for energy supplies over the last part of the winter, but by spring, production had resumed. In the meadow, where the monument stood for the up-time miners who had been killed in the Number 9 Mine disaster, the bodies of twenty-six down-timers were buried. A stone was erected for them, with names and other words carved into the face, in English and German.

  They have not died in vain.

  These men fought the battle under the ground, just as others fought it above the ground, on the sea and in the air.

  These men fought for the community and the nation, and through their sacrifice, helped to bond them together.

  We are all in their debt.

  The Salon

  By Paula Goodlett and Gorg Huff

  "Ah . . ."

  The sound of a throat clearing drew Heather's attention away from the paperwork on her desk at Trommler Records. "Hey, Jacob. What's up?"

  "It is Thursday, Heather. I wanted to leave about three so I can attend the salon."

  "Salon?"

  "The salon at Rachel Hill's house. Surely you've heard of it? People come from all over to attend them."

  Heather had to search her memory. "Hill. Hill. I know an Ashley Hill; she's on the geology survey team. But I don't remember a Rachel."

  Jacob shook his head. "You amaze me, you up-timers. There's a treasure in your midst and you don't realize it. You should come with me, meet her. See the electric car."

  "Oh. Her. I remember seeing the car. But I never met her. Grantville isn't that small and I was a kid back then." Heather wondered if he meant to ask her on a date. She liked Jacob, although his taste in music was horrible. On the other hand, his taste in music was one of the reasons Trommler Records had mad
e such a splash. The oldies she preferred sounded like horrible screeching, at least that's what Jacob said.

  "You should come."

  "Sure. But I want to break for lunch now, then I'll come back and we'll go." Once Jacob nodded and left, Heather headed for the one place she knew she could get the low-down on anyone in town, the City Hall Coffee Shop. Cora would know all about Rachel Hill. Cora always knew everything about everybody.

  * * *

  "Come on, Jacob." Heather grinned over at Jacob, who didn't get nearly enough exercise, apparently. "It isn't that far and the road isn't all that tough to walk."

  "We could have waited for the bus," Jacob grumbled. "Or a cart. Or a wagon."

  "Silly. Not that many vehicles come out this way. Now, let's hurry a bit. This was your idea, after all. It's your own fault."

  The gravel road wound a bit, but not as much as some in Grantville. It was also quiet, very much so. Heather looked around, enjoying the fall color and the peace. These days, Grantville was much busier than it had been in her childhood. More people came in every day, it seemed.

  People from everywhere, just about. One of the truly big surprises to many of the residents was just how much—well, tourism—there was in the seventeenth century. Young men went on grand tours all over Europe. Young women came in for the economic opportunities that abounded in the area—not to mention the right to vote.

  But this road was quiet, which was a welcome relief.

  "There's the little bridge." Jacob pointed. "And that's what used to be the garage, but the Mehlers made it into a nice little cottage. We go left when we get there."

  "Ah."

  Jacob grinned. "I always feel that way when I see Rachel's house. Once you get here, you feel like there isn't another person within a thousand miles."

  They stopped to admire the view. It did feel like there couldn't be another person anywhere near. The hills reached up and blocked any view of the town, and there wasn't another house near. It was perfect. Today was a bit misty, the fall colors were at their best; and the deep red house was in a perfect setting. Across the graveled road, a tiny waterfall trickled down the rocks.

  These days, since the Mehler's arrival, what had been lawn was mostly garden. Herr Mehler had become seriously interested in what one of Rachel's many books called "French intensive gardening," so he had deeply dug three-foot wide beds with paths between them.

  "It still seems strange that so few people in the town knew about Rachel," Jacob said. "Now that her salon's are so well attended."

  "She kept to herself, mostly." Heather hesitated. "After the accident, when she couldn't get around very well, she got to be pretty reclusive. In a way, the Ring of Fire did her a favor, I guess. That's what Cora said. I mean, people sort of knew who she was, since she grew up here. But she went off to college and didn't make a real big splash when she came back."

  * * *

  The house was laid out in a typical farmhouse pattern, with four rooms on the ground floor. Considering the number of bodies in the living room, Heather was glad the ceiling fan was turned on. Jacob introduced Heather to Rachel with what seemed a proprietary air. What Heather couldn't figure out was what he was being proprietary about, Rachel and her salon or Heather. He seemed to be showing off the cultural jewel of the salon to Heather and Heather to the gathered group. It was quite a group, at that.

  There were eleven people in the living room. Jacob introduced Heather to them all. Father Gus from Saint Mary's was there, along with Father Nick Smithson. There was also a Spaniard who introduced himself as Don Diego Valdez y Mendoza. He immediately wanted her to confirm that up-timers really did believe in astrology. After all, they published horoscopes in the newspapers up-time. It was immediately apparent that this was a conversation that was repeated with each new up-timer to join the group. Apparently he wouldn't, or couldn't, give up on his pet notion.

  A Frenchman with the name of Pierre de Cancavi claimed "I'm going to build an airplane as soon as I can put together the money."

  He was arguing with an Italian named Gasparo Berti, who insisted, "Waste of money. Lighter-than-air craft are the real future of aviation. It was no more than an accident of history that that prevented the up-timers from properly exploiting the advantages of dirigibles. Granted, they were—and are—militarily useless but who cares about that?"

  "The military?" Magdalena Van de Passe, one of the few people Heather knew, suggested. Heather hid a giggle.

  Gasparo Berti paused and looked at Magdalena severely for a moment. Then gave a half smile and a hands-in-the-air Italian shrug. "Dirigibles are elegant. Stately even. Besides, they carry more."

  Heather let herself be carried by the flow of the group. She saw Vladimir Yaroslavich and looked around for Brandy Bates. Seeing Prince Vladimir without Brandy was a surprise these days. "We were caught in the middle of changing the structure of our armed forces." He was talking to a Polish gentleman named Jan Brozek. "Don't make too much of it, Jan. We won the next one after all."

  "But that was after the great freedom had turned into license," Jan Brozek insisted. "That won't happen this time."

  "Neither did the Smolensk War," Prince Vladimir countered "At least not yet. Don't count too much on it going the same way. It did in that other time line, but too much has changed. Guatavus Adolphus is still very much alive—busy with the league, but alive and well with his army intact."

  "Why the change from Important Speeches to Frivolous Music?" Heather could hear the capitals in Herr Gulden's voice. She learned later that he was in Grantville from Austria. Meanwhile she shot Jacob a look and he cringed.

  "Yes, why?" Herr de Groot actually seemed interested rather then calling her to task. She later learned he was from Holland.

  "Because people like music," Heather said to the nice one. "They don't, as a general rule, like speeches—at least not to listen to everyday . . ."

  Then she got into a discussion about the difference between seventeenth-century and twentieth-century ballet. The French guy was back, insisting that for the most part the down-time French version was better—though there were no doubt a few points they could pick up and had she seen the Christmas show in Magdeburg?

  It was starting to get a bit much for Heather. It wasn't that the people here were dumb, quite the contrary. But she was rapidly coming to the conclusion that no one could foul up like a smart person. They would say something really insightful, then finish the sentence with something totally off the wall.

  Rachel caught her eye and indicated a door with her eyes. Heather retreated and found herself, eventually, in the kitchen with Rachel and Frau Mehler, a stout German woman.

  "Did the air heads drive you out?" Frau Mehler looked cross. She was washing up a stack of the trays that refreshments had been served on.

  Rachel grinned. "Be nice, Helen." Then she looked at Heather. "I call it 'candy store syndrome.'"

  Heather gave her a questioning look.

  "Believe it or not, that room—" Rachel pointed at the living room. "—has some of the brightest minds in Europe in it. Seven out of ten of those people made it into the history books as great thinkers of their time. It's not requirement to get invited; I don't work that way. Still, it's true. The reason they seem a little . . . ah . . . vague sometimes is that they are the ones who got to Grantville and jumped into the ocean of knowledge we brought with us without bothering with a life preserver. Some of them haven't come up for more than the occasional breath in the last three years. They're like kids in a candy store, nibbling on this piece of knowledge, then getting distracted by that one. No time to digest what they have already learned. There is always another chocolate covered truffle of information to try to swallow whole."

  "I've seen the effect." Heather laughed.

  * * *

  By the end of the evening, Heather's head was spinning. She was full of the snacks that had been served, as well as the beer and wine. Perhaps a bit too full, since the spinning head might not be just from all the
conversation. She had stayed with Jacob, mostly. He moved from group to group, sometimes listening, sometimes conversing. That had helped, since it kept Heather from feeling that she was in over her head.

  She took a deep breath of the misty air. "Wow. Who knew?"

  "Well, I did," Jacob said. "Perhaps it is just because everyone is always so busy. You up-timers, at any rate. Always working, day and night, so many of you. Always doing."

  "I suppose." Right now, Heather thought, what I'd really like is for you to take my arm again. The thought surprised her a bit. Then she realized that with Judy and the other girls gone to Magdeburg, she was simply lonely, without the companionship she'd come to rely on. Which was another surprise, that she relied on anyone.