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Burmashave

Written by Chris Racciato

May, 1633

Ernst Frohlich looked at the man sitting across the table from him. He was nondescript, clean shaven, and dressed in contemporary clothing, but his accented German identified him as one of the now famous "up-timers" from Grantville. The fact that the man had requested to meet him anonymously in a public house in Meiningen late at night in the middle of winter both puzzled and intrigued Frolich. Meiningen was quite some distance from Grantville, and separated from it by the entire Thuringenwald, to boot.

Still, the offer in the letter of a guilder and free meal for an hour of his time insured that he was there in the pub that evening. As a locksmith, he was used to traveling at the whims of customers to install locks in houses, estates and stores after they had closed for the day. He was no stranger to working by lamp light far into the night.

"So, may I ask what this meeting is about?"

The man looked around the room to insure that they were alone. It was late on a Tuesday night, and most of the other patrons had either left or were too drunk to pay much attention to the two men.

"Let me start by saying that I was told that you are a man of discretion, and I was assured that you could be counted on to keep any matters we discuss tonight strictly confidential. That is all that you need to do to earn the guilder I promised. For my part I can tell you that nothing that we will be discussing is in any way illegal. Do you agree to those terms?"

Ernst hesitated only for a moment and then nodded. The up-timer placed a heavy silver coin on the table and slid it over to him.

"Very well. I need an honest opinion from you." He reached into a pouch on his belt and withdrew a small metal object. He placed it next to the guilder on the table. "Can you make something like this?"

Ernst picked up the object and turned it over in his hands. He brought it closer to the candle on the table to look at the details. The metal work was exquisite. Not extremely ornate, but all of the parts fit together tightly. The clamp at one end was spring loaded, and there was a small amount of filigree work. All of the surfaces were polished to a silver gleam. There were a few places where this silver layer had worn through, and yellow brass was showing. Whatever it was, it had obviously come from whatever future world these people had come from. He sighed and handed it back reluctantly.

"No. I cannot. I have no idea how to coat the brass with the other metal. I am sorry."

The other man frowned. Then he pushed the thing back towards Ernst. "I am not worried about the plating. I am interested to know if you could do the rest of it."

"Yes. It is fairly straightforward. It is only made of a few pieces. If you just want one made out of brass, I could do it in a few days."

"Good. That is what I wanted to know. My next question is would you like to learn how to plate the brass like that?"

"Of course!" he said instantly. Over the past two years, the rumors of what these "Americans" could do had virtually flown across Thuringia and Franconia. Their metal work was renowned. To learn some of their techniques would give Ernst's shop a decided advantage over several of his competitors, if only in novelty value. "But now I have a few questions for you. Who are you, and what exactly is that thing"

The man leaned back and smiled. "You can call me Mr. Smith for right now. And that 'thing' is half of a small fortune if everything works out right."

"If it is worth a fortune, then why are we meeting secretly in a pub? Your people are supposed to be such wizards with making things. Why aren't they making these?" He eyed Mr. Smith suspiciously. "And most importantly, why me? And why do you want someone in Meiningen? I would think somewhere closer to

Grantville . . ."

The up-timer shook his head. "As I said, I was told that you are a man of discretion. One of your former clients assured me that you were both skilled, and exceedingly honest. I needed someone that I could trust with this project. The reasons I don't want to do it in Grantville—or anywhere nearby—are simple. First, everybody there has other projects that are considered more important. Second, nobody else so far as I know has thought of it yet. And third—this explains why I came to Meiningen—I don't want anyone in Grantville knowing what I'm doing. Not till I'm ready to start selling the product."

He leaned forward again. "If you look here"—he pointed to some stamped numbers underneath the clamp, barely visible in the flickering light—"it says 1912. That is when this was patented in the United States. That was almost ninety years before the Ring of Fire hit us. And the original models go back maybe twenty years before that. By the time we got here, this was old technology. Almost nobody used it anymore."

Ernst thought about that while he sipped his ale. He put the tankard down. "So I make you one of these things, and you can show me how to coat the metal? How is that worth a fortune?"

"No. You make several hundred of these things, I pay you for them and I show you how to plate them. Plating is the process. We can use gold instead of nickel to plate them. It is easier for me to get my hands on, and it will last longer."

"I still don't see how this is a fortune. I would be more than happy to make these for you, though to do hundreds would take some time, and you would have to pay some of the costs up front. I can't afford to have my shop only making these for you, and neglecting our other customers." He paused and looked back at the metal tool. "And you never answered my question. What is it?"

"It is called a 'safety razor.' It allows you to shave without having that six inch blade waving around your throat."

Mr. Smith picked up the razor and inserted a small, square blade into the clamp. He then held out his forearm and proceeded to shave the hair off a patch of it with remarkable ease.

"The reason I picked your shop to do this is because you have the ability to make these, I don't. I am not a metal worker. You are small enough that you should be able to keep this a secret until we are ready to hit the market."

"We?" Ernst asked, startled.

"Yes, we. In addition to payment for the handles, and the information on plating, I am prepared to offer you a quarter of the ownership of the business. Another quarter of the business is owned by the sword maker who is currently making the blades for these."

Ernst thought about that while he finished the ale. A quarter of a business for staying quiet. And he would be paid for the razor handles. It was an intriguing proposition.

"So why all of the secrecy?"

"It is simple. As you can see, this is not a complicated device. Any competent smith could make one. The key to this market is name recognition. You want people to always think of your name when they think of a product. In our century, advertising was a fine art. It was done on a scale that has never been attempted here and now. People spent lifetimes coming up with ways to get the customers to remember the company names. To draw them into buying something that they didn't really need, but felt that they could not live ...