The Grantville Gazette - Volume 4 Part 8

go."

Ned cleared his throat. "Do me a favor, Iona. Don't sell your house. Rent it out. Let Mary Ruth Caldwell handle it. She'll be needing the money. Don't burn your boats. Take a leave of absence. One year, two years, I'll leave that up to you."

Men!

* * * Iona had quite a bit of luggage. Four suitcases and a trunk. No matter that she had gone along with Ned Paxton about renting out her house, she knew in her heart that she wasn't coming back to Grantville except maybe for an occasional visit. The college would provide her with a room, and she was taking what she would want to have in that room. Music. Photos. Clothes. Her favorite foam rubber pillow that supported her neck just right when she slept. Two old-fashioned rubber hot water bottles. She didn't mind saying goodbye to the rest. Archie Clinter thought that she should have rented a storage place, but she didn't want to bother. She was renting the house out furnished.

She'd hired a wagon to take her down to the train. As far as Halle by train; by boat on the Elbe to Magdeburg. Then over to Quedlinburg. Thank goodness she wouldn't be slogging overland in a wagon, the way it had been raining the last week.

The driver was headed the wrong way. She had said her goodbyes at the school the day the spring semester ended. She leaned forward, "We're supposed to be going to the depot."

He turned his head. "I haff my orders."

She looked up at the steps of the turreted old red brick building. A couple of hundred people, at least.

She blinked. Every one of them under twenty-five; every one had been in middle school music cla.s.ses at some time in the past ten years. Down at the bottom of the steps, Vicki Saluzzo.

Now, that had been a lively fight, as the school system had bearded the NUS army, demanding that it not tie up in that original, romantic, "for the duration" enlistment statement people who were needed a lot worse to do other things in Grantville's civilian world. They'd pried out the Saluzzo twins, Jim and Vicki, to teach physics and music; that had been followed by a "reevaluation" and a fairly large release of up-timers who had already been soldiers for two or three years into the reserves. Which was turning out to be very beneficial to Grantville's economy.

Vicki raised her baton.

Smile, the while I bid you sad adieu.

When the clouds roll back, I'll come to you.

The young voices went on. "'Til we meet again."

Iona blinked once more, smiled, and waved at them. The driver turned the wagon and took her down to the depot, with no more fuss.

As soon as she found her seat, she opened her notebook. There was a whole curriculum to plan between

now and September. She thought she had better have several different options to present to her new colleagues. It was never a good idea to start a new job by giving the impression that you were overbearing.

As the modified pickup truck cab section that was pulling the little train moved out of the built-up part of the Ring of Fire, paralleling the highway to Rudolstadt, it started to gain speed. Iona looked out the window as it pa.s.sed St. Martin's in the fields.

Goodbye, Billy. 'Til We Meet Again.

One Man's Junk

by Karen Bergstrahl.

Martin Schmidt paused, his spoon barely touching the stew. His stomach would have him attack the stew bowl like a starving wolf but his mind held him back. Carefully, he took one spoonful and then put his spoon down. A sip of beer helped but his hand shook slightly. Reminding himself he was a man, not a wolf, he looked at his host before taking a second spoonful.

"Eat up, boy. When you've finished there will be time enough to talk." Herr Glauber beamed across the table. "Here, Adolf, fetch another pitcher of beer and get me another ham sandwich." The older of the two boys beside Herr Glauber shoved his chair back and got up with a grin and a glance at the crowded bar of the Thuringen Gardens.

"Yes, Papa. Heinrich, more stew or a sandwich?" Adolf asked his younger brother.

"Sandwich, please," Heinrich replied. The boy drained his mug with a gulp and belched loudly. "And hurry back with the beer."

"Manners, son, manners!" Herr Glauber clouted the youngster on the shoulder. "Your mother didn't raise

you without manners."

"No, Papa." Heinrich sat up straight, tucked his folded hands in his lap and a.s.sumed a pious expression, or what would have been one save for the crossed eyes.

"Brat. I'm surprised I don't beat you daily." Herr Glauber's stern expression slipped and he reached over

to ruffle his son's hair. "You must excuse the boy. Since his mother's death . . . Go ahead and eat, Young

Schmidt. It does no good to talk business on an empty stomach."

Martin, chewing a bit of tough meat from the last of the stew, contemplated his host. Herr Glauber did not have the look of a man who missed many meals. A closer look showed the lines and loose flesh common to those who have lost a great deal of weight quickly. No, his host, while not starving now, had seen hunger recently. Martin carefully fished a bit of gristle out of his teeth and took a mouthful of beer to wash down the stew. Just as he opened his mouth to speak Adolf reappeared with two large pitchers clutched to his chest and a plate of sandwiches balanced precariously atop the pitchers.

"Here, Young Schmidt, take a couple of sandwiches for later. Young men are always hungry." Herr

Glauber shoved the plate toward Martin and out of the grasping hands of Heinrich.

"Thank you, sir. Thank you very much for the meal," Martin said. He hurriedly selected a pair of sandwiches and carefully wrapped them in his handkerchief.

"See, Heinrich? Our guest is polite, as you should be. He is full of questions but instead of spewing them at me like bees circling a hive he waits. I've the right of it, don't I, Schmidt? You're as full of questions as my boy is of mischief." Herman Glauber grinned across the table.

"Yes, sir. I am," was all Martin could manage. His thoughts tangled and knotted and he couldn't fashion

them into a coherent question.

"First, we have never met before yet I invite you to share a meal with my family. Why should I do so?

Secondly, I am a Master Carpenter, you are a blacksmith. In fact, you claim you are a journeyman

blacksmith and the masters of your craft deny you the t.i.tle."

A sick feeling welled up from Martin's stomach. He was a journeyman-but one without papers to prove

his claim. Or tools, or friends, or anyone who could say, "Yes, I know Martin Schmidt is a journeyman blacksmith." Slumping down in the chair, he ducked his head to hide the shameful flush.

"Ah, boy, don't hang your head." Glauber's voice was gentle. "I didn't invite you here to shame you. You

are hardly the only journeyman to arrive in Grantville without his papers. Old Hubner denied your claim so he could charge the Americans a journeyman's wages for your work while giving you an apprentice's wages. Some of the others are doing the same."

"I . . . I thought that might be so. He was within his rights to deny me my rank. I have no proof."

Martin's voice trailed off as his thoughts twisted again to the beginning of the week when he had accused Master Blacksmith Hans Hubner of just such an action. In the s.p.a.ce of ten minutes he had listened to a lecture on the sin of claiming rank he did not hold, been fired from his job without pay, and informed that no other blacksmith in or around Grantville would employ him even as a sweep. So it had proved. Named as a malcontent and troublemaker, Martin had found no one was willing to hire him. "I thought my work would show . . ." With a helpless shrug Martin sat, waiting for the lecture he was certain would come from this Master.

"Adolf, our guest's stein is empty. Refill it. Journeyman Schmidt, those last sets of hinges you made were for one of my jobs. I've seen poorer work from the hand of a master. You, my boy, arrived in Grantville too late or too early. Too late because Hubner and his cronies gobbled up the smithing jobs and control who is hired. This they can do because so few of the Americans speak German. Had you been hiding in the hills when first this town appeared, you might be one of them. Six months, or maybe a year from now, there will be too many jobs for the masters to control. Too many jobs and too many of the Americans will speak German for Hubner's tricks to work. Adolf, my stein is now empty and so is this pitcher." Fishing a handful of coins and some paper money out of a pocket, the older man shoved them at his son and waved him off. Pulling the remaining pitcher over, Glauber filled his stein. Beside him Heinrich was giggling. Every time Herr Glauber had mentioned Master Blacksmith Hubner, Heinrich had puffed out his cheeks and sucked in his lips, in a nearly perfect parody of Herr Hubner.

Heinrich Glauber grinned widely and winked at Martin. Finding himself smiling back, Martin also felt his stomach settling. Perhaps there was some truth to Herr Glauber's words. "Sir, it may be so. However, my intemperate words have put me out of work."

Herr Glauber nodded in agreement. "Yes, son, they have. But your words caused your American bosses to look into the way wages are paid out. If they did not completely understand your words they did understand their point. Master Blacksmith Hans Hubner no longer distributes the pay to his underlings.

That alone has gained you friends among many of the journeymen-not that they dare show their regard openly."

"Oh!" this information startled Martin. It did explain why he had found his pocketknife tucked into his boots the morning before. He'd been whittling kindling and had left it beside the forge when Master Hubner had called him from the shop.

"Adolf tells me you are in his English cla.s.s and that you are doing very well. That is good, very good.

Heinrich, go tell your brother he was to fetch more beer, not chat with the barmaids." Glauber remained silent until the boy had left the table. Then he reached over to his tool belt which rested on the extra chair and with a thud threw a hammer in front of Martin. "Journeyman Schmidt, can you make one of

these?" Glauber asked in a challenging manner, his face serious.

Picking up the hammer, Martin found his hands caressing it. Made as a single piece, the shaft and head gleamed with a soft silvery glow. The grip was blue, fitted tightly over much of the shaft and it was dotted with a pattern of oval holes. At the bottom, in yellow lettering was "Estwing" on one side and "Safe-T-Shape" on the other. Both sets of lettering had a shape suggesting a wing around them. Two months ago he would have found the blue material a puzzle. Now he recognized it as what the Americans called "plastic." Hefting the hammer, Martin found it fit well in his hand, the balance inviting him to swing it. With a sigh he set the hammer on the table and admired its form. From the side the shaft was roughly as wide as his thumb but from the back . . . As the shaft arose from the blue plastic grip it narrowed, gracefully but rapidly, until it was only an eighth of an inch thick. This narrow edge

continued for a handbreadth until it again swelled to form the head. With his finger Martin stroked the hammer, admiring the daring form. After a final caress he looked up and into his host's face.

"No, Herr Glauber. I cannot make such a hammer. I don't think even the Americans could make such a

hammer now. Not for lack of craft but for lack of material. Give me the steel this is made from and time to learn its tricks and . . . maybe. It would be a Masterwork indeed." Pushing the hammer back across the table Martin found his hand reluctant to let go of it. What had the Americans' world been like that hammers were made of such steel?

"Ah, an honest answer, Journeyman. What about these?" Glauber now opened his fist and scattered