The Grantville Gazette - Volume 4 Part 9

several sizes of nuts and bolts on the tabletop.

Puzzled and wondering if this was some joke or worse, a trap, Martin gathered the metal bits up and set them in order. A glance showed that Herr Glauber was leaning toward him, his face a studied calm.

Gathering three of the hardware pieces up and setting them aside Martin pushed the rest back toward Herr Glauber. "These, sir, these I could make. Had I tools and a shop, I could make these."

"Ah, good. Good. And those three little ones?"

"I've never made such small screws before. Given practice I could probably make something like them."

Shrugging, Martin picked up the tiny screws and handed them back to Glauber.

"Only something like them?"

"Yes, sir. The same size and thread but I don't know what metal they are made from. It is too light for

steel."

"Ah, I see. According to the person I got them from, they are made of aluminum." Glauber seemed

pleased. He took a long drink from his stein and pulled out his pipe. "But, Journeyman Schmidt, you can make the others."

"Yes, sir. I could, if I had the tools. If you have need of more bolts and nuts, then you had best talk to the

Americans."

"Did you know, young man, that the Americans have been searching out such hardware? That they are careful-very careful-to save any such pieces when they disa.s.semble any of their machines?"

"No, sir, but it doesn't surprise me. Bolts and nuts are fiddly things to make. I've heard that the

Americans had machines to make them by the thousands back in the place they came from." Now that was a thought for an apprentice or overworked journeyman to contemplate. A machine to do the dull, repet.i.tive, boring, but oh so precise job of making threaded fasteners.

"Ah, yes, young man, so they did. And will again-sometime. Until then someone will have to make them."

"Well, sir. Any good blacksmith can make bolts. Given examples he could duplicate those. He wouldn't turn out thousands but he should be able to make several hundred. If I had a shop and tools even I could make them." Martin looked across the table. Glauber was back to beaming at him, as though he had said something especially bright.

"Yes, yes, young man. Indeed. Your lack of tools is a problem." Herr Glauber tapped his teeth with his pipe stem. "Have you any engagements for the next few days?"

"No, sir, none." Disconcerted, Martin stared; wondering just what Glauber had in mind.

"Good. Now Master Blacksmith Hubner has declared that you are not to be employed by anyone, at least not as an apprentice or journeyman blacksmith. As a master myself, I'm custom bound to honor his decree." Herr Glauber's face was serious as he intoned Hubner's decree. Looking directly into Martin's eyes, Glauber's face slipped into a sly grin. "However, I've got work to be done that requires only strong muscles. A journeyman blacksmith might think such a job beneath him. A bright young man could find benefit in it. For the duration of the job I'll match your journeyman's pay and provide for two meals. It starts tomorrow morning. Might you be interested?"

"Yes, sir," was all Martin could manage without his voice breaking. "Yes, sir." A job. An hour ago any

job had been beyond Martin's hope.

"Good. Adolf will collect you from the Refugee Center. The work is hot and dirty but it is honest and I pay honest wages."

"Thank you, sir, thank you."

* * * Adolf showed up at six. From the sack he was carrying he offered Martin several fresh rolls, still warm from the ovens. "Papa likes these rolls so he sends me out every morning to get them. I got an extra dozen. If you don't eat them Heinrich will," Adolf cheerfully said.

Munching companionably the two young men set off down the road. They caught a ride with a produce

wagon in exchange for a pair of the fresh rolls and Martin listened as Adolf traded gossip with the farmer and his wife. Before the young men alighted the farmer's wife swapped several apples for the remainder of the extra rolls. She waved and wished them well, commenting to her husband that they reminded her of her sons.

"We're just up this street behind us, Journeyman Schmidt. Papa and Heinrich should be there already,"

Adolf commented, still waving to the farmer's wife.

"It will be easier if you just call me Martin. My status as a journeyman is suspect." With a rueful grimace, Martin began walking in the direction Adolf had indicated.

"Sure, Martin. Put the long face aside, your status is not in question with my father. Papa has been talking about how fine your work is. Come on, this is it. We best be quiet, lest we disturb the house owner." Adolf opened a wooden gate and led Martin along the side of the house. When they came to the back of the house Martin could see that the yard dropped down abruptly and then leveled off before meeting the neighbor's fence. Down on the lower level was a small shack covered in some kind of vine.

From under the back porch an old dog ambled out to walk beside them.

"Martin, this is Killer. He likes to have his ears and tummy scratched."

"Not much of a watchdog, is he?"

"No, he's not. I think he was her husband's dog. She doesn't seem to like him."

"Whose husband?" queried Martin.

"The old woman who owns this house. She's . . . well, Papa will tell you about her. There's Papa now."

Pointing to the overgrown shack Adolf grabbed Martin's arm. "Come on, there are steps over this way."

"Ah, Adolf. There you are at last. Journeyman Schmidt, I hope my son has not talked your ears off on

the way." Herr Glauber met them at the bottom of the stairs. "This is Bauer Mohler. He's renting us the use of his wagon and team. And here is our problem." Glauber waved a hand at the shack. "The owner of this property has determined to have this ruin fixed up so that she can rent it out. Already the top floor of her house holds two families and she hopes to see more income."

"It looks as if one good wind will tumble it down. It'll be leaky and with all those vines, full of spiders

and such. Who'd rent such as this?" Mohler asked.

"She'll find someone, houses being that short in town. She'll get a goodly rent for it, too. A grasping and mean-spirited woman, she is," Herr Glauber explained. Patting the pocket of his coat he added, "I did some repairs for her before. This time, when I agreed to clear out this shack and fix it up, I made certain to get a contract, one drawn up by a good American lawyer and checked over by a good German lawyer.

I made sure that everything we clean out of it belongs to me. First, we need to cut down these vines and see what is left of her shed."

Bauer Mohler reached into his wagon and brought out three sickles, a long rake, and a scythe. Standing at the edge of the growth of vines, he began the long, graceful, and backbreaking sweep with his scythe.

Herr Glauber removed his jacket and carefully laid it on the wagon seat before taking one of the sickles.

"Gather the cuttings to the side, just over there," Mohler directed. "I'll be taking them back with me."

"Sir, if I might ask, why?" Heinrich, swinging a bit wildly in his attempts to cut the vines, piped up.

"Nasty stuff, isn't it? The sheep love it and it puts the weight on them. No, son, not like that, here." The

big farmer chuckled. He rescued Heinrich from his entanglement and set the boy to raking cut vines on

the canvas.

"What is this vine?" Martin, no stranger to hard labor, was finding the vine cutting difficult. For each stem cut three more seemed to spring up, grasping for his hands, legs, and the sickle.

"The Americans call it Kudzu and swear that it grows as you watch it. My boys and I cleared the doorway just last week-just look at it now!" Herr Glauber stopped and mopped his face. "One of the Americans told me you can hear it growing on a still night."

"The strange thing is that it hasn't overgrown the entire town," Adolf added, puffing as he pulled several

long vines off the roof.

"Yes, yes, my boy. The Americans know of ways to stop it, although it is a long and hard fight. Fire kills it and their alchemists brewed up substances that would slow it down. Fire," Herr Glauber declared with a grin, "is often impractical."

"Yes, Papa, but what about the goats? Why couldn't we have turned goats loose in here?" Heinrich asked as he struggled to gather a tangle of vines that trailed from the shed to the growing pile in the corner of the yard.

"Ah, well, first the goats would have taken days to eat all this. Second, my son, all the goats were busy in other yards." Pausing to sharpen his sickle Herr Glauber turned to Martin. "Goats and sheep will eat this cursed vine down to the ground. It grows back, but not as strongly. Then winter's cold stops its growth. If the goats come back to eat it again through the next year and the ones following eventually it

dies."

"Given several years of goat nibbles, anything will die," announced Heinrich.

"Careful, Henny, or Papa will buy a herd of goats and make you the goatherd," Adolf teased his younger

brother.

"Not a bad idea, not a bad idea. I think I may suggest it to our council. We could rent out the goats and