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1634-The Ram Rebellion - ARC

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PREFACE

Eric Flint

This is something of an oddball volume, so it's perhaps fitting that it has an oddball history. Many of the stories contained herein first saw life as stories intended to be published in the electronic magazine devoted to the 1632 series, the Grantville Gazette. (Of which, seven volumes are now published, and the first two in a paper edition as well.)

As I watched these stories being written, however—originally with no overarching framework—it occurred to me that, willy-nilly, the writers were in fact shaping the way in which the revolution begun by the Ring of Fire was starting to have an impact on central Germany.

Once I realized that, this volume was born. I had long intended to write a companion volume to 1632, 1633 and 1634: The Baltic War, that would depict the same events covered in those novels but with a focus that you might call closer to ground level. (1632 and 1633 are already in print. David Weber and I are now close to finishing 1634: The Baltic War.)

It's in the nature of fictional narrative that an author tends, whether he agrees with the Great Man theory of history or not—and I happen to despise it—to write stories that focus on "great heroes." It's simply hard to avoid that, given the dramatic imperatives of story-telling.

But such stories give a skewed view of the way human events unfold. People in their great numbers are creators of their own history, not simply the passive material from which history is shaped. The purpose of this book, more than any other, is to depict that in the form of fiction.

It's an oddball volume, as I said, something of cross between a traditional anthology and a novel. There are many different stories in these pages, written by many different authors. At the same time, all the stories share not only a common setting but a common story arch and a common plot thread—as obscure as that may seem to the reader in the first two parts of the book.

Virginia DeMarce and I provided that, partly in stories we wrote separately, but especially in the short novel we co-authored that concludes the volume and shares the same title: The Ram Rebellion. All the separate threads that are first introduced in Parts I and II begin to come together in Part III, and reach their final culmination in Part IV.

So what to call it? I don't know, to be honest. Let's just settle for "a 1632 book," and I hope you enjoy it.

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PART I: RECIPES FOR REVOLUTION

The hand of the Lord came upon me, and he brought me out by the spirit of the Lord and set me down in the middle of a valley; it was full of bones. He led me all around them; there were very many lying in the valley, and they were very dry. He said to me, "Mortal, can these bones live?" I answered, "O Lord GOD, you know."  

Ezekiel 37:1-3  

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Cook Books

Eric Flint

June, 1631 

After Melissa Mailey ushered Mike Stearns into her living room and took a seat on an armchair facing him, she lifted her eyebrows. The expression on her face was one that Mike still remembered from years earlier, when he'd been a high school student and Melissa had been the most notorious teacher in the high school.

Which she still was, for that matter.

For the adult population of Grantville, Melissa's notoriety stemmed from her radical political opinions. For her students, however, that notoriety had an entirely different basis. Whatever flamboyantly egalitarian views Ms. Mailey entertained regarding society as a whole, there was not a shred of evidence for them in her classrooms.

The students who thought she was basically okay—Mike himself had been one of them—called her either The Schoolmarm from Hell or Melissa the Hun. Behind her back, of course. The terms used by other students went downhill from there. Very rapidly downhill, in many cases.

Granted, all of her students would admit that she was fair. But fair is not actually a virtue admired in a schoolteacher, by her students, especially when it was almost impossible to slide anything by her.

Merciful, yes; easy-going, yes; absent-minded, best of all.

Fair, no.

As one of Mike's schoolmates had grumbled to him at the time, "Who cares if she's 'fair'?" The boy pointed an accusing finger at the book open before him on the cafeteria table. "So she's making all of us read this crap, equally and with no favoritism. Gee, ain't that great?"

Mike grimaced. The volume in question was Dante's Inferno, a book he had soon come to detest himself. Ms. Mailey's notions of "suitable reading" for teenagers bore no relationship at all to what teenagers thought themselves.

"'Fair,'" his friend continued remorselessly, the accusing finger still rigid. "Sure she is. Just like Satan himself, in this miserable book."

The expression on Melissa's face today was the same one Mike remembered from years before. The aloof, questioning eyebrow-lift with which she greeted a student who approached her with a problem after class. A facial gesture which, somehow, managed to combine three different propositions:

One. You wish?  

Two. Yes, I will be glad to help you.  

Three. You will almost certainly wish I hadn't.  

"You've got the oddest look on your face, Mike," Melissa said, bringing him back to the moment. "What's up?"

He smiled, a bit sheepishly. "Just remembering . . . Ah, never mind. I need your advice."

"Yes?"

That was point one. Fearlessly, Mike plowed on.

"It's fine and dandy for me to give a fancy public speech about launching the American revolution ahead of schedule, now that our town is stranded in seventeenth century Europe. I even got elected head of the emergency committee, because of it, thanks to you. But now, ah . . ."

"You've got to put your money where your mouth is. And you don't really know where to start, other than with some fine generalities – very vague, very politician-like – about freedom and equality." She leaned forward in her chair, lacing her long fingers together. "Yes, I understand. I'll be glad to give you whatever advice I can."

Point two, coming like the tides. Paralyzed for a moment, Mike studied her fingers. Very elegant and aristocratic fingers, they were. Absurdly so, really, for a woman with her political attitudes.

"Ah. Yes. I was thinking maybe . . ."

But Melissa was already shaking her head. Another characteristic Mike remembered. Melissa Mailey was no more likely to let a student frame their own question than she was to provide them with an answer they wanted.

"Start with the land problem," she said firmly. "It stands right at the center of any revolution that shatters the old regime and ushers in democracy and the industrial revolution. That was true even in our own American revolution, though most people don't realize it."

He couldn't think of anything better to say than he had as a teenager.

"Huh?"

She smiled. Very coolly, as he remembered her doing. "Mike, it's complicated. Land tenure is always complicated, especially in societies with a feudal background—and there's nothing dumber than trying to carry through a revolution based on misconceptions. For instance, you're probably assuming that seventeenth century German farmers are a bunch of serfs toiling on land owned by the aristocracy. So the simplest way to solve their problem is to expropriate the land from the great nobles and turn it over to the peasants."

He emitted the familiar response he remembered from high school. "Uh. Well. Yeah."

That firm, detestable headshake.

"Not in the least. That's true in eastern Europe, if I remember correctly, but it's not true here. Mind you, my memory of the details of German social history in the early modern period is a little vague, now. I haven't studied the subject since college, because it's not something we teach in this high school. Or any high school in America, so far as I know. But I remember enough to tell you that land relations in Germany in this day and age are a tangled mare's nest. If we approach it the wrong way, we're just as likely to infuriate the farmers as the nobility, which is the last thing we want to do."

She rose, moved over to one of the bookcases in the living room, and deftly plucked out two of the volumes there. "I've still got some of the relevant books, fortunately, and I've been refreshing my memory these past few days."

Then, as Mike feared she would, she came over and handed one of them to him.

Blessedly, the more slender volume.

"Start with this one. It's Barraclough's The Origins of Modern Germany and it's still—for my money, anyway—the best general history on the subject, even though it was written half a century ago."

Quickly, and as surreptitiously as possible, he flipped to the end of the book.

Not surreptitiously enough, of course.

"Oh, grow up," she said. "It's not even five hundred pages long. You can read it in a few days. What's so funny?"

Despite himself, Mike had started chuckling.

"Dante's Inferno was shorter than this, and you gave us a month to read that one."

"You were a callow youth, then. Besides, it was in terza rima and this is simple prose. So stop whining. Now . . ."

A moment later, the other book—the great, fat, monstrous tome—was deposited firmly in his lap. It was all he could do not to groan.

"Then read this one."

The size of the thing would have been bad enough. The title—Economic History of Europe, for the love of God—made it even worse.

"For Pete's sake, Mike, it's just a book. Stop hefting it as if I were asking you to lift weights."

"Be easier," he muttered. "What'd they print it on? Depleted uranium?"

She returned to her seat. "Make fancy speeches, get elected the big shot, pay the price. No pain, no gain. And if you think that book looks like a bitch, wait'll you—we, I should say—run into the real world."

And that, too, he remembered. Such an oddly contradictory woman.

"Isn't that word politically incorrect?"

"Sure is. Ain't life a bitch?"

She was grinning, now, nothing cool about it.

Walking back to his house—listing, some, from the weight of the books tucked under his arm—Mike started muttering to himself.

"Point three. I almost certainly wish I hadn't."

The worst of it, of course, was that it wasn't true, and Mike knew it. In the times coming, the books would look like a piece of cake, compared to the real world.

It's complicated . . . coming from Melissa Mailey . . .

"Damn," he muttered. "Can't we just dump some tea leaves in a harbor somewhere, storm a famous prison or two, and be done with it?"

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Birdie's Farm

Gorg Huff and Paula Goodlett

Part I

June 1631 

Birdie Newhouse stood on his back porch and looked over his farm. Looked over, in fact, what was left of his farm. The farm was a little chunk of Appalachian valley, which was abruptly cut off by a German granite wall. The farm had been about half again as big before the Ring of Fire, but even then it hadn't been big enough to make a real living.

Birdie had everything a man needed to make a real farm. There was a tractor, a plow, the works. He even had some livestock, chickens and a couple of hogs. The only thing he didn't have was the land.

Out to one side of the remainder of the farm, there was a little bit of field that you could plow, if you were real careful about the contouring. Most of his farm, though, consisted of skinny trees holding on to the hillside for dear life. A dry creek ran through the middle of the property. The creek was going to stay dry, unfortunately. The German land on the other side of the cliff tilted the wrong way to feed the creek.

Birdie's eyes lost some of their worry as he again noticed the wellhead for the natural gas well on his land. He was more thankful every day that he had gone ahead and converted his equipment to work on natural gas. Willie Ray Hudson had made that suggestion several years ago. Birdie was glad he had listened.

Much to his disgust, Birdie simply didn't have enough land. Even worse, the little bit of land that the Ring of Fire had left him was mortgaged to the Grantville Bank. There was plenty of land on the other side of the cliff created by the Ring of Fire, including a village about a mile beyond it. It wasn't much of a village, according to Birdie's sons Haskell and Trent, who'd been patrolling the area with the UMWA guys. But they said the land was good.

"Birdie," his wife called, interrupting his thoughts, "staring at that wall won't undo the Ring of Fire. Come inside. It's time for dinner."

"Be right in, Mary Lee," Birdie answered, all the while thinking, There's land on the other side of the Ring Wall, if only I can get it. 

"What do you think Mr. Walker will say?" Mary Lee asked as he was sitting down to dinner. When she was worried about something she couldn't just leave it alone, she had to talk about whatever it was.

"Don't know. Coleman's a decent enough sort but he's still a banker. The Ring of Fire took a third of our land. From where he's sitting, that means we have two-thirds the collateral for our loan. On the other hand, there's a fair bit of property that the bank is gonna get, chunks of land where the owners were outside the ring. Anyway, I think he'd rather extend the loan if he can see his way clear to do it. Maybe he'll give us six months to work something out."

"And what will we have in six months that we don't have now?"

"Well, I've been giving that some thought while I was staring at that damn wall. Maybe, just maybe, I have a solution." He then refused to say another word on the matter, much to Mary Lee's dismay. Birdie loved teasing her like that. It still worked, even after almost thirty years.

Birdie had an appointment with Coleman Walker, but didn't get to talk to him. Coleman was busy trying to set up some kind of money changing business for the Emergency Committee. Instead, Edgar came out to meet him, and escorted him to an office, chattering all the way.

"You know, Mr. Newhouse," Edgar said, "here at the bank, we know that the farmers are going to be really important to the success of Grantville. There's been a lot of talk about that. The Emergency Committee got involved and asked, well, demanded, to tell the truth about it, that the Bank put a hiatus on calling in any farm loans for at least a year. Mr. Walker agreed to it, right smartly, too."

Birdie thought that was something of a miracle, all by itself. Getting Coleman Walker to agree to anything "right smartly" hadn't ever happened in Birdie's experience.

"Don't get me wrong, Edgar," Birdie responded, "Coleman's always been a good sort. But, there's got to be a catch in there, somewhere. Spit it out."

"I don't know all the details, Mr. Newhouse. Mr. Walker talked to Mike and Willie Ray, as well as J. D. Richards and some other teachers from the Tech School. It seems that the problem, well, one of the problems, is the stock of seeds we have here. We don't have enough improved crop seeds. And there's something about hybrid seeds not breeding true. And even if they did, there still isn't enough."

Edgar's explanation wasn't any too clear, but Birdie got the gist of it. Willie Ray might have to ask the farmers to do things that weren't that profitable in the short run. Things like building up seed stock. Birdie, like many farmers, bought seed every year, instead of saving his own. Saving your own seed hadn't made much sense up-time.

"What it boils down to, is the bank is going to cut all the farmers some slack. Considering the circumstances, what with the Ring of Fire and all, we're giving you a year to get caught up."

Birdie was pretty sure that Edgar wasn't telling him everything. Bankers always acted like it was their own money you were asking them for.

"Suppose I need some more money? Bank gonna be good for that? There's a lot that needs doing, and it ain't getting done for nothing."

"We might loan you more money, Mr. Newhouse. If Willie Ray agrees that what you need it for is important to the town, it's more than likely that you'll get what you need."

All this support came as a bit of a surprise to Birdie. Grantville had never been farming country. The hills were just too steep and the valleys too narrow. The focus had always been on industry of some sort, natural gas, coal mines, even the toilet factory. Just before the Ring of Fire, a fiber optics plant was being built. Farmers had never been a big part of the local economy.

"Poor bastards," Willie Ray remarked when he and Birdie reached Birdie's tractor. Willie Ray had been introducing Birdie to the local farmers. The introduction had been accomplished with gestures, for the most part, with a few badly accented words of German thrown in here and there.

"What happened to them?" Birdie asked.

"From what I gather, Sundremda, that's this little village here, used to have fifteen farming families plus a few folks who had houses and gardens in the village but weren't farmers. There was a blacksmith, a carpenter, and the like. This last year has been rough though. Now there are six farming families and four of those families are part time farmers. Halbbauer the Germans call 'em. 'Half farmers,' that would be in English."

Birdie knew what that was like. He regularly had to work odd jobs to keep the farm going.

"They also lost a bunch of their livestock," Willie Ray continued, "which made getting in this year's crop just about impossible. Some of it was lost to the mercenaries that hit the place a few months back, and some to Remda, a little town that way, a ways, where they ran when the village got hit.

"Ernst, that fella you shook hands with, called it theft when I was out here before with Miss Abrabanel to translate. From what I understand the folk in Remda are saying they took the stock for rent and fines. Then, some bug came up about the same time, and quite a few folks died. So everyone's blaming everyone else and there are law suits goin' both ways. Meanwhile, the folks in Remda seem to figure possession is nine points of the law, so they're holdin' the stock till everything's settled. I'm guessing they're also holdin' the oxen to force the Sundremda villagers to settle their way.

"You clear on what's needed?" Willie Ray asked when he had finished his explanation.

Birdie nodded. He and Willie Ray had walked the fields with Ernst and defined what was needed where. Willie Ray headed back to town and Birdie got to work harvesting and thinking. His farm was just over the Ring Wall, less than a mile away. If he could cut some sort of gap in the Ring Wall this would be the perfect farm for him. He didn't want to put anyone out of their homes but it looked like they needed him as much as he needed the land. Maybe he could buy this place or most of it anyway. Once he got done here he'd go see if Willie Ray would support him with the bank.

July 1631 

Willie Ray had agreed that buying a farm outside the Ring of Fire and near Birdie's place, what was left of it, was a good idea. However; he didn't know much of anything about how Birdie would go about buying a farm here. Birdie had talked to MacKay, who had recommended one of his troops who spoke English and German and knew a bit about farming.

Danny McTavish was willing enough to act as translator and guide, for a fair payment. Fair payment, in McTavish's eyes, was five one-liter plastic soda bottles, complete with their lids, and a gutting knife. Birdie threw dinner into the deal, so they could eat while they talked over the plan. Birdie liked McTavish, anyway. The scruffy Scot sure could use some dental work, but he spoke German and knew the area fairly well.

"Won't work, what you're saying," McTavish said. "You won't be able to buy a farm for the working. Farmers around here are mostly tenants. They don't own their farms the way you up-timers do."

"I didn't really expect them to," Birdie answered. "I was just glad to find out that things aren't as bad as I thought they would be. I never paid much attention to history, back in school. I figured that just because they didn't own their farms, there was no reason I couldn't buy one though."

"You understand, I'm no expert." Danny tugged his goatee, apparently to help organize his thoughts. "You don't exactly buy land here, at least not to use it yourself. What you do is rent a piece of a farming village. Along with the rent you pay, you get some specific rights, all of them written down proper, in the contract. You get a house, or the right to build a house. You get the right to gather or cut a given amount of firewood, and to pasture so many head of cattle or sheep or whatever. It's all specified in the contract. Finally, you get a strip of field to plant.

"Mostly you lease a piece of land for ninety-nine years or three generations, whichever comes first. Now, you don't always go to the laird for this. The laird might have sold off some part, or all of the rents. When that's happened, and I'm told it happens most of the time, there might be a whole bunch of different people, and each one of them owns a part of the rent."

"What does the lord own after he's sold the rents?" Birdie asked "Mining rights?"

"Mining rights belong to the ruler. The laird never had those. Timber rights, probably. Maybe hunting rights. It could be. It depends on how he sold the rents. Sometimes, a laird would even give the rents to someone, like as a dowry or for the support of a relative. Sometimes, all that's left to the laird is the right to control who cuts down how much of the forest. Or, other times, he might have nothing much. It could just be a leftover from when the 'von Somewheres' really were lairds with rights and duties to the folk under them. Back when only a 'von Somewhere' could own land and owning land meant you were a noble. Maybe back then you couldn't sell your land and still have 'von' in front of your name." Danny shrugged. "The truth is I don't know why it's that way. But, I've talked to a lot of farmers since I came here with Captain MacKay, and that seems to be the way it is."

"Do we have to track down everyone that owns a part of the rent if we want to rent a farm in one of the villages around here?"

"If lots of people own a piece of the rent, they generally hire someone to handle the rental. You have to deal with who ever that is, and it's usually a lawyer. The Germanies are a lawyer's paradise."

"What about just going to the guy that owns the land and buying it?" Mary Lee asked.

Danny was shaking his head. "Even if he hasn't sold the rents, the village is probably rented. If you bought the land, you would be the new laird, but the rent contracts would still be there. You couldn't use the land yourself. All you could do is collect the rents. If he's sold the rents, I don't think you'd be buying more than a piece of paper, or maybe hunting rights. If you want to farm, you pretty much have to rent a farm in a village. Then, after you got the rent worked out with the landlord, you have to be approved by the Gemeinde."

"The Ge... Gem..., the what?" Birdie asked.

"The Gemeinde," Danny explained, pronouncing the word carefully. "All the people who rent land in a village get together to decide what to do and when to do it. I've heard Mr. Hudson say it's sort of a village co-op. Everyone plows, plants, and reaps together, and your 'strip' is your share of the profits. They're usually a bit careful, the Gemeinde, about who they let rent the farms. Can't really blame them for it, I suppose. You wouldn't want to share the load with someone who wouldn't pull their share, now would you?

"The Gemeinde has a right to refuse someone if they can find a reason for it. Usually, they use 'moral turpitude' of some sort. Mostly, the only people they allow to buy in to a village are someone they know, relatives or friends of people that already lived there. What with the war, and all that sort of thing, people are being a bit less particular about who they take on, lately. You'd have to have the animals to plow your fields, and you'd have to have the start up money."

Come to think of it, the farmers around here are a bit more independent than I would have guessed, Birdie thought. Kind of interdependent, too. He sat quietly and considered all this new information for a while and tried to apply it to what he already knew. The farmers in the area had turned out to be different from what he would have expected from his vague memories of high school history classes. They were a lot more like American farmers than the downtrodden serfs he'd thought they'd be, in most ways. The one big difference, which McTavish had just explained, was that seventeenth century German farmers worked and thought in collective terms, where up-time American farmers were used to operating as individuals.

That meant . . .

Sundremda had about two thousand acres of land but only about three hundred and fifty or so acres were crop land. The rest of the land was forest for firewood and building needs, a carp pond and more grazing land than the village really needed.

The important thing, though, was that Sundremda was missing most of its tenant farmers. So, maybe he could buy the place, or at least buy that part of it that wasn't rented to anyone. Maybe he could buy the rents, and pay himself. He might even be able to get some of the fallow fields as cropland. If he could arrange it, he would have over two hundred acres, maybe even three hundred acres. He would also have grazing rights, rights to a big share of the wood in the forest, as well as rights to the fish in the little pond the village had set up.

Birdie didn't want to just rent his tractor, or his services, he wanted to buy into the village. By preference, he wanted to own his own land. If he couldn't do that, he'd try to buy the rents. At a minimum, he wanted to have a fair say in what got planted where and when. He wanted a vote in how things went down. Now, if he could just figure a way to do it.

"Mary Lee!" Birdie yelled. "Where are you, woman?"

A muffled "Down here" led Birdie to the basement steps, where he heard Mary Lee clattering around. He descended, carefully. The light never had been that great down here.

"What are you doing?" he asked, when he saw Mary Lee was counting things, then writing something on a tablet of paper.

"Taking an inventory."

"Taking an inventory of what? And why? This stuff has been around for years. It's mostly junk."

Mary Lee looked up from her counting with an annoyed expression on her face. "Junk like that old tractor of yours? Junk like those plastic bottles that are bringing about fifteen dollars each? There's no such thing as junk anymore, Birdie, in case you haven't noticed. Even rusty nails are better than no nails at all. There's no telling what we've got in this basement, not to mention what's in the attic. If stuff like plastic soda bottles can bring in that much money, we might get rich from this room. If you don't want to help me here, go do your own inventory."

Mary Lee had been a bit testy lately, to Birdie's way of thinking. Still, she might have a point. He left her to her business and went to do his own inventory.

Birdie came up with a fair amount of stuff with his inventory. He had more than some of his fellow up-time farmers, but not as much as others. There was quite a lot of junk that simply hadn't been worth the cost of repairing up-time, but turned out to be irreplaceable down-time.

With the help of Willie Ray and Danny McTavish, Birdie was able to gauge the down-time value of his stuff pretty well. It was a little frightening, in a way, the number of things that had a value ten or even a hundred times what it had been before. It really gave Birdie an appreciation of mass production. Mary Lee was right about the plastic coke bottles he had given Danny. They were selling for five to fifteen bucks apiece and the knife would sell for about a hundred bucks.

The real money was in the machinery, though. Birdie had two tractors, one that worked, and one that didn't. The one that didn't work wouldn't have been worth repairing up-time. It was over fifty years old and had been sitting in one of his sheds for the last twenty of those years. Now, though, if the engine could be repaired, it was worth the cost of repair and more. Each of his tractors was worth as much as his truncated farm.

There was also the family car, which used gasoline, the farm truck that used natural gas from his well, and two junk cars. Birdie still didn't know exactly what Mary Lee had found in the house. They had lived in this house for over twenty years, raised two children here, and rarely threw anything away. That was about standard, for a West Virginia farm.

Ernst Bachmeier looked at the men before him. The two up-timers he recognized. One was Willie Ray, who had bought the village's crops while the crops were still in the field, and the other was Birdie, who had come out with his tractor and harvested those crops. The Scottish mercenary who was doing the translating made Ernst nervous.

Nervous or not, Ernst dragged his mind back to what the Scot was saying. "Herr Newhouse is a farmer, but a part of his farm was left up-time by the Ring of Fire. He has the tools and equipment to support a farm much larger than he has now, and the skills of an up-time farmer. What he doesn't have is the land to farm, or the knowledge of local conditions."

"With his tractor he would be a great help, and the village needs more people, but we don't have the houses rebuilt," Ernst replied.

"His house is less than two miles from here. He says he can cut a way through the Ring Wall that will let him bring the tractor and other equipment back and forth." There was a short discussion between the Scot and the up-timers, and then the Scot continued. "He does want to build a house in the village, and he wants to make something called a 'septic system,' so that he can have indoor plumbing, but that need not be done this year."

"In that case, it would be very good if he leased a farm in the village. I just wish we could find four more farmers to do the same." Ernst was a bit concerned about getting all the land rented.

"Well, actually, what he would like to do if he can is buy the land rather than rent it. Who owns the village?"

"Until January, the owner was Ludwig von Gleichen-Tonna, the count of Gleichen, but he died without issue and the ownership is in question. Herr Junker is running things because he holds the Lehen on the village. He got the Lehen from his mother. She was the illegitimate daughter of an uncle of Anna Agnes of Hohenlohe-Weikersheim, who was married to the brother of the count of Gleichen. Anna Agnes of Hohenlohe-Weikersheim is also the niece of William the Silent."

Birdie wondered who William the Silent was. Someone important, obviously.

Ernst was tempted by gossip and yielded to temptation. "They say Lady Anna Agnes bought her cousin a marriage using the leases on Sundremda and some other villages. Herr Junker's mama, she was high strung."

Ernst wasn't really sure about these people from the future buying his village. True, the up-timers had been fair, so far, but how would they treat the villagers if they owned the village? Would they have any need for tenants?

He decided to evade the problem, for the moment. "I really don't know who you would see about buying part of the village."

The soldier talked again to the up-timers then asked about buying the leases.

"That would be Herr Junker, but I doubt he would sell. He sets great store by the villages. They were his mama's dowry."

The soldier didn't bother to consult before asking: "Is he the one to see about renting the parts of the village that aren't rented now as well?"

"Yes. But, I have a question. We do more than plow, sew, and reap. Does Herr Newhouse have tools and machines that will do the other work the village needs?"

There was more discussion back and forth between the Scot and the up-timers.

"Some of it, yes," the Scot finally said. "For the rest, he believes the village could support more non-farming families to help with the other work. Also, the Ring of Fire means that many things that would have to have been made locally can now be bought in Grantville. Brooms and such things could be bought, instead of being made here. Also, people can be hired as needed from Grantville."

Ernst considered that for a while then nodded. "He should talk to Herr Junker then."

More discussion took place. Then with a wink: "He also wanted to find out the rents. Herr Newhouse prefers not to bargain blind."

Ernst wasn't supposed to be in charge and he knew it. Mercenaries had hit the village a few weeks before the Ring of Fire and he had been sent off to Remda, while others had tried to delay the mercenaries. The delay had worked, but at a high cost. Most of the delaying force was dead. The village had been burned to the ground, and any animal they had been unable to evacuate or hide had either been butchered or taken by the mercenaries. Two days after their victory, the mercenaries had left, and the survivors had returned soon after that.

Ernst was convinced that the sickness that had afflicted the survivors was a result of their stay in Remda. During the next two weeks, disease had killed almost half the survivors.

Ernst had the village's contracts with Herr Junker and the records of who was owed what. He knew about The Battle of the Crapper and believed it would be good to be connected to people that could defend the village. Still, Ernst was a bit nervous about the up-timers. He did show them the record books and helped to explain what each clause meant, but he didn't tell them everything. For instance, he didn't mention what Herr Junker had said about offering new tenants a break on the rent. The break would only be good for a few years, just to help the tenants to get started.

"Claus Junker is a good Lehen holder. He is knowledgeable and reasonable about the rent, but he is stuffy. His mother was of noble blood even if she was born on the wrong side of the blanket. He expects to be treated like a von Somewhere. We humor him, and he treats us well."

The Scot laughed. "That could be a problem. These up-timers have enough trouble treating a real noble like a noble. I don't know how they'd do with someone who just thinks he's a noble." Then the Scot turned to the up-timers to explain his comment.

"I don't suppose you could explain what 'Lehen' means, can you?" Birdie asked McTavish.

"Nah," McTavish answered. "It's not always the same thing. Sometimes the holder of the Lehen has the right to collect rents, but the laird has the right to do all the bossing around of the folk. Other times, the holder of the Lehen does all the bossing. Sometimes the laird still lives in the district, and can put a stop to problems. Sometimes, he only comes to hunt. Tis verra confusing."

"Are you saying that I could rent this farm, and some joker could still come and tell me how to do my business?"

"I'm not sure. Might be." McTavish grinned. "Reckon it'll be fun finding out, won't it?"

"They have no concept of their place in the world." Claus Junker complained again.

His wife Clara, though in basic agreement, had heard it all before.

With the up-timers' proven knowledge and ability, they should have been acting like nobility. Instead, they permitted the marriage of a camp follower to one of their young men. That support was a slap in the face for all the nobility.

Claus felt this slap especially keenly because he wasn't quite noble. His mother had been of noble blood but his father was no more than a wealthy merchant. His parents hadn't had a very happy marriage. His father had married because that's what his family wanted. His mother had felt that she was being married beneath her station and had virtually been forced by her family to accept the marriage. It hadn't taken long before both had become convinced that they had gotten the worst of the deal. The result was that Claus' mother had focused on her pedigree, clouded as it was, and impressed her son with his rank and the noble blood of his ancestry. He had been her pet, and had not gotten along with his father.

Clara had known all this for years. She was the daughter of another wealthy property owner. Her marriage to Claus, while more romantic than his parent's marriage had been, had still had a significant mercantile component.

Sometimes Clara felt that Claus' emotions got in the way of his normal good sense. Areas like his unreasonable rejection of certain offers from certain up-timers. Not to mention the way he objected when she ventured to offer an opinion on his business ventures. Clara had been raised to be the wife of a man of business like her father and brother, the social half of the equation and a help in business matters. Claus was all right with the social part but less comfortable than her family with the business part.

She manipulated Claus subtly, which didn't come naturally to her. Still, she had had a lot of practice over the years. "Yes, Husband, but we must still deal with them, like it or not. They have the force of arms to coerce our compliance. Besides, they don't seem to have the subtlety of nobles. With care, these up-timers should be easy enough to manipulate to our profit."

"And how, my dear wife, do we profit by the loss of our lands? The Ring of Fire took land that had been in my mother's family for over a hundred years and replaced it with this West Virginia. The Ring of Fire left people that will not recognize my claim or pay my rents. How does that profit us? Now, to add insult to injury, this Newhouse person calmly informs me that he would like the rest of Sundremda to add to what he's already living on."

"All these things haven't been decided, not yet. The up-timers talked about reasonable compensation when they met with the council," Clara answered. "Besides, it's all the more reason to do business with them. Doing business offers the opportunity to regain at least a part of what we have lost. If we refuse to talk to them or deal with them, how can we persuade them that our claims are truly just?" This isn't going very well, Clara thought as she spoke.

The paper Claus was waving about as he talked was the problem. The paper contained an offer to buy both the land and rents for five farming plots in the village of Sundremda. Herr Newhouse wanted to gain clear title to the land if he could. He offered what Clara considered a fair price for it. If that wasn't possible he wanted to buy, for less money, the rents for the same five farming plots. Failing that, in turn, he offered to rent the five plots for a lot less money.

It was clear that Mr. Newhouse wanted to actually farm the land, whether as owner, Lehen holder or tenant. The offer was for far more land than would normally be used by a single farming family, and it included provisions to treat the "tractor" as a replacement for several teams of horses. How did one judge the value of a tractor? If tractors were as good as the reports suggested, perhaps it could replace several teams of horses.

The offer was a godsend for the Junker family. The village farms would be fully rented and that would be a windfall. The Junkers had expected to lose most of the rent this year and probably next year as well. This farmer, Mr. Newhouse, had done his homework. He was offering what the other farmers in the village paid, maybe a little less, but that was understandable, given the circumstances.

Claus' problem with the offer was that it came from Mr. Newhouse. Mr. Newhouse's farm within the Ring of Fire was on land that would have been part of Sundremda, if the Ring of Fire had not happened. Claus had inherited the Lehen for that land from his mother. To Claus, it seemed the Ring of Fire had deposited squatters. Worse, they were squatters who then refused to pay his lawfully due rent. The fact that the land that was there now was worth considerably more than the bit of forest that had been there before only made it worse.

"Very well, then. We will see if we can profit from these rich up-timers." As Claus sat down and began to write, Clara shook her head and retreated. You could only push Claus so far before he snapped back hard. At least he would respond, and perhaps he was even accepting the offer.

The letter to the lawyer representing Birdie Newhouse was polite enough.

"Please inform Herr Newhouse that there is no one available at this time from whom he could purchase the property in question. Further, I will not consider the sale of the rents in question because they are an inheritance from my noble mother and have great sentimental value. Finally, the Ring of Fire has caused an unfortunate loss in revenues by removing lands owned by my family for generations. Herr Newhouse is now living on some of that land. Due to this loss, I will be forced to charge higher rents to new tenants than had previously been my policy. Surely, with the greater efficiencies of his mechanical arts, he can afford these higher rents."

The letter went on to suggest a rent four times as high as Birdie's original offer.

The letter came at a bad time. Birdie was having some problems of his own. The old tractor was high on the repair list because farming equipment came right after military needs, but that didn't change the cost of the repairs. The tractor was going to have to be taken completely apart and several parts would have to be especially machined before the tractor would work again. The tractor would also need to be converted to the use of natural gas. The cost of repairing the old tractor left Birdie stuck between a rock and a hard place.

If he had the old tractor fixed and then sold it to the grange Willie Ray was setting up, he might break even on the deal. To make any profit from selling a tractor, he was going to have to sell the newer tractor. Birdie would have to sell the tractor with the enclosed cab, heat, air conditioning, tape deck, and more horse power. Birdie loved that tractor.

So, when the lawyer from Badenburg brought Claus Junker's counter offer, Birdie was quick to suggest that Claus Junker depart to have intimate relations with an aquatic avian that quacks. This, in the cruder form that Birdie used, was Birdie's favorite expletive phrase, and was also the main reason he was called Birdie. Well, his given name, Larkin, might have had something to do with it, too.

After refusing Junker's counter offer, Birdie then proceeded to go looking for better deals. The news was not great. It turned out that buying land mostly amounted to buying it three times. First, you had to buy the land, then you had to buy any Lehen that existed on the rents, and finally you wound up buying out the contracts with the tenant farmers. This didn't just mean three price tags. It meant getting lots of people to agree. All the people involved knew that one holdout could blow the deal. It took lots of money or lots of clout or both. Birdie imagined that it was something like putting together a big real-estate deal up-time. Just renting he could do. He could lease four or five sections and end up with about the same amount of land to farm, but those sections were spread out among two or three villages. Birdie wasn't the only up-time farmer looking for land.

Grantville wasn't a farming community because it was in a part of West Virginia that wasn't farming country. The hills were too steep and the valleys too narrow. When the few farmers in the area realized that they needed to grow more than hay for their horses or corn for moonshine, and especially after Willie Ray—that duckfucker—had gone around pointing out the benefits of renting land, most of them started looking for better land to farm outside the Ring of Fire.

"Larkin Newhouse, if you slam one more cabinet door, I'm going to throw this frying pan at you!" Mary Lee snapped. "Yes, I know you're mad, the whole world knows it. They can hear you slamming doors all the way to Paris. Knock it off."

Birdie started to say something, then thought better of it. It was kind of hard to make Mary Lee mad, but it could be done. Right now, after discovering that both daughters-in-law and all five grandchildren were going to have to move in, Mary Lee was a bit short-tempered herself. Love all the grandkids or not, it would make for a crowded household. Birdie knew it would be an adjustment, but rents in Grantville had skyrocketed. The boys, Heather, and Karin needed their help.

"I'm sorry, Mary Lee. I'm just ... well; I don't know what I am, anymore. What a mess this is."

Mary Lee's face softened a bit at his apology. "I know. I really do," she said. "But tearing the cabinets off the walls isn't going to help. Go outside and kick something if you have to, go build something, anything. Just get out of the house and quit driving me crazy, will you?"

As Birdie complied with her "request," Mary Lee heard a soft snicker. McTavish had shown up again this morning, looking like a lost pup. You almost had to invite someone who looked that sad to breakfast, didn't you?

"It's a hard thing, Missus, a hard thing, to want something so bad and not be able to do it."

"True, Mr. McTavish, very true. And, it's just about time to see if something can be done. I'm going to need your help. Are you free tomorrow?" Mary Lee asked.

"Might be. For a small consideration."

"And just what kind of 'small consideration' did you have in mind, Mr. McTavish?"

"It's a bit fond I am, of your cooking, Missus. There's a plan you have, and I'm thinking I know what it is. We'll be going to Badenburg, will we not? I'll be helping you and I'll be keeping my mouth shut about it, if you like. That is, I'll do it in exchange for an open invitation to your table, whenever it is that I'm here."

Mary Lee decided it was time to take matters into her own hands. Men had a tendency to get, well, masculine. They stood on their pride and kept things from getting done. The next day, she told Birdie that she had some shopping to do. This was literally true, since she was shopping. She just didn't mention that she was shopping for land and doing it in Badenburg. She took Danny with her to translate, and caught the bus into Grantville. There she hired transport to Badenburg, and went to see Mrs. Junker.

"You'll be wanting to act the lady with this one, Missus," McTavish suggested. "You'll be needing to treat me as they treat their own servants."

When he explained what that meant, Mary just shrugged and went along with his suggestion. She wasn't going to the Junkers to convert them to civilized behavior, after all. She was going to see them to get the best price she could on land. Mary Lee had no particular objection to painting her belly button blue, if that's what it took.

She wore a calf length paisley skirt, along with high top boots, and a faux silk blouse which was actually made of irreplaceable Dacron. The Dacron probably made the blouse cost more than silk. In the time since the Ring of Fire, Mary Lee had learned that patterned cloth was either not to be had, or expensive as all get out. She had picked her outfit carefully. She also wore her fanciest wrist watch. In short, her outfit screamed status.

Mary Lee and Danny waited in the front room for about fifteen minutes before Mrs. Junker arrived, obviously wearing her best outfit. She introduced herself as "Clara Kunze, Frau Junker." Danny translated. Conversation was slow and stilted at first, especially with the delays for translation.

"It is a lovely fabric you are wearing, Frau Newhouse," Clara remarked. "Very colorful."

"This old thing?" Mary responded. "I'm afraid I've had it for ages. It's just so practical to wear here. I find that some of the up-time clothing causes comments here in Badenburg. I don't care for public notice."

"Do you come to Badenburg often? I understood that you have a house to keep. Perhaps you have servants who take care of these things for you?"

"Oh, servants aren't really necessary. The machines we have, many of them make housekeeping much simpler."

The women continued to speak of clothing and furnishings, of servants and laborsaving devices. Each woman was getting a feel for the other, and gradually getting used to the translation time. Eventually, Clara said "I understand that it's not your fault, but the event that you call the Ring of Fire took much of our lands. Isn't it reasonable for us to expect some compensation?"

"Perhaps that is true. But, suppose we were to claim the part of our property that extended out beyond the Ring of Fire? I can show you on a map just how far our land extended. Would that be reasonable? Do you think we should have a claim to your land? Before the Ring of Fire I could step out my door and walk onto land that was mine, but now that land is yours.

"We've lost a whole world. All our friends and relations that were beyond the Ring of Fire are gone, along with all our properties outside the Ring of Fire. I sympathize with your loss. I really do. But I think the best compromise, the fairest thing, is to leave it the way God set it."

Mary could see that Clara didn't much care for her counter claim.

"God?"

"I think so. I know we couldn't have done it. I guess it could be a natural thing that we don't understand, but to my mind, that still means God did it, or at least allowed it."

The conversation shifted back to safer topics for a while. "I have heard of a thing I do not understand. Perhaps you could enlighten me," Clara said. "What is this thing called a microwave oven?"

"It's another of those labor saving devices, like the washing machine. You can use a microwave to quickly warm food, even to cook it, if you wish. I never really use mine much. I use it to heat cups of water for tea, mostly. They are very convenient, though, for a lot of people."

"And this ice cream I hear of, it is made how?"

"It's a mixture of cream, milk, eggs, sugar and flavorings, perhaps chocolate or strawberries. They are mixed together and frozen. It's quite delicious. My favorite was always butter pecan. Perhaps I'll be able to introduce you to ice cream, someday."

After a time Mary brought up the leasing of farms in Sundremda, or possibly not in Sundremda. Clara suggested that Grantville and its new dollars might cause inflation. "It's new money, how are we to know if it will be worth anything next year?"

Mary had no better answer for that than Clara had had for Mary's point. "I'm not saying you have to take payment in US money. It's what we have, but we can go to the bank and change it."

By the end of their chat, the women had the basics of an agreement worked out. Now, the only trouble would be selling that agreement to their respective husbands.

Neither husband was thrilled with the compromise worked out by their wives.

"I do not trust them, Clara," Claus said, in a worried tone. "They tried to take advantage of you. It is not proper for married women to be involved in matters of business. That is what you have husbands for."

Claus knew Clara was familiar with business, but there was a proper way of doing things. The up-timers didn't seem to respect tradition or custom at all. They seemed to have no standards or morals. It would have been different if Clara had been a widow. Widows had to manage their business affairs. Somehow that thought didn't make him one bit more comfortable with the situation.

"We merely spoke, Claus," Clara answered calmly. "It is true, is it not, that the rents will be welcome? When Frau Newhouse suggested this, I agreed to speak to you, but I did not make an agreement further than that."

"You offered him how much?" Birdie grumped. "Are you out of your mind?" Birdie didn't like the compromise because he felt Mary Lee had been taken to the cleaners. In a way, she had been, but, on the other hand, by up-time standards the rent was actually low.

"Not yet, but I'm going to be. Between you stomping around, grumbling and griping, and having seven more people in this house," Mary grumped back, "I'll be out of my mind within the month. Do it or don't do it, whichever you want. But I warn you, something has to change, or I'm going to go screaming off into the sunset someday."

In any case the ladies had put a deal on the table. It was a deal that their husbands could live with. Of course, the husbands had to stir the pot a bit. They almost managed to dump the deal a couple of times before they had everything worked out to their satisfaction.

Rent would be paid in local down-time currency at Claus' insistence. There was a provision to adjust the rent based on the average price of half a dozen products. Birdie Newhouse would gain the right to farm two hundred and eighty acres. Fifty of those acres lay fallow this year. He would also have the right to build a house and was allowed to cut sufficient wood to build a two-story farmhouse, a barn and a silo. In addition, he had rights to a certain number of cords of firewood each year. He had the rights to a certain number of animals of varying types, so many fish from the pond each year, and so on. It was all very detailed and specific.

The first year's rent and proof that he had the wherewithal to plow the fields and so on would be required. It had taken a demonstration to convince Junker to count his tractor. His tractor could plow all of the village's fields in less than a week. That was part of the problem. The whole darn village of Sundremda was a single smallish farm by up-time standards. In fact, it was a smallish farm with quite a bit too much pasture in place of crop producing fields. There was also a lot of forest, to produce the firewood the village needed. It wasn't like West Virginia, where the trees were holding the hillside in place and you couldn't plow anyway with your tractor riding forty five degrees off plumb. That sort of plowing was plumb dangerous.

If you judged the deal by the contracts of the other Sundremda farmers, the rent Birdie paid should have been worth three hundred and thirty acres, six houses, four times as much firewood as allowed, as well as pasturage for twice as many animals, and twice as many fish.

If Birdie had been a down-time farmer, working with down-time tools, he would have had to hire so many people to help get the crop in that there would be no way he could have paid the rent. If he had been a down-time farmer with refurbished nineteenth century gear, it would still have been a tough go. As it was, he had a working tractor with several attachments. Birdie's biggest problem was that he would have preferred to have more cropland. He would still be supplementing his income by renting out his tractor to the other farmers in Sundremda, as well as to other local villages.

"I can't believe the rents they're getting," Edgar Zanewicz commented, with a shake of his head.

"Are the evil landlords ripping off the peasants again?" Marlon Pridmore was sipping a cup of the thin soup that had inadequately replaced coffee, while the two loan officers took a break.

"Nope, just the opposite. Birdie Newhouse was just in here wondering about how he was gonna pay the rent on that farming village he's trying to rent from some fella in Badenburg. Turns out he'll be paying less than half of what renting the same sort of farm would cost up-time. And that's with us low balling the dollar to get it accepted."

"Maybe it's the difference in labor costs? Or productivity?"

"I don't know. It must be something."

They hadn't heard Mr. Walker come in, but they heard him close the door to the break room.

"Quietly, gentlemen." He held a finger to his lips "Shhh! And yes, it is because of differences in labor costs and productivity. Mostly the labor costs, I'll admit. When someone rents a piece of land, the rent has to come out of what's left over after the people working the land have produced enough for their living expenses. Even if those people wear rags and live on the edge of starvation, they still have living expenses. If ten or twenty acres have to provide for a family of four, there's going to be less left to pay the rent than there is if two hundred acres are providing for the same four people.

"You can only get so many bushels of wheat from an acre of land, no matter how many people are working it. After the wheat is sold, and the expenses are paid, including the living expenses, any money that's left over is profit for either the farmer or the landlord. The farming villages are really just farms that need a whole village to farm them, so those farms need to support a whole village rather than a family. When that many people are being supported by one farm, it means that there's less money available to pay the rent."

"Fine, but what's the big secret?" Edgar asked.

"Mostly, the secret is how high up-time rents were. Also, to an extent, just how much less labor is needed by up-time farming methods. All that extra profit can go to several places. It can go to the local landlords to make them richer, it can go to our farmers, or it can go towards bringing down the price of a loaf of bread. I would prefer that those profits go toward bringing down the price of bread. After that I'd like to see them in the pockets of farmers. Making a bunch of down-time landlords rich is right at the bottom of my priority list. I'd be really happy if those landlords didn't realize just how much more the land is worth when it needs fewer people to work it. At the very least, I'd rather they didn't realize it until after they've signed some of these three generation or ninety nine year contracts. So would Willie Ray, the Mayor, Huddy Colburn, and Thurman Jennings. So, don't go mouthing off about what I've just told you, understand?"

"So, dear, what's the verdict?" Mary Lee asked, with hope in her voice.

"Good news and bad news, just like always," Birdie answered. "Good news is we can pay down the bank loan and get caught up on that. We'll have enough to live on, and pay his damned rent, too, the duckfucker."

"Larkin," Mary Lee responded, this time with a warning in her voice. She never had cared for that particular use of the language.

"Sorry, ma'am." Birdie grinned. He just loved to set her off. "Problem is we've got to cut the slot in that cliff. It's going to cost a bundle. Between that and a few other things that just have to be done, there's not going to be enough left to build a house this winter. Sorry, hon. I know you really wanted it."

Mary Lee's face fell for a moment, but then she shrugged and put the best face on it that she could. "Oh, well, I guess I'm starting to get used to it. I do kind of miss the days when it was just you and me around the place, though. We'll build another house when we can."

Between the sale of the newer tractor and his pay for helping to bring in this year's crop from Sundremda, Birdie would have enough money to pay down the bank loan, pay the first year's rent, have enough to live on, and still be able to make some improvements. Building a house where the mercenaries had burned an old one down would have to wait.

"Fire in the hole!" screamed Johan Jorgen. There was a boom and a bit more of the rock that made up the ring wall was loosened. The explosion didn't cause the ring wall to blow out, or send rocks flying around, at least not much. The wall was fractured into smaller pieces which made it easier to move.

"How long are we going to have to look at that pile of rocks?" Mary Lee asked.

"It's gonna take a good long while to get it all moved to Sundremda, even if it's only a couple of miles away," Birdie answered. "There's a mason who's going to come to the village, just because of all this rock. He'll do all the work of making the stone ready for floors and half walls."

"There's an awful lot of it, isn't there?"

"Yep," Birdie agreed, "It ought to make good building material. It's here, it's free, and it's ours. Might as well use it."

Most of those pieces would be shifted to Sundremda. The shifting would happen over the next several months, by means of Birdie's truck, and later the pieces would be used as construction material. The wall had to be removed, anyway, since they had to make a gap for the tractor. Birdie felt that they might as well use the remnants of the wall for something.

There was months of hard labor ahead of them, but Birdie was in a good mood. He was finally getting something done, and he had a real farm to look forward to.

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Framed

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Scrambled Eggs

Eric Flint

"Mike Stearns, how in the world did you manage to attend college?" Melissa demanded.

"I didn't graduate," he pointed out, defensively.

"You didn't flunk out the first semester, either. God knows how." Accusingly, her long, elegant forefinger tapped the tome lying on Mike's desk. "You still haven't finished it?"

"It's boring," he whined. "Why can't this guy write like Barracuda? That book was pretty good."

"Barra-clough. And 'this guy' is actually a pretty good writer himself, for an historian. But Cipolla edited this volume, he didn't write it." In a slightly milder tone of voice, she added: "Academic anthologies are heavier going than single-author books, I'll admit. There's still no excuse for not having finished it."

Mike slouched in his chair, feeling like a seventeen-year-old again. Which meant, under the circumstances, resentful.

"You're not my schoolmarm any more," he pouted. "And I'm not a kid."

"Yes, that's true. On both counts." Ignoring the lack of an invitation, she sat in the chair facing him in his office. "What you are is the leader of a beleaguered new tiny little nation, which is depending on you for its salvation. And I'm one of your advisers. Which means you don't even have the excuse of being a seventeen-year-old twit."

Mike seized the armrests of his chair in a firm grip – he was a very strong man – and glared fiercely out the window.

Then . . .

Said nothing.

"Well, that's good," Melissa continued. "At least you've stopped whimpering. For a moment there, I thought I was going to have to wipe your chin."

A scowl was added to the glare. "Do you know what your students used to call you?"

"Used to call me? Don't be insulting. They're still calling me those things, unless I'm slipping. Lessee . . ."

She began counting off on her fingers. "'Schoolmarm from Hell' and 'Melissa the Hun' have usually been the terms used by the better-brought-up students. From there, manners fly south for the winter. 'The Bitch from Below' has always been popular, of course. The alliteration's pretty irresistible. But I think my personal favorite is 'She-Creature from the Black Lagoon,' although it never made a lot of sense to me. Is there a lagoon anywhere in West Virginia?"

A wince got added to the glare and the scowl. "Well . . . that one's pretty low. A couple of guys in school – never mind who – came up with it one night when they were sneaking some drinks out by the water treatment plant."

Melissa burst into laughter.

Mike couldn't help but grin. "Like I said, low. All right, Melissa. I'll finish the damn thing. But – !" He levered himself upright in the chair. "I will also tell you this. We're not going to find any answers in those books."

"Well, of course not. But they do help frame the questions."

A grunt was as much as Mike would allow, in the way of acknowledgement. Not because he disagreed with Melissa, but simply because he really, really, really detested that damn book. Reading a collection of scholarly articles on the economic history of Europe made watching paint dry seem like a form of wild entertainment.

"We'll get our answers in practice, by getting our hands dirty," he stated firmly. Feeling a bit pompous, as he did so.

"Oh, how charmingly pompous," said Melissa.

Mike winced again. "Well, yeah. But it's still true."

"Of course it is. I've learned a lot just watching the merry-go-round Birdie Newhouse is on. I'd be laughing my head off, except I feel sorry for Mary Lee."

"Ain't that the truth?" he chuckled. "I like Birdie well enough, but he can be a real pain the butt when he decides to be a pain in the butt. Fortunately, it all seems to be working out okay."

"For the moment," Melissa cautioned. "Don't get your hopes up."

"Do you ever order eggs sunny-side up?"

"Don't be ridiculous. Eggs are scrambled, Mike. Eggs are always scrambled."

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Birdie's Village

Gorg Huff and Paula Goodlett

December, 1631 

Things had changed in the last half a year. "The Slot," a cut in the Ring Wall twenty five feet wide, had been made with some expensive explosives and a lot of back breaking work. Ernst had turned out what was left of the village to help. The summer harvest was in and the winter crop planted. Birdie and his tractor had done most of that work. There were changes Birdie wanted to make in crop choices and rotation. Most of the changes would have to wait till spring.

This winter, Birdie and the villagers were rebuilding Sundremda. The use of the tractor and truck had sped construction phenomenally. Most of the increase in speed was due to getting the building materials where they were needed faster. The equipment let Sundremda recover much more quickly than it would have otherwise. Birdie's involvement also meant that the village could support some extra non-farming families.

Sundremda had been on the small side of average for a farming village. This meant that Sundremda had less than a larger village would have had in the way of support industries. With Birdie around, though, the village could afford a few more people who were not devoted to farming. Now, there was a new smith. A cooper, a brewer and a mason were moving in and setting up shop. Mostly these people selected Sundremda because rents were cheaper than they were inside the Ring of Fire. The various inhabitants were a pretty standard village complement, except for the mason.

Most villages this size wouldn't be able to attract a mason, because there wouldn't usually be enough work to keep him busy. The mason was finishing stone from the Slot to use in half walls and flooring for buildings and paving for the village square. Later, when work in Sundremda dried up, he would be able to continue his trade, thanks to the transportation available to him in Grantville. His products could be easily transported by Birdie's truck.

Mary Lee's new house kept getting pushed back on the list of things that needed building, mostly at Birdie's insistence. The Newhouse clan had a house, crowded though it was. Birdie wanted to wait till everything was ready before building the new house in Sundremda. He took the heat from Mary Lee because when he built the house he wanted to do it right.

Birdie's hogs had been moved to the village and were under the care of Ernst's son. Birdie was convinced that the darned pigs were learning German faster than he was. The chickens were still at the old place. It seemed as though the Newhouse clan lived with one foot inside the Ring of Fire and the other outside. For that matter, so did the people of Sundremda.

Sundremda wasn't really flat until you compared it with the chunk of West Virginia delivered by the Ring of Fire. The village itself sat on a rise that the villagers called a hill. Well, Birdie would call it a hill, too, if he had never seen a West Virginia hill. Every day Birdie took his tractor to Sundremda, and every day he waved at Greta, Ernst's wife, who was headed in the other direction. Greta drove his truck and carried most of the village kids and a few of the women to Birdie's place inside the Ring of Fire.

The village kids loved TV, children's movies, and videotaped cartoons. The cartoons were teaching them such important English phrases as What's up, doc?, Let's get dangerous, and Th-Th-Th-That's all, Folks! Barney, the disgusting dinosaur, was as popular in this universe as the last, much to Birdie's annoyance. Sesame Street tapes were hard to come by, but the few that were found were copied and passed around.

While the kids watched TV, and did lessons, the village women used the food processor, gas range, microwave, and other up-time kitchen gear to cook dinner for the village. It was an assembly line process. There were almost a hundred people in Sundremda now. Using the up-time appliances bought time and freed up extra labor for the village as it got ready for winter.

Birdie had started taking his paper and heading out early to avoid the noise. All those women and children in one place could make quite a racket. Once he got to Sundremda, he joined Ernst and the other farmers sitting around Ernst's new kitchen table. There, they would read the morning papers and plan the day's work.

This morning's paper had a synopsis of an article written for the "Street." The article dealt with how the Federal Reserve System worked, and how it had been implemented in Grantville. It touched on how debased many down-time currencies were. The article also discussed the relationship of goods and services, and money supply, and the effect of not having enough of either.

The article had focused on how conservative the bank of Grantville was. It read like a complaint, but in truth, the article was a sales pitch for up-timer money. It was a good sales pitch, and very persuasive. Birdie was persuaded that Claus Junker just might have fooled himself by insisting on getting the rent in down-time currency. The thought made a good start to the day.

Relations with his down-time landlord had not started well and they had gone downhill ever since. Claus didn't like most of Birdie's improvements and didn't like the influence Birdie was gaining with the other tenants. Birdie didn't like the way Claus treated some tenants better than he treated others. Claus seemed to prefer the tenants that were good at sucking up. Their relations were particularly headed downhill since Birdie had learned that Herr Junker was giving the other new renters, down-timers only, a break on the rent.

Oddly enough, elections were just finished and were still coming up. The elections for delegates to the Constitutional Convention had ended and the Fourth of July Party had won. The Convention was in the process of editing the Fourth of July Party's platform into an actual Constitution. Most of the editing was just so the Convention could say that they had actually had a hand in writing the constitution. Meanwhile, elections for the first congress and president had already been scheduled.

"This means that we can vote in the next election?" Greta asked Ernst. Ernst was a bit unsure and looked to Birdie for an answer.

"Don't know." Birdie shook his head. "If people have lived inside the Ring of Fire for three months they just have to register, then they can vote. Sundremda ain't inside the Ring of Fire, though."

It was a Saturday afternoon and they were gathered in Ernst's new house. This house was similar to his previous home but still different. This house didn't have indoor plumbing but it was designed to accommodate it. Before the indoor plumbing could be added, Ernst would need to install a septic tank and leach field.

The delay of the installation was partly a matter of expense and partly a matter of timing. Ernst wanted to put the leach field under the garden plot. He was waiting till spring when the ground thawed. The plumbing still needed to be installed before planting, but he needed to see if they had enough money to install it. This left the house with a bathroom but no bath tub or toilet. At the moment, there was just a covered hole in the floor that had a buried clay pipe leading outside. Birdie and Ernst had also worked out how electricity would be added when it became available.

All this gave the house an odd, half finished look. That half finished look was common to the new buildings in Sundremda.

"I have been following the election discussions. This is an important right. To vote is also a responsibility of proper citizens. We should vote," Greta insisted pedantically. Greta could do pedantic better than just about anyone Birdie knew.

Birdie looked at Greta for a moment. He knew that the outcome of this election was pretty much a forgone conclusion. On the other hand, Greta was right. Voting was even more important now than it had been up-time.

"Yes. Yes, it is, but I don't know how we'd go about it." Birdie had sort of fallen into the role of village leader. Partly it was because he was an up-timer and partly because he owned his own land even if he rented land in the village.

"Well, don't you think we ought to find out?" Mary Lee asked, utterly unimpressed by Birdie's new found status.

"We have discussed this in the village. We all agreed that we wish to be citizens of the New United States. We approve of the Bill of Rights," Greta concluded with certainty.

Liz Carstairs looked at the petition with a sort of bemused incomprehension. The first line read, "A petition to be annexed by Marion County, New United States". The document went on to give the reasoning behind the request. Sundremda wasn't an independent town but rather a village that was part of a county that no longer existed. Since the death of count Gleichen, who died without heirs, his county had ceased to exist. Legal authority over the territory had gone back to Ferdinand II, the Holy Roman Emperor. Actual ownership of the land was, in this case, a function of legal authority over it. If Ferdinand II continued as the government then he owned the land. If he didn't then who ever was the government owned the land. In effect the village of Sundremda was public land with a permanent Lehen on it.

Ferdinand II's claim was impractical since Ferdinand II didn't actually control this part of the Germanies. Accepting the emperor's authority wouldn't really be in the best interests of the New US, either. For the emperor to own land butting up against the Ring of Fire was a bad idea. The document also pointed out that six of the signers were already citizens of Marion County. Even though the signers didn't actually live in Sundremda, they were still legal renters since they were members of Birdie's family.

The document also pointed out that Marion County was the closest county to Sundremda. It gave assurance that the people of Sundremda would abide by the laws of Marion county and the New US. Then, the document went on to provide the dimensions of the territory and even included a map. Finally it was signed by every person living in the village of Sundremda, not just all the adult males or even just all the adults. Apparently every person in the village signed the petition, including one three year old, who signed with a hand print. The signers gave their name, age, and gender. The signers included, of course, Birdie and Mary Newhouse, their two sons and two daughters-in-law. Apparently, the Newhouse babies hadn't signed on the dotted line.

This petition was going to have to go to Mike. While attitudes toward the Holy Roman Empire were not favorable inside the Ring of Fire, the fact remained that Grantville wasn't actually at war with the Empire, officially. True, Grantville had protected a town from Tilly's mercenaries. Grantville had also protected another town from mercenaries who no longer worked for anyone but themselves. Grantville had cooperated with troops employed by the king of Sweden in doing that protecting, but there wasn't a state of war between the still forming New United States and the Holy Roman Empire.

If the New US approved this petition, a state of war with the Holy Roman Empire would exist. Annexing another country's territory is pretty much universally a casus belli, even when the folks who actually live there ask to be annexed.

On the other hand, there might be two or three mental defectives who actually thought Grantville wouldn't be at war with the HRE before long, but not more than that. Besides, Grantville had already offered to admit several cities to the New US. As soon as one of those cities accepted admission, it would mean the effective annexation of that city.

As it turned out the people of Sundremda didn't get to vote in that first election. President Stearns had tabled the matter till after the first elections, and then had presented the petition to Congress. Congress had accepted the petition and several others like it. This set at least one precedent of acquisition of territory by the New US. So, the people of Sundremda would be able to vote in the next election.

Egidius "Eddie" Junker shook his head, but only after he left his father's office. Eddie liked the up-timers. It was a point of considerable tension between him and his father. They didn't talk about it much. Neither one wanted a breach in their relationship.

"Michel, please have Shadow saddled. Father wants me to visit Sundremda again."

Eddie had picked up the up-time habit of being polite to servants, but not where his father could hear. Eddie was a charming young man, and an excellent rider. He had been a student at Jena when the Ring of Fire happened. He had first encountered Grantville on one of his monthly trips home. The battle of Jena had strengthened his admiration for the up-timers. Eddie was rather less concerned over his ancestry than his father. Nor did he see any reason to be constantly checking on Herr Newhouse.

The ride to Sundremda was pleasant and easy, even if the road from Badenburg wasn't improved all the way. Eddie had known the villagers of Sundremda all his life. He remembered well what the village had looked like before the raid and after. This new village looked like it was going to be a much more prosperous place, when it was finished. The villagers seemed to be leaving quite a bit unfinished till they had everything ready. They had carted, or rather "trucked," a lot of stone from the gap to the village and had a mason finishing stone for floors and the bottom half of walls. Most of the houses had places where the stone floors weren't installed yet. The snows had slowed the work, mostly limiting it to what could be done from inside.

Herr Newhouse was friendly enough, considering the circumstances. "How's school?"

"Confusing, Herr Newhouse. Everyone is trying to figure out what the Ring of Fire means. Especially in the college of theology, but all of us do the same, really. Every time I go back I get questioned on everything. My father wishes to know what this petition for annexation is about."

"You can tell your . . ." Herr Newhouse visibly caught himself. "Never mind, boy, it's not your fault. The petition is just what it sounds like. The village wants to be part of the New US. We didn't ask your father about it because we know he's opposed to Badenburg joining the New US. Besides, he doesn't live here. We didn't ask Ferdy Hapsburg to sign either."

Ferdy Hapsburg? Ferdinand II, the Holy Roman Emperor? Sometimes up-timers made Eddie nervous. He changed the subject. "How are things here?"

"We're doing all right. Got most of the stone up from the slot and the mason is cutting and finishing it. Everything is a bit crowded this winter but we'll have plenty of stone for our needs come spring. I understand the kids at the high school have some sort of concrete project going so it looks like there will be mortar too. Talked to Mrs. O'Keefe and she figures she can fit us in once the ground thaws. So we should be putting in a bunch of septic systems come spring."

They discussed the village for some time. Eddie then went home to report to his father and escaped back to Jena as soon as he could.

Spring planting was a little different. Birdie had never really gotten to know Tom Stone. He hadn't really wanted to get to know him. There was a very basic difference between them: Birdie was a solid upstanding hillbilly and Stoner was a hippie freak. Now, Birdie was consulting with Tom Stone on the planting of a new crop.

"This is not a crop I'd ever have dreamed I'd be planting," Birdie remarked. "Never in a million years."

Stoner grinned. "Don't feel lonesome, man. It's the last thing I'd have dreamed of, too. Ten full acres of prime Columbian, and it's planted right out in the open. Man, what a sight that's going to be."

Stoner, in his laid back way, explained the details of planting to get the best, meaning the most powerful, product. His knowledge of agriculture in general and marijuana in particular was pretty impressive. Aside from breeding for the active ingredient, you also had to plant the marijuana farther apart to get a potent plant. So the number of plants per acre went down when you were planting for dope instead of hemp.

"We're going to need it," Stoner explained. "It's the best locally grown painkiller we have. I'd grow it all, myself, if I could. Just so I could donate it to the hospital."

"Man's gotta make a living, Stoner. I'm growing it for the lowest price I can manage," Birdie explained. "Best I can do."

After much argument, the Sundremda Gemeinde had decided that most of this year's crop would be beans and wheat. It would be down-time beans and wheat, at that. Birdie had wanted to plant sweet corn but there wasn't enough seed to go around.

The population of Grantville was getting up to around fifteen thousand and Badenburg had over seven thousand. The population was going up. Consequently Sundremda was switching from growing flax to producing food.

Neither Birdie nor the other farmers in Sundremda were sure that this was the best plan. As the population increased, the need for both food and flax was going up. Flax might have brought in more profit.

"Ernst, the real problem with growing flax is the spinning," Birdie argued. "We can send wheat to Grantville, get it milled real quick, and then the flour can be made into bread when it's needed. Flax will have to be spun into thread and no one has come up with a spinning machine yet. That's the bottleneck."

The down-timers had spinning wheels, but even with spinning wheels turning flax into thread was a lot of work. Birdie wasn't sure how long re-inventing a spinning machine was going to take, but from what the newspapers said, it wasn't going to happen this year.

"The price for flax in the field is going to go down, I think," Birdie continued. "It will have to be shipped to towns and villages all over the place, spun into thread, and then the thread will have to be shipped somewhere else to be woven into cloth."

Spinning was the seventeenth century version of flipping burgers at McDonald's, except it didn't pay as well, was harder work, and had less opportunity for advancement.

Grantville was the land of opportunity. The spinners would be looking for better ways to make a living and a lot of them would find those better ways. The way Birdie figured it the increase in demand for cloth was not going to be reflected in an increased price of flax until the spinning bottleneck was fixed.

"Some one will build a spinning machine," Ernst disagreed. "So many people who can build so many things, surely someone will figure out a way to get more flax spun."

"Yep, but it ain't gonna happen soon. And until it does, all it means is more spinners. Spinners who are going to demand, and get, better pay. That's going to mean less money per acre for the raw flax."

Ah, the simple farmer's life. Birdie thought Predicting market trends a year in advance, and then hoping like hell the weather doesn't screw you over. 

"LaDonna, have you finished all those tax assessments?" Deborah Trout asked, as she breezed into the office. "We need to get the notices sent, even though I dread the reactions we're going to get from the public."

"It's not going to be pretty, that's for sure," LaDonna agreed. "Strange, isn't it? All those years back up-time, and everyone complained about their taxes. Wait until everyone sees the new valuations. We're going to be in hot water with everyone we know. They're going to completely flip out."

"We did tell everyone," Cary Marshall pointed out. "It's been on television, and there have been articles in the newspapers."

"True, absolutely true," Deborah agreed. "And you know as well as I do that the new rate is still going to come as a shock to half the town. People just don't really pay attention until they get the bill. Anyway, we've got about a week of peace and quiet before the frenzy starts, so let's get some work done while we can."

Deborah turned to head back to her own office, but stopped when Noelle Murphy cleared her throat. Noelle always made that sound when she had a question. It was usually a good question, but Deborah had begun to dread that sound. Noelle tended to complicate things unnecessarily, to Deborah's way of thinking.

"Umm, Deborah, I don't know where to send these notices," Noelle began. "There's no owner of record for these properties."

"What properties, Noelle?"

"It's that village, what's its name, Sundremda, I think. The people don't own the property, they just rent it. The guy who has the Lehen, well, near as I can tell, holding the Lehen isn't the same as owning the property. And, I don't really think that Ferdinand II is going to pay taxes on it, either, since we sort of took it away from him. So, who pays the property taxes on Sundremda?"

Deborah worked through Noelle's logic and sighed. "That's all we need, another complication. I guess Marion County owns Sundremda now that we've annexed it. And the county doesn't pay taxes to itself, does it? So, the county is responsible for yet another piece of property that doesn't bring in any revenue. Crap!"

"Claus, what has happened?" Clara asked. "What is it?"

Claus Junker sat in his home office, devastated. "Pomeroy is dead. The only one of these up-timers I could tolerate, and he is dead in an accident."

It looked to Clara like the news of Guffy Pomeroy's death had hit Claus hard. Claus didn't know that many up-timers, and mostly didn't like the ones he did know. He'd been opposed to joining the New US and believed that his was the single voice of sanity on the council. Now, the one up-timer that he had liked and trusted was dead.

"The microwave project, it is dead, also. The paper says that Pomeroy was a charlatan and there is no hope for a microwave projector, not for years!" Claus stormed. "And I used funds... funds from the town to finance this project, and it will not happen."

Clara felt her stomach clench with fear. "Town funds, Claus? How could you? You never should have trusted that man with so much. Can we pay it back? Before we are disgraced?"

Claus rose from his desk in a rage. He stomped around the room, shouting and swearing. "No, Clara, no, we can't pay it back! This Ring of Fire, it is the work of the devil! Act of God, people say, therefore the rents due me are void. Even the pastor, that Pastor Schultheiss, is preaching that this Ring of Fire was an act of God!" Claus shouted. "The only good thing that came out of the Ring of Fire was Pomeroy. And now, now, I am told that he was a thief, and he has ruined us! There is no hope, they claim, no possible way to create a microwave projector, not for years!"

Claus was becoming incoherent. He continued to rant and shout, at times towering over Clara, at other times stamping around the room. He shouted that all around him people were getting rich from the up-timer's knowledge, and getting above themselves. The riffraff were thrilled with the Ring of Fire, the up-timers, their inventions and their committees of correspondence. Even people that should know better were fawning on the up-timers.

Then the real reason for his rage began to come out. Clara knew as well as Claus that Endres Ritter was just waiting for an excuse to go over the books and accuse Claus of theft. Before the Ring of Fire, a member of the council would have been protected from such an accusation. It wasn't all that unusual, after all. Using city funds for personal advantage was standard practice. As long as the city got its money back it was no problem. Even when something went wrong, there was a slap on the wrist and a lot of looking the other way. Back then, the council wanted to avoid the scandal. But now there was the Ring of Fire and new rules.

The Ritter and Junker families had been feuding so long that most people didn't remember why. Ritter would raise the accusation no matter the scandal to the council. He would raise the up-time cry "freedom of information". Never mind the fact that the Ritter family had done the same thing a few years ago and made a small fortune at the city's expense. That was then, this was now.

Clara Junker was terrified. She left the office as soon as she could get away. Claus had been ready to actually hit her. She was sure of it. Claus had never threatened her with violence before. He was gruff and often sarcastic but not violent, not to those of his own class.

Clara was less involved than she would have preferred in the financial decision making for the Junker family. Her upbringing had prepared her to be a good bit more involved in financial decisions. She knew that Claus had mostly done a good job. He'd been willing to listen if she was careful how she approached him, at least until the Ring of Fire.

After the Ring of Fire, things at home had gone downhill. Every change the up-timers proposed caused Claus to become more insistent on keeping things the way they were before. Claus became less inclined to listen to her and more insistent that she had no business interfering.

Clara knew that they weren't really worse off than before the Ring of Fire, depending on how much Claus had spent on that microwave business. Clara was beginning to suspect that he had spent much more than she had thought. Still, as everyone around them seemed to be getting richer, it felt like they were worse off. She wished her son Egidius would get home. She didn't want to have to turn to her brother, Franz.

Egidius came into Claus' office while he was going over the books looking desperately for any readily convertible assets.

"Father, what is this I hear?" he asked, insisting on becoming part of the disaster. "What has happened?"

Claus had always tried to keep his son away from the darker aspects of doing business. Yes, everyone did things like using town funds in backing private ventures, and his heir would eventually have to learn that, but not yet.

"It is only a temporary problem," Claus blustered, still trying to protect the boy. "I have only to raise some money and it will be overcome. We have assets, after all." The Junker family owned several townhouses in Badenburg, and owned the rents on the village of Sundremda, along with the rents on two other villages that were farther from the Ring of Fire. The family had interests in several trading ventures. Together these things brought in quite a bit of money annually. Unfortunately, most of them were tied up in ways that made it hard to get quick cash out of them.

Egidius didn't seem to want to be protected, though. Claus finally gave in to his son's persistent questions and dogged determination to get to the heart of the problem. When Claus disclosed the amount of money he had invested in the microwave project, Egidius' was clearly appalled. That was the hardest thing to take, the disappointment in his son's eyes. Claus gave up and waved Egidius to the accounts and retreated. He felt driven to run from his office by the look in his son's eyes.

Eddie Junker was left alone in his father's office. Since the Ring of Fire there had been quite a bit of talk about the financial innovations the Americans were introducing. At Jena, in the college of law, there was a lot of talk about civil rights, and the concept of equality before the law, but also quite a bit about the up-timer business law and practices. Many of the students would never actually practice law. Like Eddie, they were there to learn enough to be able to deal with the lawyers in their employ, or their family's employ. For them, especially, the focus was increasingly on business law and practices.

There were no colleges of business or economics at Jena, but there was talk of starting one. At least, a college for economics was being discussed. A college of business was considered, well, too plebian. Economics, though, that was a proper theoretical field of study. Determining the GNP might actually be as esoteric as determining the number of angels that can dance on the head of a pin and be useful at the same time.

Eddie's favorite professors were those who were pushing hardest for a college of economics. One of the professors had even been heard to say that a college of business might not be all bad. The notion of treating those necessary matters of business as a science appealed to the professor.

The notion appealed to Eddie, too, especially now. Written there, neat and tidy, in his fathers books was a tale of disaster waiting to happen. Every ready source of quick funds had already been tapped. The village rents would come due in the fall. Fall was too late to help and even if hadn't been too late, the rents weren't enough.

The Junkers were going to have to sell something. But, selling things meant finding a buyer. There was enough talk in town about his father's failed investment that everyone knew they were in need of quick cash. That would force the prices down. The Junker family would be bargaining from a position of weakness.

"I've been over the books and father's notes," Eddie told his mother. "From what I can tell, this man Pomeroy actually did try to make a microwave. I wish he hadn't. It would have cost less. We do have assets to sell, but we won't be getting a good price for them. By now, everyone knows that father was invested in the microwave project. Everyone will know that we need the money.

"There is one bit of good news. Land prices in and round the Ring of Fire have been going up drastically. The rents are set and we cannot raise them. But, if we can broker a deal where the villagers of Sundremda get the Lehen and buy the land from Marion County at the same time, the price will be higher. Owning the land with clear title would make it worth more."

His mother frowned. "Frau Newhouse has told me several times how much she and her husband would like to have clear title to the farm. From what I understand the government of Marion County doesn't really know what to do with the land. It seems that the county cannot collect taxes on the property, because the county owns the property. It cannot tax itself, there would be no point."

"That makes sense," Eddie said. "They do things one way and we do them another. Trying to make the two ways fit together can't be an easy task."

"You go to Grantville and find out what Marion County would want for their title to the land. I will go see Frau Newhouse and see what the villagers would be willing to pay for clear title."

"Excuse me? You could perhaps direct me?" Deborah looked up to see an attractive young German man standing at her office door. Poor guy, he looked like he was completely lost.

"I'll be happy to, Herr ...?"

"Junker, but call me Eddie, please. Could you perhaps tell me who I would see about property? I have some questions, but so far, three people have sent me to four different places. I have been unable to get an answer."

"Well, ah, Eddie, I guess you've found the right person, at last. At least, I hope I'll be able to answer your question," Deborah answered. "I'm afraid that government agencies, even our government agencies, tend to make finding an answer harder than it has to be, unfortunately. What is your question?"

"Mein, ah, my father owns the Lehen, the rents for the village of Sundremda. It is possible that he may wish to sell this. But, with all the new laws, the new government, we are not sure how to go about this, anymore," Eddie answered. "Do you know anything about this?"

Deborah remembered the name Junker. This must be the son of the man who had funded Guffy Pomeroy. No wonder he wanted to sell something, from what she had heard Pomeroy had taken him to the cleaners. Poor man. 

"You've definitely come to the right place, sir. Please sit down, and we'll discuss what to do. I can even tell you why there was so much confusion."

As Eddie Junker took a seat in front of the desk, Deborah began speaking, "You see, before the Ring of Fire there was Grantville. Grantville was a town inside Marion County. Marion County was inside the state of West Virginia and the state of West Virginia was inside the United States of America."

"Back up-time, we had a lot of governments, I'm afraid. We had the town government, the county government, the state government and then the United States Government. When the Ring of Fire happened, the only government that came back was that of Grantville, the town."

"When we started rebuilding government functions, we started with the New United States. At the very beginning, the New United States and what was left of West Virginia and Marion County were all the same size. Now, though, the New US has more states but West Virginia and Marion County are still the same territory. West Virginia and Marion County still exist legally but don't exactly have their own governments."

"So, for all practical purposes the State that includes the Ring of Fire area and now includes Sundremda and some other villages is the same territory as Marion County. That makes Marion County the owner of the property, because the folks in Sundremda asked to be annexed by Marion County."

The young man was clearly baffled by the explanation but trying gamely to follow along.

"Never mind, you've found the right office."

The knock on the front door made Mary Lee want to scream. For the first time in three weeks, she actually had her own house to herself. The quiet and privacy were so welcome that she very nearly didn't answer the door. When the knock came again, though, she got worried that there might be an emergency of some sort. It seemed that emergencies happened every time she had ten minutes of quiet.

Mary Lee pulled the door open with a certain amount of force, prepared to glare at the person who was invading her limited privacy. Her visitor's identity caused her to start in surprise.

"Frau Junker, oh..., I'm afraid I wasn't expecting you."

Clara smiled politely, "I regret that I did not inform you, so that you might prepare, Frau Newhouse. Do you think that you and I might talk?"

Caught at a disadvantage, flustered and out of sorts in general, Mary Lee sighed internally as she wondered what this visit could be about. "Please, come in. Would you care for a cold drink? I have some tea, chamomile, in the fridge."

"A cold drink, Frau Newhouse? How unusual. Yes, I should like very much to have a cold drink. It is perhaps an imposition, and I regret if it is, but may I see this 'fridge', did you call it? I have not yet had the opportunity to view the inside of an up-time house."

"Certainly, Frau Junker. I would be pleased to show you around, if you like. Please excuse the disorder. I'm afraid that my grandchildren tend to destroy the place if you don't watch them every second of every minute of every day. The fridge is in the kitchen. This way, please."

As they entered the spacious kitchen, a room that Mary Lee had spent a lot of time and effort making just right, Mary Lee watched her unexpected guest's face. Mary Lee was proud of this kitchen. It was her favorite room, one she was very pleased with. She hoped that Frau Junker wouldn't turn her nose up at her efforts.

It was a great relief when Clara smiled as she gazed around the room. Mary Lee began to relax a bit, and lose some of her irritation.

"It is very lovely, Frau Newhouse. I would never have considered this possible. So bright and colorful. Such light. It does not look like any kitchen I have ever seen."

"I'm pleased you like it, Frau Junker. It's my favorite room. We spend most of our time here, Birdie and I, when we have the opportunity. I've always felt that the kitchen was the heart of the home, and I tried to make this one reflect that feeling. Please, have a seat, here at the table."

As Clara sat down, Mary Lee retrieved her best glassware from the cupboard, filled the glasses with ice and poured the pale yellow tea in the glasses. Returning to the table, she set a glass down in front of Clara and took a seat across the table. Clara's face didn't reveal much, but Mary Lee felt that the woman was worried about something.

When Clara still remained quiet after a few sips of tea, Mary Lee decided she might as well just jump in. "You had something you wanted to speak to me about?"

"Yes, well... yes," Clara hesitated. "Last year, your husband offered to purchase the Lehen for the farm in Sundremda. I wondered if perhaps he would still wish to do so."

Mary Lee knew about Guffy Pomeroy and his swindle. She had even heard that Claus Junker had been involved in some way. As she looked closer at Clara she realized that Clara was a very worried woman. Damn it, she thought, there's a lot of trouble brewing for her, I can tell. And I like her. I liked her from the first. 

"What Birdie wants, Frau Junker, is clear title to his own land. He wants to be able to farm, without interference, without being checked up on, and to be free to do his best at it. Yes, I'm sure he would want to buy the Lehen. I imagine that most of the villagers want the same thing."

"Each to buy their own land, each to be free, Frau Newhouse?" Clara asked.

"You might as well call me Mary Lee. We're not a very formal people, as you may have noticed. Yes, that's exactly what they want. Is your husband willing to sell it all?"

"I am Clara, then, Marilee, und yes, he is willing."

Mary Lee noticed that Clara's carefully pronounced English, apparently something she had learned in the last year, was beginning to slip. She suddenly realized the truth.

"He doesn't know about this visit does he, Clara?"

Clara started at the directness of the question. It was clearly unexpected. She flushed a bit, and looked away from Mary Lee for a few moments. Finally, composure regained, she looked directly into Mary Lee's eyes.

"No. No, he does not. I prefer that he never learns of it."

Mary Lee understood completely. She hadn't had to deal with this kind of attitude herself, Birdie being the type of man he was, but she had watched many wives deal with it. Slip in the back way, offer hesitant suggestions, and never show your own good sense.

"He won't hear it from me, Clara, or anyone else I know. In fact, Birdie is playing cards this evening and won't be home for several hours. The girls and the grandkids shouldn't be back for a good while, either. So," she said, as she rose and went to a cupboard, "You and I are going to have a nice long talk and work this out."

Mary Lee moved to the freezer and pulled out her very last can of frozen limeade, "First, though, I think we could use something a little more relaxing than this tea. I don't suppose you've ever heard of a frozen margarita, have you?"

"Horace, we sort of have a problem," Deborah Trout said, as she entered the room for the meeting that was due to start in a few minutes. "We're basically the county seat now, aren't we?"

"Well, I suppose so," Horace answered. "Considering the number of problems that keep landing on my desk, I suppose we must be. What is it this time, running out of paper?"

"Don't I just wish? Maybe if we ran out, I wouldn't have so much of it to shuffle around. The problem is a little more serious than that, though. You know I never meant to become the tax assessor, right? And, I never really wanted much to do with organizing the finances for anything as big as Grantville is becoming, either. But, since I'm stuck with it, I want to do it right."

"Completely understandable, Deborah. So what is the problem, exactly?"

"Money. When isn't the problem money? Do you realize that Grantville now owns Sundremda? It was crown land. Now that we're the government, it's county land. We need money to run things, but we can't exactly tax ourselves, now can we? I can assess all the taxes I want, but a property that has no owner isn't going to pay anything into the coffers, is it? We can't sell it either. Well, we could, but, who to? It's surrounded by a bunch of contractual obligations that seriously limit what the owner can do with it. About the only people who would have any interest would be the tenants or the Lehen holder. Sundremda isn't the only place like that, either. Half a dozen other villages have petitioned to become a part of Marion County.

Horace Bolender thought for a few moments, and then looked at Deborah with a grin. "You wouldn't have come here complaining if you didn't have a solution worked out. What do you think we should do?"

"Well, somehow or other, we need to sell off some of this stuff. To do that, we need clear title or at least clearer title. We need to either buy the Lehen or sell the land to the Lehen holder or the renters. We won't get full price, but we'd at least get something, and taxes, eventually."

"I'm pretty sure that Birdie Newhouse wants to own the land outright. He's been complaining to Willie Ray about the restrictions on usage," Horace remarked. "Tell you what; you come up with what you want to do. Write out proposals for it and I'll see what Mayor Dreeson and Senator Abrabanel have to say. Congress has decided that they can act for Marion County in this sort of situation."

Deborah looked at Horace with a bit of fire in her eyes. Damn it, life had gotten so complicated lately, ever since they had a real government with a constitution, instead of the emergency committee.

"Father, you must be realistic. It is the only way," Egidius insisted. "There is nothing else we can sell that will bring in the amount of money that the Lehen will bring in. Not without taking a much greater loss."

Claus stared at his son in disbelief. "You wish me to sell your heritage? What comes to you from William the Silent and the Counts of Gleichen? Why should I agree to this, this travesty?" Claus knew the reason, but the knowledge was burning a hole in his guts. He didn't want this. He had been doing everything he could to avoid it for months, long before Pomeroy had died.

Egidius was looking at him with concern. "Perhaps, Father, you do not fully understand what has happened here. I know what you did was customary. It was done the way things had always been done. But it was against the law even before the Ring of Fire. Now, with the Committees of Correspondence and Herr Ritter's connections to them, there will be no looking the other way. You have diverted public funds to private use. It is a crime with criminal penalties. If we do not replace the money, and do it very soon, you could be sent to prison. Do you think I would see you in prison for the rents on a village? Not only the disgrace, not only the lessening of our family's position, is at stake here. You can be criminally charged and go to prison. Do you wish that to happen?"

Claus felt as though he had been slapped in the face. What he had done had been done by others for centuries. Now, he, a man of wealth and position, had no more protections. From the time the Ring of Fire had happened the world had been changing faster and faster. He had tried, with every means he could find, to prevent the life he knew from being swept away. He had failed, although he hadn't realized how badly until just now. His son, the child for whom he had lived, worked and dreamed, had adjusted to the changes, but he had not. He still did not want this new world. He hated it, wanted it to go away.

Yet, here was this young man. Where had he come from, this tall and strong man of business? It was just a week ago that he had been laughing as he sat his first pony.

"Very well, my son, if we must, then we must. I will sell the Lehen of Sundremda, and I will sell it to that Newhouse person and the villagers," he answered. "But the price! I know the market. It is worth twice that."

"Yes, Papa, I know. But not to us, not for years. The rents are set. We could not change anything without buying the renters out, then buying the property from Marion County."

Mary Lee had talked to Birdie and Ernst Bachmeier after Clara's visit. While Birdie had been in no mood to do any favors for Claus Junker, Ernst was thrilled at the prospect. The lines of status were much more severe in the seventeenth century. Owning property, actually owning it, meant you were a person of considerable status. Not a peasant, not someone's tenant, your own man. Nor did Ernst bear Claus Junker any ill will. He had always been fair and decent Lehen holder, understanding if the crops had been bad. Yes, Herr Junker had been harder to deal with since Birdie had leased his farm, but Ernst felt that the difficulties were partly Birdie's fault.

There had been phone calls from the Newhouse residence to the government to try and figure out who had the authority to sell the property. Now that there was a government other than the emergency committee, Deborah Trout was apparently the person to see. Deborah had already been approached by Eddie Junker. Then followed quite a bit of back and forth, working out the various ends of the deal. The Junkers needed cash up front, Marion County wanted some of the land both for public right of way and some to sell. The village would lose almost a thousand acres. Birdie would have to give up some of his land as a right of way, which would put a public road right across his original property.

Ernst and Birdie called a meeting of the village to talk about the proposal. They discussed the pros and cons. The pros were that agreeing to the proposal would give the villagers more control over how the village was run and greater status in the eyes of most down-timers. The cons, well, there was only one con, a big one. If the village agreed to the proposal it would probably cost them more money. Their mortgage payments would run about fifteen percent over their rents. Also, part of the village property, much of the forest and some of the pasture would no longer be part of their village.

People were concerned, and rightly so, about the consequences to the village and the Gemeinde. If Birdie owned his own land why should he use his tractor to help with the plowing of the rest? What about the people in the village who didn't own farms, the people who had been helping the farmers as part of their rent? Who would be responsible for what part of the obligations set out in their rental agreement?

There would need to be some sort of an agreement, or rather, several agreements. One agreement must be made for all of the villagers, and another agreement must be made for the farmers of the Gemeinde. It was a very long meeting, and quite loud.

Eventually, most of the villagers agreed that the prospect of actually owning their own land, even if they had to pay the bank, was just too attractive to let pass. Only two families refused.

The mason refused because he wasn't sure how long he would be living in Sundremda. He hoped that he could continue to work in Sundremda and sell his stone work using transportation provided by Grantville. But he couldn't be sure and was unwilling to take on such a debt.

Surprisingly, there was one farming family that disapproved of the whole business. Friedrich Schultz stood up and began speaking, after everyone else had reached agreement.

"I will not be a party to this, I will not. How do we know that this bank will be as reasonable as Herr Junker if the crops fail? How do we know that this man will truly use the tractor for the good of the village, no matter what he promises?"

Birdie stood up to answer, offended that someone would question his integrity. "My word is my bond. I always keep my promises because it is the only honorable way to be. I will sign another agreement if necessary, if it will make you happy."

"This entire plan, it is unnatural. We are not meant to be gentry. We are farmers, good honest farmers. Why should we do this? We have always been tenants to Herr Junker and his family. He has held the Lehen for many years and has been good to us. I cannot believe that he would agree to this."

At this point, Eddie Junker, who attended the meeting in lieu of his father, stood to answer Friedrich. "My father feels that this is a good plan. You will be free of obligations to him, free to farm as you wish. It is a good plan that benefits us all."

Friedrich shook his head. "I am disappointed in Herr Junker. My contract is for ninety-nine years and I am the second generation. I have my contract and I will work my farm according to the terms of that contract. I cannot be removed from my farm as long as I pay my rent. I will pay the rent, but I will not, absolutely not be a party to this insanity."

Birdie sat through that little speech dumbfounded. Birdie had always figured that Friedrich was just a suck up. Thought he was too afraid of Junker to answer back. Birdie was amazed to realize that the guy actually believed that his proper place was as someone else's tenant. Birdie couldn't understand how anyone could actually feel that way.

Friedrich was trying to queer the whole deal for everyone because he was terrified of owning his own property. He almost managed it, too. Before the deal could go through an agreement must be reached. Agreement took a couple of extra days of negotiations and no one was especially happy with the result.

Friedrich was unhappy because he didn't want the mayor of the village as his landlord. And Birdie was unhappy because he was afraid he was going to be stuck as mayor and have to deal with the duckfucker on a regular basis.

Twenty four loan applications, twenty two of them using the land they wanted to buy as the collateral for the loan. All of them were from down-timers with no, or very little, credit history. Larkin Newhouse's application, the twenty third, used the land in Sundremda plus his equity in the farm inside the Ring of Fire as collateral. The villagers of Sundremda wanted to buy their village and wanted the bank to loan them the money to do it. It was not unexpected. The twenty fourth application was from the township of Sundremda, requesting funds to buy two public buildings and one farm.

September, 1632 

Ernst Bachmeier leaned against the fence post and mused. The fall of 1632 had given him no answers as to whether wheat or flax was the better cash crop. He suspected that if they'd planted dandelions then dandelions would have sold amazingly well. The lousy weather had almost been compensated for by the addition of lime to the soil. The crops were good, very good, even though Birdie claimed they were only passable by up-time standards. There was something called an "industrial revolution" getting started in and around the Ring of Fire and labor was increasingly hard to come by. But, the goods! Oh, the goods that came out of Grantville. A bed with springs in it!

Ernst once again found himself looking over the land. The land that would be his someday, his alone. The land that he would pass down to his children, someday, hopefully in the far future. Ah, such a future.

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Bacon

Eric Flint

"All right, I finished it," said Mike Stearns, the moment he strode into Melissa Mailey's office. Triumphantly, he dropped the Economic History of Europe onto her desk. The tome landed with a resounding thump.

Mike stooped and peered at the legs of the desk. "Pretty well-built. I thought it might collapse."

"Well, now that you've finished that one, I'm sure – "

"Not a chance, Melissa!" He held up his hands and crossed his two forefingers, as if warding off a vampire. "Besides, I don't need to. Birdie Newhouse – bless him – has shown us the way. In practice, by getting his hands dirty, just like I predicted."

Melissa frowned, almost fiercely. "Mike, be serious! You can't solve the tangled land tenure relations of seventeenth century Germany by simply buying the land. Even if everyone was willing to sell, we couldn't possibly afford it. King Midas couldn't afford it."

Mike shook his head. "I'm not talking about that. Tactics come, tactics go. What matters is what Birdie did, not how he did it. Birdie and Mary Lee both. They got in there and mixed it up with the people on the ground, and took it from there. That's what we need – only organized. Something like a cross between the OSS of World War II days, Willie Ray's grangers, and – and – I dunno. Maybe the Peace Corps. Whatever. We'll figure it out as we go."

Melissa laced her fingers together and stared at him.

"You're nuts," she proclaimed, after a few seconds. "On the other hand, it is a charming idea. Like the poet said, in beauty there is truth. You'd need the right people to carry it out, though – and not somebody like Harry Lefferts."

Mike chuckled. "Can't you just see Harry as an agrarian organizer?" His voice took on a slightly thicker hillbilly accent. "'Let's all get together, boys. Or I'll shoot you dead.'"

Melissa grimaced. "That's not really funny, Mike."

"Sure it is. But I agree, Harry's not the right type. You got any suggestions?"

Melissa's eyes narrowed, as they did when she was chewing on a problem.

"Well . . . There's somebody I think we could at least raise the idea with. Deborah Trout."

It was Mike's turn to frown. "Len's wife? She's always struck me as pretty straight-laced."

"Well, not her personally. She's in her fifties now, anyway. A bit long in the tooth to be gallivanting around the German countryside. But she's got someone in her office that I think she'd be willing – delighted, actually – to part company with."

"Who?"

"Noelle Murphy."

Mike's frown was now as fierce as Melissa's had been earlier. "I though she wanted to be a nun. I can't say I know her at all, but I always got the sense that she's as straight-laced as they come. I can't really see her . . . why are you grinning at me like that?"

"Because the idea's charming in its own right. Don't forgot that Noelle's a bastard, too – or do you really think that idiot Francis fathered her? Pat Murphy's bastard, at that."

Mike rolled his eyes. "Melissa, if there is any single person in Grantville who can be described as 'not playing with a full deck' more than Pat Murphy . . ."

Melissa clucked her tongue reprovingly. She did that extraordinarily well. "Thou shalt not visit the sins of the mother on the daughter. The follies, neither. This much I can tell you, because she was a student of mine – Noelle's smart as a whip, and there's a lot more going on under the surface than it looks. As for the religious business, she's never actually decided to become a nun, so far as I know. And what difference does it make anyway? We're not asking her to play Mata Hari, are we?"

Mike rubbed his chin. "Well, no. But . . ."

Melissa rose from her desk. "Come on. Let's at least raise the idea with Deborah and see what she thinks."

Deborah Trout was enthusiastic. As Mike had darkly suspected.

"Noelle would be perfect! How soon can she clear her desk out?"

"What I thought," he muttered under his breath. Then, loudly enough to be heard:

"Oh, not any time soon. For the moment, she'll appear to be staying on the job. Undercover, you might call it."

"Oh." It was almost comical, the way Deborah's face fell.

On their way back, Mike grumbled to Melissa. "This is a screwy idea. The only reason Deborah likes it is so she can get rid of Noelle."

"You're right," agreed Melissa serenely. "But look at it this way, Mike. How would you characterize Deborah Trout?"

Naturally, she didn't wait for an answer. "I'd characterize her as follows: Earnest, efficient, serious, dedicated, hard-working bureaucrat."

"Um. Yeah, okay."

"And she's ecstatic at the idea of getting rid of Noelle."

Mike started to brighten up. "Mind you," he cautioned, "there's a place and a need for level-headed public officials."

"Oh, sure. But not where you'd be sending Noelle."

There was still a problem. "Uh, Melissa, I admit I don't know the girl—sorry, young woman—as well as you do. But I get the distinct impression that Noelle thinks of herself as, well—"

"An earnest, efficient, serious, dedicated, hard-working bureaucrat, with strong religious convictions that are leaning her toward joining a religious order. But don't forget she's also a bastard. Trust me on this one, Mike."

They walked on a little further. Melissa added:

"The next thing we need is a symbol of some kind."

Mike shook his head. "Stick to what you know, Melissa. No way you can gimmick a symbol that means anything. You just have to wait until something emerges on its own."

"From where?"

He shrugged his shoulders. "Who knows? Maybe the meatpacking industry."

"Huh?"

"Bacon. To go with your scrambled eggs."

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PART II: ENTER THE RAM

Then he said to me, "Prophesy to these bones, and say to them: O dry bones, hear the word of the Lord. Thus says the Lord GOD to these bones: I will cause breath to enter you, and you shall live. I will lay sinews on you, and will cause flesh to come upon you, and cover you with skin, and put breath in you, and you shall live; and you shall know that I am the Lord."

Ezekiel 37:4-6  

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The Merino Problem

Paula Goodlett

"It's ironic," Flo said to herself, as she sipped the last of her coffee. "I may just be the only person in Grantville who gained time, instead of losing it."

J.D. had gone to work and Flo had the house to herself for a few more hours, until the Sprugs arrived. She and J.D. had met them yesterday and agreed that they should move in. The house was certainly big enough, and with the four girls gone it was sort of lonesome. Johan, Anna, and all six children would barely make a dent in the space. It would be nice to have company.

Flo intended to enjoy the quiet time. She hadn't had much of it over the years. Four daughters, the farm, J.D., all these had used up most of her time. Now, it looked like she just might have the time to do some things she had always wanted to do.

"Who would have thought," she mused, "that J.D.'s membership in the Seed Savers Exchange would turn out to be so important."

Flo agreed with the aim of the Exchange, to preserve genetic diversity in crops by growing and exchanging the seeds of endangered domesticated species. What she had disagreed with was the fact that she had done most of the work of growing, saving and exchanging of those seeds. J.D. was busy teaching during the week and the girls had been busy with school and their own activities. J.D. had helped, of course, when he'd had time. Otherwise, Flo thought, he'd have wound up wearing those heirloom veggies.

Now, the organization people were calling "The Grange" was in charge of those same heirloom plants. The members of the Grange had recently realized that the seeds from the hybrid plants common on farms and in gardens up-time wouldn't produce the same plants in the next generation. Flo and J.D.'s stock of non-hybrid seeds had gained hugely in value.

Flo smirked. J.D. had tried for years to convince them, but very few up-timers would listen. It was easier to go to the store and buy seed every year. There were times she'd have liked to do it herself.

It was nice that J.D. had been vindicated. It had raised his status in the eyes of the local farmers and led to his being appointed as one of Willie Ray's assistants. Who knew where that could lead?

Flo had been thrilled to turn the stock of seeds over to the Grange. Let someone else take charge of that project. She wouldn't be stuck in the kitchen, canning all the produce this year, either. The lack of new canning lids in town was worrying, but she could reuse some old ones. Some of them would seal properly. Other methods of preservation were possible, also. Flo was sure they'd make it through the winter. Most of her crops, planted before the Ring of Fire, would be dedicated to seed for next year.

She did think Willie Ray was getting a bit high-handed, though. True, Flo would admit that he had a lot on his platter and she was glad she didn't have his responsibilities. Still, she resented Willie Ray treating her like "Little Bo Peep" when she tried to talk to him about a better ram.

The Grange, Willie Ray, and J.D. were all focused on food production. Flo understood that this and the war were priorities. She hadn't been able to get any of them to listen to her concerns about the sheep, though. "I need an ally. Maybe Johan will listen. He seemed to be interested when we spoke yesterday."

Flo stood up, and rinsed the coffee cup. "I don't think I'll mention that last few cans of Folgers to anyone," she murmured slyly. J.D. could be a little over generous on occasion. Flo would just keep that guilty little secret to herself.

It was about 2:00 P.M. before Johan, Anna and the kids arrived. Flo showed them to their rooms. She was pretty surprised when the entire family seemed prepared to move into the single room she had intended for Johan and Anna alone. After some effort, she finally convinced them to take two more bedrooms, one for the boys and one for the girls. There were two bathrooms up there, and two more bedrooms. Flo had originally intended for the family to use all the rooms, but they seemed dead set against it.

Melissa Mailey had been right, Flo thought, as she and Johan walked toward the sheep pasture. The privacy standards of seventeenth-century Germans were certainly different from the up-timers. She was glad their bedroom was on the first floor. The Sprugs could deal with the kids' squabbles and she and J.D. wouldn't even need to know about it.

Johan was leading the ram. Flo looked at it again and sighed. She was sure it was a good enough ram for this time and place. She was also sure she didn't want the scraggly thing anywhere near her Merinos.

Time for a small demonstration, she decided.

Johan had some English. Flo's German was limited, even though she was trying to improve it. She still hadn't been able to explain the problem clearly. Her own German was limited, but she was trying to improve it. After coaxing one of the ewes to come near, Flo undid the ties of the coat that protected the precious wool. She watched as Johan's face changed from confusion over the sheep coat to curiosity and then to sheer pleasure as he buried his hands in the luxurious wool.

"Do you see what I mean now, Johan? These are the only type C Delaine Merinos in the world. I'm not going to breed them to just any ram that's available. Compared to these sheep, that ram of yours might as well be a brillo pad with legs. You can see the difference in the wool.

"Merino sheep were used to improve the wool of nearly every breed of sheep in the world. There's no reason we can't improve the sheep of Germany in the here and now, but my rams are too young to breed successfully. Spain has around three million Merino sheep. We need a better ram, one with some Merino blood. Do you understand now?"

Johan was smiling as he stood up. "Yes, Flo, I understand better now. We need a better ram, we must find a way to make them understand. We must not waste this chance. I help. We will convince Willie Ray. Must have better ram, must."

Flo smiled. Finally, an ally. With Johan's help and experience, maybe she could finally get a breeding program to improve the wool breeds, as well as the meat breeds.

"Fine, Johan, fine. I'm really glad to hear that. We'll work on it together. Now, since you enjoyed that wool so much, let's go look at the rabbits."

"Rabbits? Vermin. Must get rid of , before they damage crops." Johan appeared to be ready to go on a rabbit hunt that very moment.

"Not these rabbits, Johan. They're not your average pest. Though I'm not sure how much use they are, to tell the truth. Come see."

As they walked to the bunny barn, Flo continued to explain. "These are English angora rabbits, Johan. They couldn't possibly survive in the wild. Their own wool would cause their deaths."

"Rabbits do not grow wool, Flo."

Flo grinned as they approached the first cage. "These rabbits do grow wool, Johan. They take a good bit of work, but their wool is very warm and soft. Take a look."

Johan stood in stunned surprise as Flo took one of the does from her cage. The rabbit was covered with long, soft hair, which could be gently plucked from the rabbit without harm. As Flo demonstrated the technique, she continued to watch Johan's face.

"So tell me, Johan," she asked, "do you think there's a market for this, too?"

"Flo," said Anna, "I have question."

"Sure, Anna, what's up?" asked Flo as she watched Anna sit down. It was the first time Anna had ever sat in her presence without an invitation.

Flo had begun to wonder if Anna would ever get over the tendency to treat her as the lady of the manor. The constant deference had made Flo really uncomfortable for the first week or so. Finally, in desperation, she'd let Anna in on her secret vice, the hidden stash of Folgers coffee. That had sent Anna into fits of giggles and had seemed to even the ground between them. Anna had relaxed around Flo and had been opening up ever since.

"I have sister, Flo. Is married to Wilhelm Schmidt, five Kinder. Are in camp still. Is hard, so many Kinder. Maybe come here with us? All will work, und boys be help with sheep. Johan not want to ask, but Ilsa wants home again. We all work, Flo, und, und . . ."

Anna's English had failed her, but Flo had the gist of it now.

"You don't think five more kids will be too crowded, Anna?"

"Nein, nein. Is big beds, much, much room. We be fine. I want Ilsa close, und you and Johan keep boys busy. Truly, Flo, is goot." Anna seemed very concerned that Flo might object, but as long as Anna was happy, Flo could be happy.

"Anna, it's fine. As long as you don't mind the crowding, I don't mind them moving in. You already have the house in wonderful shape. I can't imagine what the two of you will accomplish when Ilsa get here."

Anna was a wonder, as far as Flo was concerned. Six kid, ages ranging from about fourteen to the baby, who looked to be about six months old, and all the kids toed the line far, far better than the average up-time child. Anna and Johan's discipline seemed a bit harsh to Flo, but she wasn't going to interfere. The kids would be starting school when it resumed; time enough for the up-time kids to try and ruin them then.

"How is search for ram going, Flo?" Anna was concerned because Johan was concerned. Flo knew that Johan and Anna had discussed the sheep project in detail. Anna, after a demonstration of the difference in wool softness, followed by a visit to Flo's angora bunnies, had joined in enthusiastically. "Will we use Brillo, after all?"

Flo grinned at that question. Her undiplomatic remark had resulted in the nickname. Johan had later asked what a brillo pad was. Johan had proved to be a good-humored sort. After a demonstration of a brillo pad, he'd laughed uproariously. They'd all been calling the poor ram "Brillo" ever since.

Even J.D. had joined in the search for a ram, although with some reluctance. Flo had caught him giving her some thoughtful looks lately. Johan's support had made a difference in J.D.'s attitude toward the sheep.

"Flo, Flo, are you in there?" Anna asked, grinning herself.

Flo jerked back to reality and smiled over at Anna. "Sorry, Anna, I got lost in my thoughts again." She laughed. "We'll use Brillo if we have to. He's certainly a strong, hardy critter. If the Ring of Fire has thrown the sheep out of cycle, it will be good to have him around. Whatever we can do to spread the Merino strain will help. I'd still rather have a ram with some Merino blood, just for the wool quality. We still have some time before fall. Maybe someone will make it through the armies, yet."

"Well, we all have things to do," Anna said, "I'm going to clean the attics today. I will leave you to your own work. You will use the telephone, und call for Ilsa und Wilhelm? Today, Flo?"

"Yes, Anna, I'll call right now. They'll probably be here in a few hours. Do you need any help?" Flo always asked, and Anna always refused, just as she did today. Flo had begun to think that she just got in Anna's way. She'd decided to stand aside and let Anna go at it. The woman was amazing. If those bozos down at the 250 Club had any idea what they were missing, Flo mused, they'd be standing in line, begging for German houseguests.

Flo called the administrators of the refugee camp and arranged for Wilhelm, Ilsa and their kids to be given the news and started on their way out to the farm. The administrators were very careful to get the right relations these days. A few mix-ups had caused them to get the original village name, before they asked for people by name. The names Johan and Anna were as common here as the names John and Ann had been up-time. No one wanted any more confusion.

"Well, a few more people won't make that much difference here. I wonder what Wilhelm and Ilsa went through, getting to Grantville?"

The German population had amazing resilience. The war rolled over them, they grabbed what they could and started over. The war rolled over them again, and they started over again. When they reached Grantville, and were convinced of their relative safety, they dug in with a vengeance, determined to succeed and prosper. While many families had arrived with little more than the clothes on their backs, others had saved the most astounding things. A few chickens here, a ram or an ox there, a few family heirlooms, a few coins sewn into a child's frock. They'd saved anything they could.

It was almost as amazing to Flo as the weird things that had value now. Who would have thought that things like jelly jars, coffee cans with plastic lids, even old mayo jars, could be so valuable?

Flo shook her head in wonder. She'd heard her parents' rhyme—

Use it up, wear it out 
Make it do or do without  

—so many times as a child that frugality was ingrained in her nature. She had washed and saved any container with a lid just from force of habit. There was a shelved area of the basement where she'd stored box after box of jelly glasses, mayo jars, canning jars, coffee cans, and whatever else she felt might be useful someday. J.D. had teased her about her saving ways for years. Flo hadn't listened. She'd continued to save things. Old clothes, diapers, plastic pants, baby bottles, sheets, towels—if it wasn't in the basement, it was in a cedar chest or a box in the attic.

Anna's excitement when she'd started cleaning the basement was contagious. Knowing her own limitations in the art of bargaining, Flo let Johan or Anna handle that part. If a German noble wanted a set of Flintstone jelly glasses to serve wine in, that was fine with Flo. Johan and Anna would make sure he paid very well for the privilege.

Johan had been a bit insulted when Flo had suggested watching the shearing video. "I know how to shear a sheep, Flo," he'd objected. "Do you think I know nothing?"

"Johan, I'm sure you've sheared plenty of sheep in your lifetime. Have you ever done it with electric shears?" Flo had asked.

The mention of electric anything was a conversation stopper. His interest piqued, Johan joined Flo in front of the TV to view the video of New Zealand shepherds and shearers at work. They viewed it three times before he was confident of his ability to adapt.

Flo and Johan arrived at the shearing shed together. Johan checked the shears, turning them on and off until he was comfortable with the sound.

None of Flo's ewes was especially rambunctious. They'd been sheared before, after all. Even so, Flo chose an especially mellow ewe for Johan's first attempt at electric shearing.

Johan had paid serious attention to the video, Flo noticed. After a couple of nervous false starts, he began rolling the fleece off the ewe as though he'd been doing it all his life. Which he had, of course, now that Flo thought about it. The electric shears just made it go faster.

A couple of small nicks, easily treated, a check for foot rot, hoof trimming and worming and the ewe bounced away. Johan had very few problems, even with the unfamiliar shears, and they were finished very soon. Flo had sorted the fleeces as Johan had sheared. Even in coats, there was some dirt involved in the process and the heavy lanolin in the fleece made Flo feel greasy.

"Johan, we've both got things to do. If I don't get a shower, I won't be responsible for my temper."

"Ja, Flo. I will check that meine Kinder have finished their work. Sheep, they seem well." Johan seemed eager to get on with his other work.

"We'll have to come up with a way to clean that fleece. I'll think about it. Maybe the old wash boiler. My grandmother used to use it, along with that old wringer Anna found in the basement. I'll need to check the rollers. I don't remember if they were rubber or wood. It may come in handy. Never thought I'd have to use it. I just kept it, like that old glass churn my mother used to use. Sentimental value, then. Much more practical value now." Flo grinned as she walked away. "Anyway, I can't think when I feel like an oil slick. See you in a while."

Standing in the shower, under the pounding hot water, Flo gave into the depression she'd been feeling all day. The delay in shearing the sheep had been caused by her last few weeks with Jennifer, before Jen had returned to school for the summer semester.

She knew she was lucky to have kept three of her children, but she missed Jen so much. She was Flo's youngest, and the closest to her. The other girls had their own families and their own lives. Jen was still Flo's. She'd encouraged her to buy the sheep, because she knew Flo needed something to care for. She missed her so much.

Flo forced herself to turn her thoughts away. Jen had always been self-sufficient. She would manage and succeed, even without Flo and J.D. Flo held that thought as she began drying off.

As she dressed, Flo noticed how soft her skin felt. She still had shampoo, bought on sale and stored, but there hadn't been a good sale on bath soap. Her stock was low on that commodity. They were saving the gentle soaps for the babies, to keep them from skin irritations. The Ring of Fire had put paid to her usual practice of stocking up on soap.

"Wait a minute, soft skin, lye soap, lanolin—that's the difference! The lanolin in the sheep fleece. We can't just destroy it. There has to be a way to recover it and use it. Soap, lotion, didn't I read something somewhere about surgery? I've got to do some research. Soap making, lotions, what else?" Flo threw her clothes on, ready to start another project.

She stopped and finished buttoning her shirt. "I'd better not go running out of here half dressed. The Schmidts could be here any minute. Coffee. I need coffee. I always think better with coffee."

Naturally, they would get there while she was in the shower. In the middle of the day, yet! A little embarrassed, Flo extended her hand to greet Wilhelm and Ilsa Schmidt.

"We are pleased to be here," said Wilhelm. "I know Johan und Anna well. We work well together. You will be pleased."

"I'm happy to have all of you," said Flo. "It may get a bit crowded, but we'll manage. Wilhelm, Johan, I know you have things to talk about. Johan and I discussed our plans earlier, so I'll let him explain. Ilsa, Anna, let's go up and get the rooms arranged to suit you."

As the three women and the children went upstairs, Flo heard Anna and Ilsa speaking rapid-fire German. Too rapid for her to understand, but apparently the room arrangement was settled before they hit the top step. Anna began directing traffic and Flo noticed that the boys were at one end of the hall and the girls at the other. Both sets of parents were in the middle. They were going to have to have a talk about what could and could not go down a toilet, she thought. Two bathrooms and fifteen people could be a nightmare on the septic system. She didn't even want to think about what could happen when the toilet tissue ran out.

"Fifteen people," she muttered to herself, "eleven of them children, me and J.D. Feeding this crew isn't going to be a picnic either. It's a good thing I did all that canning last year. And that sale on hamburger. Boy, am I glad I took advantage of that one. We need to do an inventory and some planning. Tonight, though, I wonder if this crew has ever had spaghetti? It's easy for a crowd."

Wrapped up in thoughts, plans and concerns, Flo left Anna and Ilsa to their arrangements and went down to the freezer. Spaghetti sauce for seventeen people would still take a lot of hamburger.

The spaghetti, salad and bread seemed to be a hit. At any rate, there wasn't going to be a leftover problem in the Richards-Sprug-Schmidt household.

For once, being a packrat had paid off. Everyone had a few changes of clothes, although underwear was limited. The females had at least one pair of jeans or overalls for heavy work, although Anna and Ilsa appeared to prefer skirts. They'd get over that eventually, Flo thought. You couldn't get her back into skirts with an act of Congress.

Clean-up proceeded rapidly. Older children helped the younger, everyone washed their own dishes and placed them in the drying racks. Flo had cooked, so she cleaned the pots and pans, and wiped down the counter and table. It looked like a system that would work.

The children, after a long, exciting day, were drooping in their chairs. All but the four oldest were sent up to bed, with orders to wash up and brush their teeth. The adults and near-adults sat up to discuss their plans for the following days.

"J.D., tomorrow is Sunday. I'll be going to church. What are your plans?" Flo asked. It was an old arrangement. Flo attended the Methodist church when she could, averaging once or twice a month. J.D. did what J.D did. They'd found that arguing was not productive.

"I'm driving in around ten A.M. to see Mike and Willie Ray. If we're careful, there's no reason that everyone can't fit into the truck and the truck bed. I know you don't like kids in the truck bed, but Johan and Wilhelm can keep them in line. I'll go slow. Will that suit everyone? We can meet around four in the afternoon and ride back home together."

"Sounds like a pretty good plan to me, J.D. It'll get everyone into town in time for the various services. Is it okay with the rest of you?" Flo asked the Sprugs and Schmidts.

With everyone in agreement, and everyone tired and yawning, they all retired to their rooms and slept.

"How does anybody wake up that energetic without coffee, especially at the crack of dark?" Flo wondered aloud, trying to hide a yawn.

The Sprugs and Schmidts were up, dressed, breakfasted and had the chores done before she had her eyes open good. "I sometimes think we up-timers are soft, especially on a morning like this."

Flo had decided that it was time to introduce Anna and Ilsa to crock pots. Deciding on chili and corn bread for supper, she'd thawed more hamburger and was showing them how to set up the crock pots when Anna handed her a cup.

Taking a sip, her eyes widened. Coffee. Blessed, life-reviving coffee. Anna had apparently decided that Flo would need a cup or two and had made a pot for her.

Anna grinned, "I don't know why you like that stuff, but I know you do. You will need to be awake. So, I made you a pot. We will not tell. Is our secret."

"Not much of one, Flo. Do you think I could scrounge a cup?" asked J.D. from behind her.

Jumping, Flo turned around. "You devil, you knew all along, didn't you?" she asked.

"The way you pack-rat? Of course I knew." He said, "I just figured it made you happy to have that stash, so I let it alone. Don't worry. I'm not going to give it away. I have enough to handle without you going through caffeine withdrawal on top of it. Besides, I need a cup now and then, myself." J.D. moved over to the coffee pot and poured himself a cup. "More people than you know have a little stash of this or that. It makes them feel better and does no real harm. If it were antibiotics, it would be a different story."

They arrived in town in good time for services. Everyone dispersed to their preferred church or meeting place, after making plans to meet that afternoon.

Flo felt peaceful as she sat through the service. It was so quiet and calm. Flo gazed around her and saw Irene Washaw and her son, Mac, with his family. She'd thought Mac had been in Charleston. How did they wind up on this side of the Ring of Fire?

After services, Flo approached Irene. "Irene, how wonderful that you have Mac and his family with you."

"Oh, I know, Flo. I feel so lucky," Irene bubbled. "They'd come in for Starr's birthday and were planning to leave that day. It's just wonderful for me that the Ring of Fire didn't happen an hour later."

Choking up and trying to hide it, Flo agreed and greeted Mac and his wife. Excusing herself, she headed for the restroom.

"Oh, Flo, I'm glad I caught you. I wanted to ask you about some yarn . . . Why, Flo, what's wrong?" Mary Ellen guided Flo to a private area. "What's happened, and why are you crying?"

"I'm sorry, Mary Ellen. Seeing Irene and Mac and hearing how happy she is to have him with her. If the damn Ring of Fire had just happened one week earlier, I'd still have Jen. I miss her so much. The other girls are busy with their families, and I don't even see them at church. They've moved to their husbands' churches. I could just kick myself sometimes. If I'd just been more insistent that the family come to church, maybe they'd be here today. I married J.D. knowing I couldn't change his mind, but maybe if I'd just tried harder . . . I miss all the kids, but Jen . . ."

Flo shuddered to a stop. "Sorry, Mary Ellen, you have your own set of problems. Didn't mean to go to pieces on you. I just wish... Maybe if Jen had just gone for the two year degree, like Noelle Murphy did. Maybe she'd still be here. And I hate that I feel that way, really I do. Surely, Jen is better off back up-time. She must be. "

Mary Ellen smiled. "Flo, regrets are a part of life and we can't undo the past, however much we'd like to. You did your best. You have most of your family, J.D., your health, and I even hear that Willie Ray speaks well of your sheep project. The past is the past. Leave it there and move forward. I know you've done your best, and so do you. You just have to keep going."

Flo had gotten herself under control by now. "I know, Mary Ellen, I really do. Things aren't as bad as they could be. I'll be okay. You go minister to someone who needs it more than I do. Temporary weakness. I can overcome it."

"I know, Flo. You're a strong, vital woman with years ahead of you. How am I going to get good wool yarn for Simon's socks if you don't raise those Merino sheep? I want real knitting yarn, not the tiny, fine stuff they make here. Let me know when you have a few skeins ready. I need it. His socks are wearing out."

Mary Ellen began to move away. "Oh, Flo, if anyone has an extra can of coffee, let them know I'm in the market for it, will you?"

It was so good to speak her own language and be understood. Resorting to gestures and mime could be very wearing. Anna Sprug was very happy to have her sister, brother-in-law, and their children with her in this strange place. Now she could just talk, and not have to act out her words.

"These people, they are very rich, aren't they?" Ilsa commented.

"Not only are they very rich, they are so rich that they are foolish with their wealth. Did you see how much meat Flo thought we needed? I liked the 'corn bread' well enough, but that 'chili' . . . what was that stuff? Too much meat, too much something else. I'm in for another night of listening to Johan groaning about his stomach every two minutes, just wait and see. Your Wilhelm, he will be the same."

"Do you eat like that all the time, here? I thought the food at the camp wasn't so bad, although there was still a lot of meat. And, I'm still not sure it's safe to drink so much water. I'd really rather have some thin soup for the children to drink. I know the Americans say the water is safe, but it makes me nervous to drink so much of it." Ilsa really didn't want to complain, but she did have some concerns.

"We will have thin soup tomorrow. I used that wonderful 'crock pot' to start some. I think Flo said that if you set it on 'lo' it could cook all night and be ready in the morning. We will see." Anna seemed a bit triumphant, to have succeeded at such a basic task. "There is only a small piece of bacon and a few vegetables in it, with some salt and thyme. I hope Flo doesn't notice it. She uses too much of everything. That 'spice rack' of hers has stuff I've never heard of. She really ought to be saving it, not using it every day."

"Why do you suppose she has so many of these 'crock pots,' Anna?" Ilsa asked. "How could she and J.D. need so much food? There are only two of them."

"Flo said something about 'Christmas presents' from her daughters and I think she said something about them not paying attention to her interests. She seemed unhappy about this."

Anna seemed a bit confused about "Christmas presents." Ilsa certainly was.

"I don't think she had ever used them. All but one were still in boxes. Don't misunderstand me, Ilsa. Life is very strange here, but it is also very good. Flo is a generous, kind-hearted woman. Her J.D. is a good man. Flo is very insistent that we are not servants here. She says we are partners.

"If we are to be real partners, then we must help them. Flo knows nothing of bargaining and has no idea how to feed so many people. All Americans eat so much rich food. And, they all have so many things. Have you ever seen so many clothes? And they're all so soft!"

"The clothes are soft, Anna, but I don't feel very proper wearing those 'jeans.' They are so tight and so immodest. And, they make everyone look like a hired worker. I don't like that very much."

"Don't worry, Ilsa. Flo just doesn't understand. We are not young girls, to enjoy showing ourselves so. We just need to go slow and get used to this. It is very hard, sometimes. Still, we have bread for the morning. We have those wonderful double ovens and we have the 'crock pots.'

"Flo does not wake up well, unless she has her coffee. We will make her some, and she will be so busy enjoying it that she won't notice the soup. I'll make bread to bake and then show you the rest of the house. Just wait until you see the basement, Ilsa. There's a room there, with nothing but shelf after shelf of what Flo calls old junk. There are containers that mice can't get into. 'Canning jars,' Flo calls them. They have metal lids. And there are 'coffee cans' that have another kind of lid. It's amazing that Flo doesn't understand the value of these things.

"Ilsa, you are going to help me, aren't you?" Anna asked. "We have to take care of Flo and J.D. They're like children in so many ways."

"No, Mr. Canaro, I'm not going to sell any of my sheep. I'm in the market to buy more, not to sell what I have. When you have some to sell me, please call again."

Flo hung up the phone, a bit bemused.

Relieved of domestic and farm responsibilities by the Sprug and Schmidt clans, she had turned her energies toward acquiring more sheep and trying to find the ram she needed. Some of the local 4H members had been willing to sell their project sheep.

"I just wish they'd take money," Flo muttered. "That little Rambouillet ewe cost me a whole three pound can. And J.D. just snickered, and said I should have expected a small town to know what I had stashed away. Smart aleck."

Johan came in grinning. "Flo, another sheep coming. I think it is another wether."

"You know the policy, Johan. We'll buy it for its wool, but a wether can't breed. Not more than one pound of coffee for a wether, and only if we can use the wool. If it's another Suffolk or Hampshire, we don't need it. When I think of the wool genes going to waste in the wethers we've bought, I could just bang my head against a wall."

"Ja, is just easier for Kinder to raise wether or ewe. Rams, they are harder to handle. But, we have some ewes, you know. They will work in program. Little rams, they put on weight. Maybe only one year with Brillo." Johan went out again to deal with whatever teenager had shown up.

Flo was happy to leave the bargaining to Johan. She knew she was too soft hearted with the kids. They were all tired from the walk and Flo hated to disappoint them. She bought any ewe, regardless of breed, intending to improve the wool quality in the coming generations. "Those Suffolks and Hampshires were always intended for meat. The kids knew they shouldn't make pets of them and get too attached." Flo held herself firmly in place. "If I go out there, the teary eyes will get to me again. I'll just stay here till it's over."

Flo hadn't been very successful at becoming a hard-hearted businesswoman. It took a lot of effort to turn someone down. She was learning, though, and the coffee stash had come in handy. As supplies had dwindled, coffee was more and more in demand. Flo saw no reason not to use it as a trade item. Nor the rest of the little luxuries stashed in her freezer. These days, a bag of chocolate chips was worth its weight in gold. It was small things, like chocolate chips, candy bars, and cheese puffs, that people missed most.

Herr Oswald Ulman had risen to new heights in his shouting. Farley Utt was trying to do the right thing here. He knew this wasn't going to be easy, but Maggie was twenty and he loved her. It wasn't the end of the world to marry a little sooner than they'd planned. If the old man would just stop the hollering, maybe they could get this settled.

With a last, thundering shout, Herr Ulman slammed out of the door. Maggie, in tears, turned to Farley.

"What's wrong, Maggie? He didn't call you any bad names, did he?" Farley asked, worried sick. "Did you make him understand? And I don't understand why he keeps calling me an Arminian. I've told him a dozen times that I'm an American and a Methodist. It's not like I'm an atheist or something."

"Papa says that all Americans are too easy with religion. They do not believe as he does. He does not like this. He will not listen and he will not understand. He says I must leave, now, and I must never come back. He says you will be killed in the war and I must not be a beggar. I am allowed to pack my things. We must leave, soon."

"Do you mean he's disowned you?" Farley was outraged at what he felt was an overreaction. "Why the old jerk, I ought to . . ."

"No, mein Farley, it will do no good. We will go. Do you still want me, now I am not a woman of wealth?" Maggie looked up at Farley, concern in her eyes.

"Of course, I still want you. No matter what, I'll always want you. We'll go to Grantville and find our own place. Mom and Dad will be happy for us, you'll see. We'll get by, and when the war is over I'll find another way to make a living. We don't need your father, or his property. I never wanted to farm, anyhow."

"Good," said Margaretha Ulman, soon to be Maggie Utt. "We must hurry. Papa will be back with the sheep zoon."

As Maggie turned away, Farley thought, panicked, Sheep! What sheep? 

An hour or so later, as he struggled to keep the stubborn, stupid, ornery sheep headed in the right direction, Farley decided the old man had done it on purpose, just so he could laugh at him. They'd show him. Somehow, all seven of these rotten, stinking animals were going to make it to Grantville. Maggie and he were going to get married, and someday that old coot would regret this. Farley just really dreaded what the lieutenant was going to say when he saw the sheep.

"Sure, Mary Ellen, I'll see you then." Flo hung up the phone and went to find Anna or Ilsa.

She found them checking on one of the crock pots.

"Anna, Mary Ellen is coming out with J.D. when he comes home, along with two other folks. I'm not sure who, but we'll need three extra plates at the table tonight, if we can manage."

"Sure, Flo, we just add another jar of potatoes to stew." Anna and Ilsa started giggling again.

I wonder why the two of them are forever giggling about those new potatoes I canned? Flo thought, as she headed for the pantry. When she'd told Anna that J.D. loved new potatoes and green beans, you'd have thought she'd said something dirty. Flo did have to admit that they were better at stretching supplies than anyone she'd ever heard of.

Flo cooked, now and then, whenever she and J.D. felt the need for a roast or some other meat dish. Most of the time, however, the meals were soup, soup and more soup. "And don't forget, bread, bread and more bread," Flo grumbled. They had taken to baking their own bread, as it meant fewer trips to town and ovens were already here. Still, Flo continued musing, That "duenne suppe" stuff and a slice of bread just isn't a substitute for a pot of coffee with bacon, eggs and toast. Guess we'll all have to get used to it, though. 

Chores were done and everyone had cleaned up from the day's work. They were all waiting for J.D. and Mary Ellen to arrive. Some of the younger children had already been fed and were being prepared for bed by Anna and Ilsa.

Johan and Wilhelm were taking this opportunity to discuss possibilities for expansion. "Will need more space someday, Flo. Even with Brillo, will be good increase in sheep next year. Should prepare for it." Wilhelm was an ambitious man.

"I know, Wilhelm, I know. We'll look into it. Right now, I'd like to know what's keeping J.D. and Mary Ellen . . . Never mind, I think I hear the truck now."

J.D. pulled the truck up in front of the garage. What's he doing with a stock trailer? Flo wondered. And isn't that Farley Utt? What's he doing here? I thought he was off with the army. 

Mary Ellen was smiling as she brought forward a pretty brunette. "Flo, I'd like you to meet Margaretha . . ."

"Maggie. I will be Maggie in my new life, please," the young woman interrupted.

"Very well. Flo, I'd like you to meet Maggie Utt. She and Farley were married this afternoon. I thought of you when Maggie told me her story. Gary and Maylene have a full house already, anyway."

"I have a fairly full house, myself, Mary Ellen. Why would you think of me? I know Farley from church, but . . ."

Flo looked up as J.D. shouted her name.

"Because of these, Flo." Mary Ellen was grinning from ear to ear as she pointed at the trailer. "They're Maggie's dowry. She's been disinherited, but her father gave her these."

The ewes, which appeared to be at least three-quarters Merino, weren't interested in trying the ramp yet. But the ram, the beautiful, heavily fleeced, mature ram, stalked down the ramp as though he knew exactly why he was here. He was there to breed.

Oh, shoot. The rabbits Flo thought.

Flo glared at the rabbits. Then she glared at Johan. By now Johan knew that it wasn't really directed at him. At least he hoped it wasn't. He had talked to J.D. about it. Flo took a great deal on herself and got upset when she made mistakes. All of the people around all the time wasn't helping. She was concerned about their welfare, Johan's family and the other down-timers, and afraid she might make a mistake. Plus, she was almost out of that vile coffee stuff she liked so much.

"Okay," she asked, "how many?"

"Twenty-five." Johan said. Last night three of the does had litters of baby rabbits. The others were pregnant. More of that marvelous angora hair. They were going to get so rich.

"Okay," she said, "each of the does has had an average of eight babies, right?"

Johan nodded cautiously. There had been something in Flo's tone. Like she was trying not to yell.

"So in the next couple of weeks we've got a lot of baby rabbits coming. Half of which will be female, or a bit more. We had forty does from the last cycle. Plus the ten mothers. Fifty does. Average of eight babies. Every three months or so . . . that's a lot of new rabbits in three months . . . half of them female . . . plus what we started with . . . that gives us about two hundred breeding does . . . Is that right?" Flo looked up at Johan. How did she seem so big. She was only five foot one.

"Two hundred and fifty," Johan said. "Then one thousand two hundred and fifty at the next cycle. Very good ratio." He pronounced the word carefully. "Rabbits are very good return on investment. But it won't happen that way." He added regretfully. "We use separate cages to limit the breeding." Then he grinned. "No Brillo rabbits to break into the does cages."

Flo wasn't so sure. "I don't know. Some of those bucks are mean."

"Meat." Johan's voice was flat.

"They're not exactly bred for meat," she pointed out.

"Hardly matters," Johan said. His blond hair fell over his eyes as he shook his head. "Meat is meat. We want only the best. Best wool. Easiest to manage."

Flo swallowed the bile. "Fine, Johan," she said. "We'll breed the best, and keep the rest in separate cages." Johan could tell that Flo didn't like it either. He hated giving up the fur they could produce. They were a resource he hated to lose, but the feed situation, not to mention the space situation, was going to get out of hand real soon. Johan wished there were some way to spread the load.

"You'll like her," Mary Lee Newhouse said. "She's about as down to earth as anyone ever was." They were walking up Flo Richards's long drive. "See?" Mary Lee flipped her hand, indicating the farm. "She's got her stuff together."

Clara Kunze, or Kunzin as the Germans would say, the wife of Herr Junker from Badenburg who had sold the Lehen on a farm to Mary Lee's husband, looked at her. She lifted a pale eyebrow. "This friend of yours, Flo? She's the one who claims that her wool is better than any wool in Thuringia? Why should I believe that?"

"Because it is." Mary Lee said. "I've known Flo for years. Went to school with her." Had been there for the infamous cheerleader episode. Had cheered Flo on, for that matter. Quietly, of course. Grantville was a small town. It didn't do to make more enemies than you had to.

"Flo," Mary Lee said, "will have an answer for your widows." She hoped. There were widows in Sundremda and she knew from Clara that there were others. Every village had them; more now, because of the war. They made their living, what living they had, by spinning wool. Flo knew about wool; maybe she would have an idea.

Mary Lee knew that wasn't all of it. Clara was worried about a number of things. Only one of them was the plight of the widows in the villages her husband held Lehen on. Mary Lee wasn't real fond of the stuck up Claus Junker but she at least respected the fact that he wouldn't put a widow or orphan out, rent or no rent. Still, if those women could make a fairly decent living, it would help. Clara had made it very clear that what she didn't want was another Guffy Pomeroy. They'd reached the porch. She rang the bell and hoped.

She rang the bell again, when Flo didn't answer.

"I know she's here," Mary Lee muttered. "I checked with J.D."

After the second ring, Flo pulled the door open. "Oh," she said. "It's you, Mary Lee. Come on in."
Flo waved them in. She looked . . . well, while Mary Lee hated the term, Flo looked stressed out. "What's wrong?" she asked.

"C'mon to the kitchen," Flo said. Grumpily. A glance told Mary Lee that Clara was not pleased with this lack of manners. Clara was pretty down to earth as upper class town women went, but even the best of them didn't care for being ignored or treated rudely.

Mary Lee and Clara followed. "Flo," Mary Lee said, "do you want to tell me what's wrong?"

Flo's bangs fell over her eyes as she looked fierce. "I," Flo said, "am sick of this place. The problems. Trying to deal with it. All of a sudden, I've got too many rabbits and not enough angora. I've got a ram that doesn't have wool, he's got steel wool. And he keeps getting loose. I'm afraid he's going to get to Jen's Merinos, that . . . thing." Flo's face was flushed. "And not only that . . ." She gestured around the room . . . "I'm having to cut back on coffee."

"Oops." Mary Lee stifled a grin. Flo had been hooked on coffee since she was about eight years old. "That bad, huh?"

Flo glared at her. "You can laugh." Then she looked at Clara. "Sorry," she said, then blushed a bit. "I've forgotten my manners. May I offer you something to drink?"

Clara Kunze, who clearly recognized a woman on the edge, grinned at her. "I don't suppose you have any of Mary Lee's frozen limeade about the house, do you?"

Flo grinned. "Who, me?" she asked innocently. "Me?"

Mary Lee gave Flo her own glare. "Tootsie, I saw that sale at Costco, didn't I?"

Flo blushed. "Jeez, Mary Lee," she said. "You'll give away all my secrets, won't you?"

"Only if you've run out of tequila." Mary Lee grinned. "Of course, we can always do daiquiris, can't we?"

"Tell me about these rabbits," Clara said sympathetically. "Are they getting into your garden?" Mary Lee could tell that Clara was feeling her way and she was thankful for it. She had gone to some trouble to arrange the meeting and Flo had almost blown it in coffee withdrawal.

Flo laughed. "No. Not that kind of rabbit. These are angora rabbits. They have marvelously soft hair; you spin it with wool." Then, seeing Clara's expression. "It's true. Here, I'll show you." She fetched a scarf made from merino wool and angora hair.

Clara felt the scarf. She rubbed it on her cheek, while Flo explained about plucking the fur from the rabbits and the other steps in making the incredibly soft, warm scarf.

"It's like a warm cloud on a sunny day," Clara enthused.

Flo smiled "What a nice way of putting it. The problem is it takes a lot of rabbits. Feeding them and housing them; the bucks have to be kept in separate cages or they fight. We don't have enough room." She turned the blender on, and waited for the margaritas. While they were blending, she salted the rims of three glasses. After pouring the frozen concoction into the glasses she set one each in front of Mary Lee and Clara, then slumped into a chair. "We have angora rabbits and can make angora yarn but not enough." Flo sighed "They're rabbits. They breed like rabbits but keeping them cared for is labor intensive and we don't have the labor. Keeping the colors separated is going to get kind of dicey too."

Clara looked up from stroking the scarf. "Flo," she said, a bit dreamily, then took a drink from her glass. "My son Egidius, just yesterday, was telling me about a marvelous invention. A franchise, he called it. I understand your keeping this to yourself. It is very valuable but there are poor women in all our villages. They need work. Can't something be worked out?"

"Huh." Flo was confused. "I'm not keeping it to myself. At least I didn't mean to. I'm not real sure what a franchise is. Not in detail." She shrugged. "And I don't really want to know, to tell the truth. If it's like the franchises up-time, well, anybody who owned one got inspected and had people coming around making sure they were doing what they were supposed to. I don't have the time, or the inclination." She stared into her glass. "Mostly, I bought the rabbits and sheep to try and coax Jen to come live in Grantville when she graduated. Probably silly of me, but I'm a mom, you know. Now . . ." Flo drained her glass. "Now I'll never see her again. Every time I see one of her friends, like Noelle, I choke up. Yeah, the rabbits are probably going to be a moneymaker, but that wasn't what I had in mind." She stood and gathered the ingredients for another batch of margaritas.

Clara was staring at Flo in surprise. "Then you would not object to selling the rabbits?"

"No." Flo shook her head. She didn't seem to notice Clara's sudden intensity but Mary Lee did.

"Not all of the village women would be able to pay in advance," Mary Lee said.

"We can work something out," Flo assured her. The sound of the blender stopped conversation for a minute or so. "I'm not trying to keep the damn things secret," Flo said. "I could sell them on spec." At Clara's look, she explained. "Sell them to people who would take care of them, then pay me what they owed later. Jeez, Clara. The sheep are enough to keep me busy. The rabbits—well, they're rabbits. I've already got too many." Flo prepared another set of glasses and served the drinks.

"Mary Lee, did your church do the Heifer Project? You know, where you donate animals?"

"I've heard about it," Mary Lee said, after she'd licked a bit of salt from the rim of her glass. "I always thought it was a good idea."

Flo reached for a pad of paper and made a note. "I don't think anyone has started one here. I'll get in touch with Mary Ellen at my church." She pointed at Mary Lee. "You get in touch with your pastor, too. And Clara can get in touch with people she knows."

"Heifer project?" Clara was clearly wondering what they were talking about.

"It was a program we had back up-time," Mary Lee explained. "Someone would donate a female animal to a family in need of food. In return, that family agreed to donate female offspring to another family, and then that family would do the same. Of course, it'll be a bit different with the rabbits."

"That's what we'll do, then," Flo said. "Sell what we can . . . say twenty dollars for a breeding pair. Give people a break. If they can't pay right away, we'll go for some interest, but not much. Donate the critters, if we have to. Johan will just have to suck it up."

Clara grinned at her. "Your husband?"

"Nah," Flo said. "My partner, I guess. He deals with the farm and the animals. And I think he's gotten a little too fond of the idea of getting rich off all this wool." She frowned. "There's no way we can keep up with as many animals as he wants us to. But the angora hair is pretty valuable, so we'll just do what you said. Sell them cheap, donate others. That way the hair gets harvested, the spinners make some money and we all have nice, soft clothes."

"Hear, hear," Mary Lee said, raising her glass.

Flo and Clara grinned. "Here, here," they echoed, touching their glasses to hers.

"It's going to take a while, I imagine, before it really gets going, Flo," Mary Lee warned. "Months, I bet.

"Piffle," Flo said, waving her fingers. "It will get done, sooner or later. Just a matter of getting organized, just like always. We can do it. Now . . ." Flo sighed. "If we could just get some coffee imported before I have to hurt someone."

Mary Lee just about snorted the margarita up her nose.

"J.D. if you make one more smart-ass remark, I'm going to throw this damn soup stuff at you."

J.D. looked at Flo, seeming a bit startled. Flo rarely cursed.

"I know I'm going to run out. I know everyone is. I don't need you to remind me of that every stinking morning of the world. If you say 'you're going to have to give it up sooner or later' one more time, you will regret it." Flo had a headache. "Just shut up, will you?"

J.D. apparently decided that discretion really was the better part of valor and murmured, "Yes, dear." As he rose from the table, Flo could see him hiding a smirk.

Jerk, she thought. Mr. I-can-take-it-or-leave-it jerk. 

After J.D. had driven away, Flo headed outside. "Anna, I'm going for a walk. I need to get out for a while."

"Ja, Flo. We take care of things." Even Anna had started walking on eggshells around Flo these days.

Flo stepped out into the warm morning and headed down the drive. It was the non-coffee days that were making life difficult. Her coffee stash had been devastated by the purchase of sheep. Only a couple of teenagers had been willing to take money for their sheep. The others had held out for coffee. Now, Flo was trying to ration herself. It wasn't easy.

"Damn sheep. Damn wethers. Damn rotten, bargaining brats. Damn it all, I have got to get hold of my temper."

Flo had gotten used to soup nearly every day. She could live with the inconvenience of not having a car. There wasn't even a decent sale to get to anyway. She'd even stopped listening for the phone on Sunday evenings, when Jen used to call.

Coffee was her only real vice. And Flo really, really missed coffee.

"Be honest, at least with yourself, Flo," she chastised herself. "Two or three pots of coffee a day, honestly. A coffeeholic, that's what you are. Don't you feel silly? Don't you hate being controlled by a craving?"

The headache was subsiding to a dull throb. Flo walked around a curve, and came to a sudden halt. Damn it, he's loose again! 

"You have to be the single most stubborn, stupid creature on the face of the planet, you know," she said in the sweetest tone she could manage. Brillo had gotten loose so many times that they'd had to put a collar on him, so they'd have something to grab. "You're going to be hit by a truck, you know. And then we're going to turn your pathetic fleece into a rug, just so I can walk on it every day."

Flo had her suspicions about Brillo. Breeding season was nearer every day. Brillo seemed determined to participate.

"Not going to happen, you scraggly so-and-so. Not going to happen." Flo reached for the collar, and the infuriating creature moved away. Twice more, she nearly had him.

Finally giving up, Flo turned to go back and get help. As she walked, she continued to mutter. "Don't know why he just won't stay put. Has to get out, has to cause trouble. Can't just stay in the pasture, has to get in the garden. Clover isn't good enough. Has to have weeds. Weeds. Chicory weed. Chicory!"

Breaking into a run, Flo started shouting as she reached the barn. "Johan, Johan . . . that damn Brillo is loose again! And we need a couple of shovels!"

"Roasted and ground, my rear end." Flo was getting irritated. She'd been experimenting for two days. Cleaning the roots and putting them in the oven didn't work. The roots wouldn't dry. Now she was chopping the chicory roots as finely as she could.

"If they did it in the civil war, I can do it now, Ilsa. I'm going to keep trying. It won't be coffee, but I can mix it with what's left. It will stretch the supply. I might make it through the winter without hitting a certain smart aleck, if I can figure this out."

It took a week of experiments, but Flo finally discovered that if she dried the roots thoroughly she could grind them. Then she could roast the ground roots. Now it was time to try a pot of chicory coffee.

"Let's try it with one scoop of coffee and one scoop of chicory, Anna. Then we'll see what happens." Flo was jittering with excitement.

The smell of coffee drifted around the kitchen. It was a different scent than usual, richer somehow. Flo took a cup from the cupboard and stood near the coffeemaker, enjoying the aroma.

When the coffeemaker beeped, she poured a cup full and sat at the table. She sniffed. "Unusual, but good."

Taking a sip, she stopped to savor the taste. "Not quite the same."

Another sip. "I can live with it."

Yet another sip. "I think, ladies, I may last out the winter, after all."

"Umm . . . Johan, do you think he's going to hurt himself doing that?" Flo asked. "Throwing himself against the fence that way looks like it would hurt pretty badly. He shook the corner post, that time."

"He will be okay, Flo. He is just mad. He can smell time to breed. We only keep him just in case. One more year, maybe. If good lambs and no rams die, I will see if someone wants him. Maybe Grange can use him." Johan was not sentimental about his stock.

"It's kind of a shame, Johan. He's a really hardy sheep." They started to walk away. "That wool, though, it's awful. In a way, I wish we could use him. It's silly to be sentimental, but he was our only hope for a while."

"Will be useless, probably, Flo. Only need few rams. Need many ewes."

The next morning, Flo was ready to personally castrate the Ram From Hell. The fence was down and Brillo had been found wandering through the breeding flock. There was no way to tell which ram had impregnated which ewe. They'd have to wait for spring.

"Flo, we've got to do something."

Flo and J.D. were getting ready for bed. J.D.'s tone caused Flo to look up quickly. J.D. was usually a relaxed, casual sort of person. He rarely sounded upset, no matter what happened.

"What's the problem, J.D.?"

"It's Mother, Flo. I've had Price Ellis, Charlotte Green and Hope Underwood on the phone today. They insist that Mother has to be convinced to leave Prichard's. It's getting pretty crowded and they've got a lot of people with real problems now. Mother doesn't need to be there. Her only problem is the arthritis. She's taking up space they could really use. What are we going to do?" J.D.'s voice cracked from stress.

"We had the same kind of day, J.D. In my case it was Mary Jo, Claudette and Joellen. They must all be using the same list. They all know we've tried to move her in with us for two years, now. It's Lena who objects. Every time I visit her she says the same thing. No."

"I know. I talked to Wallace today. The 'Adopt-an-Elder' people are calling him, too. They interrupted meetings all over town today. We've got to get Mother to see reason, Flo," J.D. said. "We could give her my den. It's closest to the bathroom."

"Heavens, J.D. You're going to give up the boys club?" Flo exclaimed in mock surprise. "Will wonders never cease?"

"You're a real smart aleck, when you want to be, aren't you, woman?" J.D. smiled. "I'll be happy to give up the den, now that I don't have to listen to you and the girls talk. How could any man sit and listen to five women talk about that kind of stuff? You could make a statue blush."

Trying to keep from snickering, Flo said, "Okay, big fella. You and Wallace bring her bedroom and living room furniture here. In fact, empty her storage unit. Clyde probably needs the space. We'll get the room ready, and make it as private as we can. Then I'll tackle Lena."

Lena Richards was a strong, independent woman. After being widowed at thirty-one, she had raised two strong, decisive, competent men. She didn't want to give up her own independence, but she refused to "be a burden" to her sons. At seventy-five, when housekeeping had become more than she could deal with, Lena had sold her house. She had used the proceeds, as well as her savings and Social Security payments, to continue living as she chose.

Prichard's hadn't been a nursing care facility prior to the Ring of Fire. Now, due to the war, it had become more and more crowded and had truly needy patients. Lena with her sharp mind, sharper tongue, and ability to get around with a walker, didn't need that kind of care.

"So, that's the situation." Flo had finished her explanation to Anna, Ilsa and Maggie. "What do you think?"

"We should get busy. Lena should kom heim und be with family. Ilsa, we get to see the 'secret room.' What treasures we will find, eh?" Anna laughed.

"Oh, ja, Anna. Flo, is full of gold und silver, yes?" Ilsa grinned.

The "boys club" had become another standing joke in the household. Anna and Ilsa were appalled at the idea of a room in a private home dedicated to avoiding family. That was, after all, what taverns were for. The one time all the men had tried to sneak away, Anna had called in the troops. With ten of the eleven children lining the walls and staring, the men had given up and returned to the living room. In truth, they were all usually too tired to spend time talking when they could be sleeping.

The den had yielded very few secrets. Old papers and catalogs were just about the extent of the treasure. J.D.'s desk had been moved to the bedroom, along with a few boxes of odds and ends.

"Where can we put this ugly old thing, Anna?" Flo wondered aloud. "It's really an awful old chair."

Catching a flicker of Anna's Oh, you rich Americans look, Flo said: "Come on, Anna, it's not a throne. It's just on old fake-leather recliner. It takes up too much space. There must be dozens in Grantville. Lena won't want it in her room."

"Is good of J.D. to give room to mama, yes? J.D. should not have to lose favorite chair. Is sturdy. Where can we put it?"

"You do have a point." Flo admitted. "I suppose it can go back in the living room. I warn you, Anna, anyone who sits in it will fall asleep. J.D. used to nap in front of the television. Just wait until you hear the snores."

The room was finally ready. Lena's furniture had been arranged to provide both a sleeping and sitting area. Her books and pictures were placed on the built-in shelving of the former library. There was even a door that opened onto the porch, where Lena could enjoy good weather.

"Well, ladies, we've done the best we can. It looks just fine." Flo commented. "Tomorrow, I'll ride to town with J.D. It's time to bring Lena home."

Fortified with a pot of chicory-laced coffee, Flo felt ready to tackle Lena. Riding into town with J.D. had given them a brief time alone. While killing a few hours until Lena would be ready for visitors, Flo had visited with friends and walked the length of Main Street. The changes in the once dying town were amazing. It was wonderful to see all the activity and people.

After she reached Prichard's, Flo stopped in to see Price Ellis. She told him her plans and received his quick agreement.

"I'm going to try again, Price. You know I've tried before. There's no guarantee that she'll agree this time, either. If she doesn't, I expect you to get Hope and her crew off of J.D.'s back. They can call me, but they've got to leave him alone. J.D. had enough to worry about. Agreed?" Flo asked.

"Agreed, Flo. They are a little overzealous, aren't they?" Price nodded. "Hope even came to see Lena. Maybe that will help. Lena just doesn't need skilled nursing care. I'm sure she'll be happier out at your place."

I hope Lena isn't angry about Hope's visit, Flo thought as she walked toward Lena's room. A mad Lena isn't going to make this any easier. 

"Good morning, Lena," she said as she entered the room after knocking.

"I'm not going, Florence. I know why you're here, and I'm not going." Lena definitely had her back up. No one ever used the name "Florence" unless they were trying to irritate Flo.

"Hope Underwood was here yesterday." Lena continued. "She had me walk up and down the hall and look into all the rooms. So don't try that one either."

"Lena, would you just stop being so stubborn? Honestly, if you don't want to be a burden, come home with me. Hope and her merry crew of nags are driving the town crazy. They've got J.D. and Wallace all upset. They're burning up the phone lines."

"I'm not giving them the satisfaction, Flo. No one has any business butting in. They've been after me for a week now. I'm sick of it and I told her so."

"I can just imagine that conversation. I'd have liked to have seen it. Still, Lena, it's not just the space issue. We could use your knowledge out at the house. You lived through the Depression and you went through the rationing of the war years. With so many people out there, one more isn't going to be a problem. Besides, I'd like to be able to speak English to someone. Having to learn German, eat soup every day and put up with the coffee shortage is getting on my nerves."

Flo laughed, "Come on, Lena. The German women have eleven kids between them. You like kids.

"Besides," Flo continued, "the only good thing about the Ring of Fire is that so many people have rediscovered the importance of family. We need you. I miss Jen, the girls are busy, and Mom has her own concerns. I'm outnumbered and overwhelmed. You wouldn't believe the mess I made, trying to add lanolin to a batch of soap. Come out and join the circus. Help me keep my sanity."

Lena and Flo had always gotten along well. Hearing the description of an average day had Lena and Flo laughing within a short period of time.

"You really do need me, don't you, Flo?" Lena said. "I can't imagine how you've stood it. Eleven kids, five or six other adults, a husband and a lunatic ram. Are you sure you don't want to just move in here with me?"

"There are days, Lena, when I feel like I could run away. Still, though, Grantville is home. Even Grantville in 1631 Germany is still home. We can't go back to West Virginia, so we'll have to do our best with what we've got. So, are you coming or not?"

"Oh, I'm coming, Flo. I'm coming. I've got to see the Ram From Hell, if nothing else. He's getting famous, you know?"

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Framed

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The Brillo Legends

Bad, Baaaad, Brillo

Paula Goodlett

J.D. came in the door laughing like a maniac. Flo looked up to see him waving a rough-looking piece of paper at her.

"What's so funny?" Flo asked. "I haven't heard you laugh like that in a while."

J.D., gasping for breath, handed Flo the sheet of paper. "Remember when you saw Cora the other day? It seems someone overheard you telling her about that ram and his exploits. This was making the rounds all over town today. You and that miserable excuse for a ram are famous!"

Flo looked down at the sheet, saw the drawing and read the first few lines. The further she read, the more she blushed. "Oh, no, please, no. Tell me this is a joke, J.D. Please let this be a joke."

The top of the sheet had two drawings. One was of a ram with beautiful wool. The other, well, the wool wasn't beautiful. The title was:

B-A-A-A-D, B-A-A-A-D BRILLO

Flo was pretty sure that no ram in history came with that kind of equipment.

Just who does this fur-ball think he is? Brillo thought. Those wimmen are mine. I'm the one who's been here. I'm the one they've all been making up to. I'm the one they cuddled up to after the shearing. I'm the one who put up with all the hormone surges. What makes him think he can strut in here and take over? 

Of all the people in the Richards-Sprug-Schmidt-Utt household, only one was unhappy. In fact, I'm not just unhappy, thought Brillo. I'm well and truly, to the bottom of my heart PISSED OFF!!! 

"Umm . . . Johan, do think he's going to hurt himself doing that?" Flo asked. "Throwing himself against the fence that way looks like it would hurt pretty badly. He actually shook the corner post that time."

"He vill be okay, Flo. He is yust mad. He can smell zat ze breeding season has begun. Ve do not need him, now. I vill zee if zomeone vants him. If not, I vill check vit ze Grange, to zee if zey need him." Johan was not sentimental about his stock.

"Gee, Johan, I kind of hate to get rid of him. He was our only hope for a while. I know it's silly to be sentimental, but he's really not awful . . ." Flo's voice trailed away, as she and Johan turned to walk away.

Wool, wool, that's all they think about. What about stamina? What about vigor? That hair-ball over there would fall over dead before he could walk half the distance I could. There's nothing to him but hair. Brillo knew what was coming. He was being deposed.

First they'll see if anyone wants me, then they'll send me away. Worst of all they might turn me into . . . NOOOOOOO!!!! I'd rather go to the butcher! Brillo continued to ram the weak spot of the fence.

Hours later, in the dark of night, the fence finally gave up. Brillo stomped away.

I'm getting' some before I leave, he was determined. I'm gettin' some and then I'm headin' north. North to where a sheep can live free. North where they can't take my wool, my wimmen or my lambs. 

Spying one of the furry ewes away from the flock, Brillo bounded over and satisfied himself.

"Thank you, ma'am," he baaed as he sauntered away. "Very nice of you, I'm sure."

As he stalked away, Brillo began to get sleepy. Blearily, he looked at the sky. "Which way is north?" he wondered.

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Framed

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When Brillo Met Annie

Stanley Leghorn

Brillo jerked to full wakefulness. Something was making the ewes nervous and they were bleating and moving away from the back of the fence. Brillo shouldered his way through the shifting crowd and looked, listened and smelled. It was the smell that told him what had upset his ladies.

Stupid yapper, if he's in here I'll smack him into the back of the house, I swear I will! No one bothers my wimmen but ME!  

The canine was not in the pen, but traveling past it on the way towards the woods with something in its jaws. Flo had described Brillo's many faults: Destructive, greedy, Destructive, pig headed, Destructive, sneaky, Destructive, arrogant and did she mention Destructive? The one thing she had, grudgingly, praised him for was being a good family ram. And having the tremendous personal courage that job required.

Brillo slammed into a part of the fence he had tested earlier for just such an event. The section pulled up out of the ground and Brillo squirmed under, leaving a bunch of scruffy fur behind. Da lady don't like my fleece anywho, he thought. But, he swiftly set off in pursuit. As he got closer, he was surprised to hear a soft feminine voice berating the canine: "Put me DOWN! I do not taste good and you are ripping me! Stop this before you get in more trouble!" But not so surprised that he failed to lower his head and go to ram speed as he got close.

"Ooh, NOW you are going to get it!" exclaimed the voice. The small canine, little more than a cub, looked over his shoulder and yelped in fright. The warning was enough for him to get MOSTLY out of the way. But mostly is not the same as all, and Brillo shifted his attack as much as possible to make it as much as possible. The result was a glancing blow to the tail which sent the pup flying. When the pup landed, he leapt to his feet with a yip of pain and saw Brillo turning around for another pass.

His mother had told him that discretion was the better part of valor in a failed attack such as this one, and he became rapidly discrete, all the way to the woods, yipping in pain each time his hind legs hit the ground.

Brillo slowed as he saw his victim in full flight, and stopped near where he had hit the pup. "Snort! Don' come back, ya stoopid yapper!"

Brillo was about to head back to the pen when the voice said, "Thank you ever so much for saving me, Brillo!" Brillo quickly looked around but could see no one. "Who dat?"

"My name is Annie, I belong to Johan's daughters." Brillo peered down at the ground. There indeed was the doll he had seen before, when the daughters had been out playing near the pen. "How come you never talked afore?" asked Brillo.

"It is part of the Guild rules, we have to listen to people and children, but we can talk to animals," replied Annie, who was mournfully holding her left leg in her arms.

"Stoopid hooman rules, humph! Well, I gotta get back te my wimmen. They don' feel safe witout me."

"Oh, please, do not leave me out here in the field! Please, PLEASE take me back to the house where I can be found!"

"Why? I gots family te watch and take care of."

"I know, but it will only take a few minutes for you to run me over there. You run so fast, I bet you could go it in less time than it takes to squirm back into the pen. Besides, a good deed is its own reward."

Brillo puffed himself up with pride. "Yah, I will take ya." Leaning over, he grabbed the doll in his mouth, growling about the horrible doggy aftertaste. Quickly he went to the back porch and tossed the doll onto it.

"Satisfied?" Getting no answer, Brillo repeated, "I said sat,"

Brillo stood like a sheep in a headlight. Only in this case it was a flood light. He heard the door open.

"You MONSTER! Johan, tomorrow we have mutton! This is the last straw! Ripping up your daughter's doll!"

Johan and J.D. were scanning the woods edge. Johan bent over to pick up the doll and his nose flared open. Brillo had an easily identified scent. As did dog. "Where is the wolf now, eh?"

Flo's husband was scanning the woods edge with the sight on his rifle. Brillo looked towards the woods and snorted. He pawed the ground, gave a tossing motion with his horns and sneered.

"J.D., did you see that?" quavered Flo.

"See what, honey?" He lowered the rifle, and said, "Johan, I don't see anything now, it must have run off."

"But, But, But . . ." Flo stuttered to a halt.

"You all right?" asked her husband.

"I need to get back to bed. Johan, take that creature back to the pen and see that he STAYS there!"

"All right. Come on Brillo, back to your post." Fortunately, Flo could not see the grin on Johan's face as he firmly guided Brillo home.

A good deed is it own reward, huh? snorted Brillo . . .

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Framed

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Local Woman Goes Buggy

Paula Goodlett

"Flo, have you seen this one?" J.D. asked, while hiding a smirk. "It seems you've made the news again."

Flo, irritated beyond endurance, read the broadsheet J.D. handed her. The title, under the usual graphic drawing, read:

LOCAL WOMAN GOES BUGGY

An interested observer reports that Mrs. J.D. Richards appears to be having a nervous breakdown. As evidence, we present the following letter, purported to have come from the desk of the person in question:

Dear Mary,  

Brillo is NOT my silly ram. Brillo is my business partner Johan's silly ram. And he's not silly. If he was silly he wouldn't be a problem. The problem is he's SMART, and he's out to get me. Everybody seems to think he's just a poor misunderstood dumb animal, but they are WRONG. He is the devil in sheep's clothing. He takes every opportunity to get at me, and when I try to point out his behavior, he stands there all innocence. But I know what he's really like. If he wasn't such a hero to everyone else he'd have been dinner ages ago.  

With thanks,  

Flo Richards  

Flo finished reading, stunned. "J.D., I've never said that to anyone. I didn't write this letter!" she wailed. "What am I going to do? The whole town is going to believe this, just like they believe that stupid sheep killed a wolf."

"There, there, dear," J.D. answered. "No one is really going to believe that you're crazy. I've lived with you since 1967. I'd know if you were really crazy."

"I'm not crazy. Really, I'm not," Flo began to babble. "I don't think he's out to get me. He's just a sheep. I know a sheep doesn't have that much brains. He couldn't have planned this. Someone is out to get me, I just know it. Who is it? Why are they doing this?"

J.D. put his arms around Flo and patted her back. "I know, darling, I know."

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Framed

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No, No, Brillo!

Virginia DeMarce

"We could do it, Mrs. Nelson," Trissie Harris coaxed. "I know that you have the booklets for No, No, Nanette!"

"We are not," Iona Nelson said firmly to the class, "going to enliven the organizational meeting for the League of Women Voters with a Brillo skit. We are going to sing our entry for the national anthem contest, and that is all we are going to do." She was using her best schoolteacher voice.

"But," Trissie protested, "some of them are soooo cute. Grandpa made up the one about Charlie."

Against her better judgment, Iona found herself asking, "What one about Charlie?"

"Charlie was in the original." Trissie's grin made it plain that she was going to cherish this day for a long time. She rarely got to solo in the middle school chorus:

"Get Wild Root Cream Oil, Brillo!
It's full of lanolin.
Get Wild Root Cream Oil, Brillo!
It keeps your wool in trim.
Get Wild Root Cream Oil, Brillo!
Don't chase the ewes away.
Get Wild Root Cream Oil, Brillo!
It'll really make your day.
But wait just a minute, Brillo!
Wild Root just isn't in.
You don't need Wild Root, Brillo!
Your fleece has lanolin."

Trissie opened her mouth for another line; then looked around the classroom, said, "I don't think I'd better sing the last verse right now," and sat down with a plop. The rest of the class laughed loud enough that Iona suspected that they had already heard it.

She was saved from having to comment by the bell.

"Okay," Flo said to J.D. "I can believe that Dex Harris made a bawdy ballad to the tune of the Wild Root Cream Oil Commercial. I really can. I can even believe that he taught it to Trissie. But no way do I believe that he wrote the rest of those. I know the guy, J.D. I've known him all my life. There's no way that he spends his spare time reading collections of American short stories."

"Look, Flo," J.D. said. "This could be like the story about the monster. The one that every time the guy chopped one head off, it grew a couple more. If people get the idea that the stories really upset you, they're likely to do more of them. Just to get your goat. Or your sheep."

He fled in mock terror. It was definitely mock, because he knew perfectly well that no matter how upset Flo was, she wasn't upset enough to dump a cup of rare and valuable hot coffee over his head.

Flo stared glumly at the table. No, there was no reason why any of the Harrises would be out to get her. Dex had just written that as a joke. But, "Local Woman Goes Buggy?"

That one had meanness to it.

The kind of meanness that only kids had. On the back of an old envelope, not bothering to sharpen the pencil first, she started making a list of everyone in Grantville who had gone to grade school and high school with her. Annotated.

"I don't think that you're really stopping to think about it, Mom," Amy said impatiently. "You were right the first time, when you said that the 'Buggy' one isn't like the others. Even if you figure that one out, the person who wrote it won't be the person who wrote the rest of them."

"Get to the point," Kerry said.

"She will," commented Missy as she buttered another piece of rye bread. "It's just that by the time she gets there, the rest of us will have written the Great American Novel, built our own greenhouses to grow citrus fruit in our back yards, opened up home businesses, and sent off expeditions to start colonies back in America. Just thinking about all the stuff people think we ought to do since we came back in time makes me tired before I've even gotten breakfast."

Flo wondered when her daughters, who were rapidly approaching thirty, were going to start talking to one another like they weren't still squabbling about who got the bathroom first. I love them, I really do, she assured herself. I love them all. I love the grandkids that I have. I love, she paused and looked at Kerry, the grandkid that it looks like I'm going to have any minute now. I'll love the grandkids I'm almost certain to have next year or the year after, if somebody doesn't re-invent the pill.

Kerry's David was in school, which reduced the noise level somewhat. Amy's David and Missy's Mike were still small enough to corral in a playpen, but since it was the same playpen and Mike had recently bopped David on the head with a toy Brillo, both were squalling in the background. Amy's Kayla and Missy's Caitlin had both been in moods all morning that would have driven the author of "sugar and spice" to take it all back. Little girls appeared to be made of sour pickles and tabasco sauce.

But Amy was not distracted. "Look, except for the Buggy story, they're all Peter Rabbit stories."

"Amy," said Missy. "Get to the point."

Amy, sad to say, stuck her tongue out at her sisters.

Flo mentally gave herself one more black mark for Abysmal Failures in Maternal Training.

"The Peter Rabbit stories aren't about the guy who had the garden, Whatzisname. Mr. Whatzisname is just there in the background, for scenery. That's where Mom is in all the others. They're about the animal. So he's a stupid ram, so what? She's only there in the background trying to keep him in his pen, or away from the ewes, or not appreciating how brave and clever he is, or something. The stories are about him. Some of them don't even mention Mom at all. Except the 'Buggy' one. That's about Mom."

Kerry thought a minute. "You're right. I hate to say it, but you're right. And some of them do have to be guys. It must have been a guy who wrote 'Bad, Baaad, Brillo!' But 'Buggy' was written by a female. It's just nasty."

Amy wasn't finished. She just ignored Kerry and kept going. "So live with the rest of them. You think that Beatrix Potter didn't laugh all the way to the bank. He isn't what you wanted out of this sheep project, but he's what you got. So make the most of it, Mom."

Flo sighed. "All right. But I still want to find out who wrote that one."

"Who are your candidates?" Kerry asked.

"I thought there had to be two things. First, she didn't like me. I had a bunch in that column. Second, she has to be here—not off in the oil field with her husband like Lelah Johnson—Kidwell that was. And willing to do it—that lets out Charmaine Dwyer—Elkins that was—because she's actually turned into a nice person, much as I sort of hate to say so."

"Some day," Missy said, glancing at the envelope Flo had brought along to the Richards girls' brunch and kaffeeklatsch, "I think that I really want to hear the stories about what went on in Grantville when you were in grade school and high school, that you ended up with so many people in your 'enemies' column."

Flo glared at her.

"The candidates left are Stella Pilcher—Burroughs that was. But she doesn't have the gumption. She just whines."

Flo realized that her daughters were looking shocked. "Well, she does. Always did. I didn't like her. Still don't. And it showed, back then. Now I just avoid her."

Flo looked down into her cup of coffee before she went on. "And Idalee Jackson—Mitchell that was. And I think that it's Idalee. She's the scheduler for the Grange meetings. Most people would have had to show up at the paper and leave that thing and someone would have remembered it. She drops stuff off all the time, meeting notices and the like. If it was just on the bottom of things she left in their 'incoming' box, on a different kind of paper, nobody would ever know."

"Mom," Kerry asked rather cautiously, "What did you do to her?"

"Before the final game at the state basketball tournament, I carefully glued lots of little pieces of straw inside her flippy cheerleader skirt. Just with little bitty dots of library paste. First, they pricked her bottom and itched her. Then, when the cheerleaders really got going, they started to fall out, right in front of the crowd."

"Mom!" The horror was unanimous.

"That was junior year. I had caught her trying to put the moves on your father. I had him staked out, already. And, face it, as a husband, he's been a lot better deal than Butler Jackson. But she didn't have to marry him."

"Mom!"

"Well, she didn't. Everybody assumed that she did when they got married, because they couldn't imagine why else she took him, but it was twenty-two months before Wade was born. I guess she was just starting to be afraid of being an old maid." Flo paused. "I'm not saying for sure that she did it, and I'm not going out and accuse her. But just sort of pinning it down makes me feel better inside. Idalee does hold grudges—and she's smart enough."

Flo came to a decision. "As for the rest of them—Amy's right. I think I'll just laugh along with everybody else."

"We can do it," Trissie insisted. "We only need to snitch one copy of the booklet. So Michelle can play."

Ashley Walsh and Liz Russo looked at her doubtfully.

"The only other person who'll need to know at all will be Michelle. Grownups think that kids can't do anything without someone to tell them how. We can do this ourselves. Honestly we can."

"And with Michelle Matowski at the piano." Mrs. Nelson finished the introduction and moved to the director's post.

The girls' chorus finished their presentation to polite applause from the League of Women Voters. (Iona had been quite right in saying that the tune was almost impossible to sing, even if it was very popular.) The girls filed out of the front of the room.

Except . . . three of them didn't. Liz Russo slipped off in the other direction and hid behind the piano. Trissie Harris and Ashley Walsh stayed on the little stage, reached into their pockets, and each brought out a pair of fuzzy white earmuffs.

Flo's heart sank.

At the piano, Michelle segued into, "Tea for Two." Brillo and the ewe started to sing, "A ram for me, an ewe for you." Between every verse, Michelle switched tunes and from behind the piano came Liz Russo's high soprano admonishing, "No, No, Brillo!"

Flo laughed.

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Framed