Grantville Gazette-Volume XIII Page 30

  "Sir?"

  "The doodlebugger. One of his relatives is Ilse Schmiedechen."

  "Ah." His secretary still was new to petroleum technology. But he had the genealogies of the noble families down pat. Ilse was the morganatic wife of August von Calenberg, Bishop of Minden. Who was the older brother of Georg, Duke of Calenberg. Who, not so incidentally, owned the Wietze oilfield.

  "So he wants a test, eh? Boy, he'll get a test."

  * * *

  "So, Herr Schmuckechen—"

  "Schmiedechen. Martin Schmiedechen."

  "You think you can find oil?"

  "If the harmonic conditions are appropriate."

  "Yeah, right. Okay, here's the deal, I have ten identical boxes here. And if you think it was easy to get ten identical boxes in this screwed-up world, well, you're crazy. Every box is filled with sand. However, in one of the boxes, I have buried a bottle of oil. Your job is to do your voodoo dance, or whatever is you do, and pick out the right box."

  Martin nodded.

  "Oh. My secretary will record whether you got it right or wrong. And after your first pick, we blindfold you, open the boxes, and pick at random which box to put the bottle into for the second time around. And then again for the third time. Ten trials in all."

  "Sir, this is hardly a fair test. The amount of oil is small, and you have taken it out of the ground, which means that you have severed the harmonic lines—"

  "If you don't like the test, the door is over that way."

  "Very well, but I do this under protest. Make sure your secretary writes that down."

  Martin picked the correct box two times out of ten.

  "That's better than I expected," said Underwood.

  "So I am hired?"

  "Are you kidding? It's still well within chance variation."

  "We'll see whether the Duke's advisers agree."

  "His buck, his grief. Out."

  On a hillside near Hannover

  "Here?" The crew chief looked skeptical.

  Martin closed his eyes, opened them again. "Yes, here. The vibrations were most pronounced, they indicated the presence of a veritable lake beneath our feet."

  The crew chief looked at the Duke's representative, who gave him a quick nod. "Alright, lads, let's start assembling the derrick."

  He turned to Martin. "This isn't going to be easy. We're on a hillside; we're going to have a devil of a time drilling a straight hole."

  "I must go where the lines of magnetic harmony lead me," said Martin loftily.

  * * *

  They looked at the sand that had just been brought up. The crew chief ran his fingers through it. "It feels wet."

  "Oil?" asked Martin hopefully.

  "More likely water. In which case the hole may be a little off. Water's usually under oil. If we strike water first, that's a bad sign. But we'll give it another ten or twenty feet to be sure." The drilling crew put the drill bit back on the cable, and continued their work.

  Some minutes later, the hole started gushing a brown fluid. Not black or clear.

  "What's that?" asked Martin.

  A crewman reached out a hand, took a taste. "It's beer! We've struck beer." He quickly stood under the fountaining beverage, mouth agape.

  "Hey!" He had been pushed aside by one of his fellows.

  "So where's the oil?"

  "Who's complaining? "I'll take beer over oil any day!"

  The duke's representative came over to Martin. "Do you have any idea what has happened here?"

  "Beer is made from fermented grain, which is, of course, of the Kingdom Vegetalia," mused Martin. "And the oil, according to the uptimers, that is the result of a natural alchemical change in the character of ancient vegetable remains. The beer and oil both being liquid, as well as vegetable, they exhibit the same magnetic harmonics—"

  "No, I meant, where did all the beer come from?"

  It was only later that they went downhill, and found the brewery which had been using a cave in the same hillside as an inexpensive storage tank. But by then even the duke's representative was too drunk to care.

  * * *

  Supply and Demand

  Written by Rick Boatright

  Tink tink tink... The little yellow screwdriver rang against the side of the Cora's mug as Father Nicholas Smithson sat silently in the rectory kitchen.

  "Why so glum, Nick?"

  Father Nicholas Smithson looked up from staring into his coffee mug to see his good friend walking in. "I was hearing confession, Gus."

  "Well, it was your turn."

  "I know, and I'm happy to provide the service. I still miss my parishioners in London, and this is a small way to be a part of the life of this community. But I'm afraid I may have to stop."

  "Why?"

  "Because it happened again today. Someone didn't want the sacrament; they had a job offer for Nicholas Smithson, expert on up-timers. "

  "Again? I am so sorry Nick. It's so sad that people want to throw money at you. It's not like you were a Benedictine or something."

  "They were demeaning the sacrament and the sanctuary of the church. Did not Christ himself overturn the money changers?"

  "He did." Gus nodded, grinning.

  "And when I do attempt to do research, I am pummeled with requests beyond what any man can do. It is not as though I am the only researcher in the library."

  "Yes, Nick. But you are the only author of How Not to Think Like a Redneck. That may be the best selling book in Europe."

  "I know. But it's silly. Brother Johann is as good a researcher, and the others just as good."

  "Nick, they are good researchers, but you have found your place. You have a gift for putting the bits and pieces together into a whole that no one has yet quite matched. Then, there is your reputation. I see only one way to control this. You must rely on the invisible hand."

  "Gus, I've already doubled my prices over what everyone else charges!"

  "Then double them again. Eventually, you will drive the crowds away. Then, you can pick and choose the projects you want to work on."

  "Double them again! I would be charging one hundred dollars an hour!"

  "And if that's not enough, then you double them again. Eventually, the market will respond."

  "Am I to be a prisoner of the Dark Science then?"

  "Yes, Nick. A prisoner with an income which makes you able to do the things you want done. Oh that more of us would have such a burden."

  Nick stared into his coffee cup: "Let's go get a beer."

  Gus smiled. "Your treat."

  * * *

  "Excuse me, Father Smithson?"

  Nick looked up. The library table was covered with 3x5 cards, stacked in complex patterns like a tarot design, some with colorful ink staining the corners. There were pencils and strings linking the cards into an odd network. Nick set the card in his hand back onto his stack. "How can I help you?"

  "My name is Johann Rademacher. I am with O'Keefe's Septic Tank Maintenance Company."

  "Yes?" Father Nick looked at him questioningly. "How can I help you?" He gestured at the chair beside him.

  Johann sat down. "We have been looking to open additional markets for porcelain. We have been working with potters and designing mostly sanitary pottery, sinks and toilets. Now, we are wanting to move into 'higher tech.' Specifically, spark plugs. When we realized we needed help, we thought of you."

  "Why me, Herr Rademacher? There are many researchers, and the library is open to all."

  Johann pointed to the table. "This is why. Anyone can look things up in books, if they take the time. But few can do that." He made a sweeping gesture. "Your reputation is that you do not just research what the books say, you combine the bits and pieces into a whole which would not otherwise exist. We need your expertise. We have tried to make spark plugs. And we failed. We need you."

  Nick sat for a moment. "You understand that I am busy? Your project is interesting, but I have work."

  Johann smiled "We can pay. We are prep
ared to pay. Further, we will pay extra for you to agree to keep the resulting research private for a period of time. A year perhaps?"

  Nick thought about Gus' recommendation. "One hundred dollars an hour, and a six month agreement of privacy."

  "Done!"

  * * *

  Gus walked into the rectory kitchen. "I hear you turned in the spark plug report today."

  Nick smiled and laid the check on the table. "I did."

  "What was it then?"

  "It?"

  Gus smiled. "It. There's always an it for you, the critical bit that everyone had overlooked. What is it?"

  "It's the seals, of course. It is simple enough to make the bolt, to drill it out, to slide the porcelain into it and glue it in place. But with the pressure and heat of the engine,the gases leak out and burn the steel away."

  Gus sat silently.

  "Oh, very well. You need to use three different materials. One is braised onto the ceramic and is a substance that wets the ceramic, another is braised onto the bolt and wets the steel, and then a third braising welds them together in a flexible manner so that the differences in expansion don't crack the ceramic. Anyone trying to do it in one or two steps is doomed to fail."

  Gus smiled hugely. "Well, then. Another success for the great Smithson, and hope for another new business."

  Nick sputtered.

  "So, let's go get a beer." Gus nudged the check. "And you're buying."

  * * *

  Plugging Along

  Written by Kerryn Offord

  The Saale Industrial Zone, winter 1633-34

  Larry Karickhoff turned the key of the pickup. The engine fired a few times, backfired, and stopped.

  "What's the hold up, Larry? Day's over, everyone wants to get home," Johann Rademacher said.

  Larry tried the engine again, with the same result. "I dunno, Johann." He flicked the fuel gauge. It remained steady. "Fuel's okay. I'll pop the hood and take a look."

  Johann waited while Larry climbed out and opened the hood. There was a tapping on the glass behind him.

  "Johann, what's the hold up?"

  The workers in the back wanted to know what was happening. He climbed out of the cab to explain. "The engine won't start. Herr Karickoff is having a look."

  "The same thing happened last week in this truck. Herr Straley said it was the spark plugs. He took them out and cleaned them and he was able to get the truck running again," Heinrich Bischoff offered.

  "Thank you. I'll tell him. Hopefully the problem isn't serious and we can get home before dark."

  Johann hated to disturb a man working on an engine, but it had to be done. He walked around to stand beside Larry. "Heinrich says there was trouble with the spark plugs last week."

  Larry wiped his hands on his pants, then reached into the cab for the vehicle log book and flipped pages, checking the entries. "Shit! Typical bloody Norton. Has a problem and doesn't record it in the log." Larry made a note in the logbook, then put it back where it belonged before grabbing the tool box and returning to the engine.

  * * *

  "Damn it!" Larry waved the spark plug toward Johann and the others. "If any of you have to be anywhere soon, I suggest you start walking. This truck ain't going nowhere without a tow."

  "What is the problem? If Norton could get the engine going by just cleaning the spark plugs, why can't you?" Johann asked.

  "Because not only are they dirty, but this one's ground electrode is broken." Larry passed Johann the spark plug.

  Johann held the spark plug up to see what the problem was. It was obviously very dirty, but . . . "What is a ground electrode?"

  Larry handed him another spark plug. "See that little bit of metal hanging off the bottom? That's the ground electrode."

  Johann could easily see the difference. "But why do you need to tow the vehicle? Can't it run on just seven cylinders?"

  Larry shook his head. "It could run on just the seven cylinders. Not well, but well enough to get us home. But what's happened to that bit of metal? I hope it just fell off onto the ground. Because there's no telling what damage it could do floating around in a running engine."

  "Ouch. Yes, I see. So you won't be running this truck until you find the missing piece of metal?"

  "Or at least prove it isn't in the engine. Then we have to weld on a new ground electrode."

  "Why don't you just get another spark plug? "

  Larry stifled a laugh. "Where from? Nobody's making new plugs and nobody's selling their stock. We've still got a few left, but we're trying to put off using them as long as possible."

  "They don't look as if they'd be too hard to make. Why hasn't anybody tried?"

  "No idea, Johann. You're the guy with all the fancy letters after his name. Why don't you try it?"

  December 1633

  Johann Rademacher B.A., M.A. (Leiden) slammed his fists down on the workbench and screamed to the heavens. "What am I doing wrong?"

  Aurene O'Keefe, who had been attracted to the work room by a continuous stream of swearing in no fewer than four languages, poked her head around the door. "Having a bit of trouble?"

  Johann spun around at Aurene's voice. "My apologies for my intemperate language, Frau O'Keefe."

  "Accepted. So what's all the fuss?"

  "My latest attempt to make a spark plug failed. I'm at a loss what to do next."

  "Um . . . How much do you know about spark plugs?"

  "Not a lot personally, but Larry has been a considerable help."

  Aurene snorted. "You can probably write what Larry knows about the things on a postage stamp. Have you thought about checking out the library?"

  "No, Frau O'Keefe."

  "Then maybe it's about time you did, don't you think?"

  Embarrassed, Johann could only nod in silence.

  O'Keefe's, Two weeks later

  Larry shook his head in disbelief. "You paid five grand for someone to go to the library and look in a few books. Hell, I'd have done it for free if you'd asked."

  Johann pulled three sheets of paper off the top of the bundle of pages. "No. I paid five thousand dollars for these three pieces of paper."

  "Three pieces of paper are worth five grand? Pull the other one; it's got bells on it."

  Johann grinned. "I will happily pull your other leg. When those three pages represent the considered analysis of all the available information by none other than Father Nicholas Smithson, then they are definitely well worth the "five grand," as you call it. These three pages are a cheat sheet for making spark plugs."

  "What? Let me see. Hey, I can't read this. What language is it?"

  "Latin, of course. Now to see about making us some spark plugs."

  O'Keefe's, a month later

  Johann ripped open the package from Melba Sue Freeman's ceramics and porcelain company. Inside, in individual wrappings, were a dozen porcelain insulators. Carefully he unwrapped one. The shiny white insulator was beautiful. He reached over for one of the damaged up-time spark plugs and compared them. The insulators looked identical, except for the markings. Ever hopeful, Johann had already decided on the name he wanted.

  Then he started to assemble the Grantville-Zuendkerze-Kompanie's very first Series One spark plug.

  * * *

  With a dozen finished spark plugs in his basket, Johann went looking for Larry. He needed to prove they worked.

  With Larry in tow, Johann headed for the workshop. First they tested them in the lawn mower. All of them worked.

  "Well, Larry, what do you think?"

  "I think you're going to be revoltingly rich. Let's try them in one of the trucks and see how well they work and how long they last."

  A month later

  Johann sighed. It didn't look like he was going to get revoltingly rich manufacturing spark plugs. At least not any time soon. He'd invested heavily into producing a standard size plug, as that should have been where most of the demand was. However, it looked like that might have been a mistake.

  There
were just too many of the standard-size plugs in Grantville, many of them still in vehicles that had been up on blocks since the Ring of Fire.