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Butterflies in the Kremlin, Part 3: Boris, Natasha . . . But Where's Bullwinkle

Written by Gorg Huff and Paula Goodlett

"Order Kameroff to take his battalion to the west." The barely bearded Russian wearing two stars on his collar moved his finger along the map, over a set of hills then northwest along a river. "He is to take dispatch riders and notify us at the first sign of the enemy."

"Yes sir," said the grizzled veteran with the graying beard half way down his chest and a single silver bar on his collar. There was probably a bit of amusement in his voice. But if the "general" felt any offense at that amusement, he kept it to himself.

The "lieutenant" left to deliver the orders. The "general" hid a sigh. This was his first time in the War Room and he was trying hard to keep up a good front. But he was scared. He had been doing fairly well in the standard games. A little too well, it turned out. He looked over at "Captain" Timrovich. At least Boris wasn't looking too happy either. The "general," actually Third Lieutenant Igor Milosevic, had made the mistake of cleaning up at the standard board games sent by Vladimir Petrovich Yaroslavich. They had become all the rage in Muscovite military circles. With serious wagering on the outcomes.

Igor looked back at the map, then pointed at a hill just north of the map piece that represented his main army. "We'll build the temporary fort here." He then described how he wanted it organized. He really was good at this stuff when he managed to forget for a moment about the real generals breathing down his neck. Before he had finished the "lieutenant" returned. Igor didn't even notice.

***

The "lieutenant" did notice. Gorgii Ameroff was an old campaigner. His rank was between that of a major and lieutenant colonel. Just at the moment, he was caught between being thoroughly impressed and heartily offended. Impressed because the "general" was mostly doing it right. For too long, the years of campaigning had taught him not to expect "doing it right" from soldiers that young. Offended for mostly the same reason. Gorgii Ameroff was a member of the bureaucratic or service nobility and held, roughly, middle rank. Totally aside from his youth, the "general" was from a modest family, more merchant class than nobility. Gorgii was still trying to work out how he felt about that. It just didn't seem right that this baker's son would have such talent or potential to gain such rank. The changes brought on by the Ring of Fire were disturbing and they would be increasing now that Vladimir had sent not just books and games but a person. A real live up-timer.

***

Bernie was going nuts. He had been at the dacha for a while now, and was frustrated. He had run headlong into a massive wall of ignorance and arrogance. Mostly, but not entirely, his own.

"What is a gravity feed?" Filip Pavlovich asked. "How can one make water grave and serious? Water does not flow because it is serious. Water flows because water wants to return to its proper level. Aristotle said it. So to make this 'seriousness feed' the book speaks of, you would have to make the water serious. How do you do that?" Filip Pavlovich was in part having a bit of fun with Bernie, but only in part. The use of the word gravity in describing the system of getting a liquid from one place to another was confusing and a bit irritating. It obviously meant something different than seriousness but he didn't know precisely what. Besides, explaining that new meaning was the up-timer idiot's job. Filip Pavlovich saw no reason not to have a little fun in the process.

"It didn't say water falls because it is serious." Bernie tried clenching his teeth and counting to ten. "It said that the force of gravity causes it to fall. It didn't say anything about water being serious, for crying out loud. The force of gravity is a force of nature. Oh, hell . . . never mind. Let me think a minute."

Bernie stormed away from the workshop. He had never thought himself arrogant. He just figured that among people who thought there were only six planets, he'd do all right. He'd tell them how to make stuff and they would. The problem was, Bernie didn't really know how to make stuff. He had quite a bit of the knowledge needed, but he had no idea how to put it together into a form that would produce a product.

That should have been all right. There were a number of very bright, very creative, people at the Dacha. They had been arriving a few at a time. However, as yet there was very little crossover between what Bernie knew and what they knew. Their map of the world and his were so different that communicating, even with a good translator, was difficult.

Right at the moment, the problem was with the toilets. The manuals talked about a gravity feed. To the local experts, gravity meant "dignity or sobriety of bearing." In fact, though Bernie didn't know it, the gravity feed was something they already understood quite well. However, the terms were different. They would have called it a "natural flow feed" or something similar. That would have referred to Aristotle's assertion that there were natural and unnatural types of motion. Water flowing down hill was natural motion. There was no force that made things fall. Things fell because things had a natural desire to go where they belonged. Steam went into the air and rocks onto the ground because that's where they belonged. Water, as was the case here, just naturally wanted to travel to the lowest point. Granted, Galileo had chipped around the edges of Aristotle, but just around the edges. Besides, few people here had read Galileo.

Bernie didn't know it, but an extension of this Aristotelian world view had led to many of the concepts that the up-timers thought of as superstition. After all, if water just naturally wanted to flow down hill, didn't it make sense that a wheel would just naturally want to turn, that a candle would just naturally want to burn? That any device that was made well enough would want to perform its natural function and, given the opportunity, would do so on its own? And if water had a natural desire to flow down hill, what about people? Was it not self evident that people were innately good or innately evil? Innately superior or innately inferior, good blood, bad blood?

It was a subtle but profound difference in the way people thought about the world. The early modern period, the period the Ring of Fire had thrust the West Virginia mining town into, was when that notion of a world where things did what they did because it was their nature to do so was being replaced. Slowly, one chip at a time, with the notion that things happened because of external forces like gravity and drag. But it hadn't happened yet. It would have been Newton who really shifted the world view and he hadn't been born yet. He probably wouldn't be born in this universe. Here it would be Grantville that the change spun on, and the change would come much faster. Worse, Muscovy, in general, was lagging about two hundred years behind the rest of Europe.

Bernie didn't know any of that; he didn't even know that Aristotle had gotten it wrong. He knew Newton had some laws—three, he thought. He sort of thought that Einstein had gotten it right and corrected the bits that Newton had gotten wrong with his theory of relativity. That was how the A bomb worked. More importantly, Bernie didn't know that the problems sprung from a difference in world view. Half the time he thought they were playing with him. Half the time he thought they were idiots, and half the time he thought he must be the idiot. There were too many halves of Russia.

Bernie entered the kitchen of the dacha and sat at the table. "Marpa Pavlovna, may I have a beer, please?" When the cook nodded, Bernie leaned back and tried to figure out how to explain gravity.

The cook handed him a beer. His "Thanks" was a bit absent minded. At the same time she also put a plate of ham and cheese sandwiches in front of him. He'd had a little trouble explaining to Natasha Petrovna that no, he didn't want to stop work in the middle of the day and have a big meal then take a nap. It was weird. Everybody in Russia took a siesta in the middle of the day. Bernie had thought that only happened in, like, Mexico.

Bernie rubbed his temples with his fingers, trying to ease the headache he invariably got when he tried to explain a complex concept to Filip Pavlovich. In a few moments a pair of cool feeling hands began rubbing his temples for him. Bernie leaned back against the chair and let one of the maids, Fayina Lukyanovna take over. One of the things Vladimir had not lied about was the availability of willing women. Bernie had been being hit on ever since he had reached the dacha. Boris had told him that it was probably because they wanted to get information from him. That was fine with Bernie. He'd tell them anything they wanted to know.

"What is now, Bernie?" Her voice was low, gentle. "'Sewer system' again?"

Gravity was the least of his problems with the sewer system. Bernie had arrived at the dacha with complete designs for a toilet and complete designs for a septic system. But it wasn't working right. The toilet had backed up, the sink had backed up, the bathtub had backed up. Each and every one of them was producing the most awful stinks it had ever been his misfortune to smell. He couldn't use the indoor bathroom anymore. The room had been closed off and some pretty horrible sounds came from it. Bernie was pretty sure that the problem was in the septic system or in the pipes. He had finally remembered the U shaped pipes just below the sinks. He had had those installed and that had seemed to fix it for a little while. But then things got worse.

"I don't know how to fix it." Bernie groaned. "God, your hands feel good. The bathroom is going to drive me crazy until I figure it out."

"Natasha Petrovna wishes to speak to you." Fayina stopped rubbing his temples. She was dark haired and short, well padded. He noticed that she was wearing one of those crown-looking headdresses with her hair loose. Customs were different here. Confusing. Single women wore a smaller headdress than married women and left their hair loose. Married women kept their hair covered all the time. "New books have arrived from Grantville."

***

"I have good news for you, at any rate," Natasha said. "Here. You have letters. I have letters from Vladimir as well. And more books. Perhaps the answer will be in the new books."

Bernie took his stack of letters, wondering who had written him. Dad wasn't much of a letter writer and his sisters, well, they were busy. The handwriting on the top one was vaguely familiar. And the envelopes, some of them, were from up-time. Bernie opened the first one carefully and read:

Dear Bernie,

Gosh, it's been a long time, hasn't it?

I just wanted to let you know that the folks in Grantville haven't forgotten you.

Also, your Dad and sisters are just fine. The CPE is having an effect on Grantville. Lots of people are moving. To Jena and Suhl and even Magdeburg. There's a contingent off in Franconia and a lot of the folks that got rich since the Ring of Fire have bought estates in the country with servants and the whole bit. But for every one that moves out, two or three down-timers move in. Then there are the tourists. Grantville is more crowded than ever. A lot of people are talking about moving their businesses to Magdeburg. Partly because its gonna be the capital of the CPE but partly because it's on the Elbe and materials will be cheaper there. Not to mention real estate.

The new anchor at the TV station is all right, but she's no Becky. You felt like Becky was talking to you, not just reading stuff off a prompter.

Anyway, things are rocking along just fine here. Wanted to let you know. Write me, why don't you? Tell us about life in the wilds of Russia.

Best,

Brandy.

"Thank God." It was a relief to read something that wasn't an encyclopedia. "Someone who speaks my kind of English. Natasha, when can I send a letter back to Grantville?"

Natasha looked up from her own letters. "The courier will leave tomorrow. You can send a letter with him." Bernie knew Natasha didn't approve of his tendency to sit in the kitchen. She was also the reason he was growing a beard, even though it itched. He still wasn't going to wear some silly robe out in public, though, no matter how much she nagged at him.

"Good. I'll get right on it and have Grigorii make a drawing as well." When Bernie had arrived at the dacha, he had been introduced to a secretary and an artist. Grigorii Mikhailovich was the artist whose job it was to take Bernie's descriptions and very rough sketches and turn them into usable drawings. "Brandy can probably find out what I've done wrong. It's a darn good thing your brother stayed in Grantville. When I've finished the letter, I'll take a look through the books and stuff he sent. Maybe I can figure out how to explain gravity."

"Seriousness?" Natasha's voice was curious. "Don't they know what seriousness is?"

Bernie groaned. Then headed back to face the brain cases.

***

"Bernie Janovich, what is the center of gravity?" Pter Nickovich had been waiting impatiently while Bernie was out of the room. His English was not good and the discussion of gravity was more confusing than helpful. He knew there was something there because the notes he had received on flight mentioned gravity regularly. Center of gravity, specifically. He sat and thought, giving no sign how much it hurt him not to understand about gravity and how to fly. Finally, Bernie returned with the letters and Pter asked his question before the sewer system could distract them again.

"Hey, I actually know that one." Bernie grinned at Pter. "Cars need a low center of gravity for stability."

Pter just looked at him. As usual, Bernie hadn't explained anything.

Bernie lost his grin. "Okay. Try it this way. Bend over." Bernie bent over. "As your head moves forward, your rear end moves backward, otherwise you fall on your face. That's to keep your center of gravity over your feet." Bernie stood up again. "Try to balance something on one finger. It's the same thing. To keep it balanced you have to keep your finger under the center of gravity."

"You mean that center of gravity just means the point of balance?" Pter couldn't help his look of shock. "The place where you would place the fulcrum?"

The outlander shrugged. "Pretty much."

Pter considered, then asked. "Then why does how high the center of gravity is matter?"

"There is other stuff besides gravity. Centrifugal force and stuff."

"Explain that, if you would." Pter tried not to grit his teeth. He knew he was close to something but wasn't sure what. He listened to Bernie's rambling explanation. It was there he knew, if he could just grasp it. The secret to everything. It came in bits and drabs . . . gravity was a force like centrifugal force. Then another piece when Bernie squared his stance and had someone push from the side. The person pushing on him to try and over balance him was a force. The key came when he asked why they used rockets to get to the moon. "Why not wings?"

"No air in space."

"Why not?"

"Gravity, dude," an obviously frustrated Bernie insisted.

Pter froze. He could see it in his minds eye. "How much does air weigh?"

"I don't know." Bernie shrugged. "It's pretty light; we can look it up. Uh . . . maybe not, but we can write Vladimir about it."

The outlander didn't realize. How much air weighed didn't really matter. What mattered was that air weighed. That it had weight. It was pulled down to the ground by a force; water was, too, but more so. They wouldn't have to look the weight of air up, Pter could think of several ways to work it out. Looking it up might be easier if it was in one of the books. The important point was that air had weight. That was how the balloons worked. That was how it all worked.

***

Vesuvius erupted. Russian words spewed forth. Bernie didn't understand. Didn't want to understand after he caught the Russian words for idiot and uncultured repeated several times. At least this time everyone was an uncultured idiot, not just Bernie. Which was a relief. Everyone, Pter included, everyone from Adam to Aristotle . . . especially Aristotle. Everyone in the entire history of the world, both histories. Only two exceptions could be made: God and Sir Isaac Newton. God for creating such a complex world from such beautiful simplicity and Sir Isaac Newton for understanding it.

"Don't you understand, you uncultured outlander? We can fly."

"What in blazes are you talking about?" Filip Pavlovich was not one to accept being called an idiot by much of anyone. "Of course we can fly, once we know how. If the outlanders from the future could do it we can learn to do it." He froze then. "You know how?"

"It's all forces don't you see . . . damn Aristotle to the worst region of hell. Innate desire. Natural tendency. Bah . . . it's forces. Water is heavy, air is light, the force of gravity works better on heavy than light, that's what makes it heavy."

Jeez, Bernie thought, you'd think he just found out that Jennifer Lopez was a sure thing. Bernie left the geeks to their talk. Somehow he couldn't stop grinning. These guys got such a charge out of this stuff. Now if only he could get the plumbing to work.

***

That night, instead of the studying, Bernie watched as Gregorii Mikhailovich drew out another Rocky and Bullwinkle episode for Daromila. One of the other letters was one from her, pestering him about it. And he had promised, after all. It was kind of hard, sometimes. Gregorii didn't like the dress the Natasha of the cartoons wore. He even blushed a bit.

***

The older he got, the less he slept. Filaret stalked around his room, thinking. They were on a dangerous path and he didn't think Mikhail realized just how dangerous it was. Mikhail was a good boy, but too gentle for the real world. Still, something he'd said kept coming back to Filaret. Knowledge, freely given. Filaret had started the only print shop in Muscovy. Like most things, it was a royal monopoly. He had also been instrumental in starting schools in monasteries. Again a monopoly, this time of the church. Giving things away didn't come naturally to him, especially something as valuable as knowledge. Freely giving knowledge had its drawbacks, didn't it?

But the more he thought about it, the better it sounded. Freely given. Charity. A gift to the poor. Alms of knowledge? What an interesting idea. The agreement with the Yaroslavich family was that the government could do what it wanted with the knowledge from the Dacha. It wouldn't do to give everything away. But some of it. . . . Things that would help a lot of people and would cost a lot to administer. A gift from the czar, granted freely to every citizen and serf in Muscovy. The right to make the turning plow. One of the new plows produced by the Dacha. And, of course, the Yaroslavich family could still sell the right to make the plow to anyone who would buy what had already been given them for free. It would serve as a reminder to the Yaroslavich family who was Czar. At the same time, it would remind everyone that even knowledge was the czar's to give and withhold at his will.

***

Boris stared. A flying ship. Not a little one that they talked about in Grantville, but something the nerds—Boris liked that word—at the Dacha were calling a half blimp. There were drawings, still rough sketches, rough estimates of carrying capacity, all of which seemed to agree that bigger was better to the extent that they could build bigger. Everyone in the section would have seen it by now. The rumors would be flying faster than the half blimp could travel. And he had to come up with a recommendation. How was he supposed to know if it would work? Meanwhile, he had dozens of requests for things he knew they could make. And suddenly hundreds of requests for transfers to his section. "Pavel, get in here."

Pavel came quickly enough. Boris smiled. Pavel looked nervous, as well he should. "You will be missing dinner at home again." Boris handed him the report. "Go out to the Dacha and find out about this."

"But, Papa," Pavel started to complain.

Boris cut him off. "I know all about the party at the Samelovich house. They want you to get their little Ivan a job in the section, but he doesn't speak English and the only thing I've heard he's good at is getting drunk. Make your apologies, but get out to the Dacha."

Boris put the rest of the reports in his case and headed for home.

***

Daromila was snickering again. Boris looked up, a bit bleary-eyed from reading reports. "Woman—" he put on his "stern patriarch of the family" voice. "—what are you on about this time?"

She snickered again. "Nothing, dear. Just a letter from Berna."

"Oh ho!" Boris puffed out his chest. "I shall have to have words with him. Stealing my wife's affections from me. That's what he's doing."

Daromila gave him a telling look. "Boris, dahlink," she said, using the same sultry voice Natasha occasionally used when she was teasing. "You know you are the only man for me."

Boris groaned a bit. Daromila and Natasha both teased him about the inept spy Bernie spoke of. "I never should have brought him here," he said mournfully. "I knew he was going to be a bad influence."

Daromila grinned. "Possibly more than you know." Then she wouldn't say more, just began writing another letter.

***

"So what is this Bernie like?" Czarina Evdokia took a sip of strong Russian tea.

"I'm not sure. He knows many things. He drops ideas without being aware of it, but . . ." Natasha hesitated. "I guess I was expecting some great philosopher. He is just a man. A workman. Much like the craftsmen on either of our estates." Natasha and the czarina were having a quiet lunch together.

Evdokia nodded. "That sounds like the little I saw of him at court. I find the possibilities of the future amazing." She stopped a moment. "Do you believe they sent someone to walk on the moon?"

Natasha considered. "Yes. I do believe it."

"Why?"

"Partly because Vladimir confirms it in his letters, but mostly because Berna talks about it the way we would speak of Ivan the Terrible or the Mongol rule. Not a fantastic tale, just something that happened."

"Can you imagine? And women went, too. Russian women."

"Valentina Tereshkova. Vladimir wrote about her and Yuri Alekseyevich Gagarin. Berna didn't remember her name but didn't dispute that the first man and the first woman in space were Russian." Natasha paused and looked at the czarina. There was a look in Evdokia's eyes. A dreamy, hungry look. To Natasha the fact that the first man and woman in space were Russian was an interesting piece of information and made her feel good about being Russian. For the czarina, it seemed more somehow.

"I have always dreamed of flying," Evdokia's voice had a soft faraway tone. "Since I was a little girl. Floating up to the clouds and looking down to see the whole world spread before me." She visibly pulled herself back from dreams of flight, but a bit of the smile lingered. "Child's dreams, but it warms me somehow that it was done, and by Russians first."

"Who knows?" Natasha offered. "What they, those people from the future, could do, we can learn to do. Pter Nickovich says we can fly. He thinks he understands gravity. You may fly yet."

Evdokia laughed a bit sadly. "Even if we learn to fly, it will not be allowed." Then she grinned with more joy. "It is a pleasant thought, though. Now tell me of the progress of the Dacha."

Natasha grinned as she began her report. "As I said, Pter Nickovich thinks he understands gravity. Fedor is not convinced . . ." These weekly lunches were interesting. She would give a very unofficial report on the doings at the dacha. Then there were the letters from Grantville. Natasha almost always had a new one to share.

***

"Thank God," Bernie said when Natasha handed him the latest batch of letters. "There wasn't anything about plumbing in those books. I hope I've got an answer to that problem." Natasha had made a rare foray into the kitchen, searching for him. He was having his usual sandwich lunch.

Dear Bernie,

Vic Dobbs says you left out the vent stack for your plumbing, that's the problem. Without the vent stack you get a build up of pressure in the septic system and it forces the dirty, yuck, water back up. He made a drawing to show you what you did wrong. He also said you'd probably never seen one, since they're usually inside the walls, so don't feel bad about it. This ought to fix the problem. Just in case, Vladimir has contracted to have several books on plumbing that Vic recommends scanned and reprinted. A couple had already been copied. They're included in this shipment and the others will be coming in the next batch.

I saw your father in town yesterday. He said to tell you hello and wants to know can he sell your car? It's in the way, he said. He also said you should write him and your sisters. They want to hear from you, too.

Old Grantville is rocking along just fine right now. We've got, I swear, thousands and thousands of people around here now. It's so different from before.

Vladimir says you're doing pretty well. I hope so. I bet it's a lot different than working on cars was. But then, who'd have ever dreamed I'd wind up working in a research center, of all things?

Well, gotta go. I need to have this done before I get to work so it can go in Vlad's pouch. Just let me know if you need any more information. Oh, and I hope you get this before the house blows up.

Best,

Brandy

***

"You have wood in your hair." Natasha grinned like she had caught him out. "Quite a bit of wood. What have you been doing out there in that shop of yours?"

Much to Natasha's surprise, Bernie went outside to shake off the wood shavings. "Sorry about that," he said when he came back to finish his lunch. "I didn't realize. I brushed myself off, but didn't know I had it in my hair. We were working on the pattern lathe. Finally got the setup for that connecting piece Ivan the Tolerable wanted." Bernie had gotten into the habit of giving various people at the Dacha nicknames. "Now I need to talk to the guys about this vent stack thing. Maybe we can get the bathroom back in operation." Bernie gulped down the last of his sandwich and beer and rose from the table again. "Excuse me. I really want to get this fixed."

***

After Natasha left the kitchen the cook, Marpa Pavlovna turned to her assistant (and niece) Anna Stepanovna. "Did you see that? Have you ever seen one of 'them' worry about dropping anything on the floor? He may be a little strange in some ways, but he's not one of 'them.' How is your English coming, Anya? The quicker you learn, the sooner you'll be able to understand."

Anya shrugged. "Better. I understood nearly all he said, that time. I will be able to report it nearly word for word."

Marpa frowned. "He seems a good young man."

Anna stirred the contents of a pot and shrugged again. "Because he acts like a peasant?" At Marpa's look she continued. "The nobles don't worry about mud on the floor because the servants can't box their ears for it. He seems much like any other man to me. Just not used to having power. He'll be just like the rest, given a little time."

Marpa began clearing the table. Anya was a hard one. Which was probably all to the good. They had a job to do, after all, and little choice about doing it. Their family's debts had been taken over by a man neither of them knew. Through his agents, that man had assigned Anya the task of finding out everything she could about Bernie. It was not the first time Anya had been given such an assignment. She was a very pretty girl with hair like spun gold and deep blue eyes. The very picture of innocence. Anya hadn't been innocent since the day she was born.

***

"Could you light a couple more candles?" Bernie smiled at the cook's assistant. "I can't tell you how much I miss good lighting, I really can't."

Anya decided to try it. It was late at night and almost everyone else was asleep. She had been about to lay down on the massive stove when Bernie had stumbled in to the kitchen with a single candle and disturbed everyone. She nodded, and went for the candles.

The outlander went to another room and sat down at a table with a book. She knew that he thought sleeping on stoves was strange, but it made sense in a Russian winter. The amount of wood it took to heat the whole house was too much, a serious expense even for the wealthy and impossible for the poor. Even with the improvements Yuri had suggested based on the books from Vladimir Petrovich Yaroslavich, it was still a lot of wood. Not as much, though. The Dacha now had cold air come down one side of the chimney, so it was warmed before it entered the house. The main rooms were warmer now.

Anya took Bernie Janovich more candles and lit them for him. "Good lighting?"

Bernie Janovich grinned. "You speak English? Wow, that's great."

"Only little." Anya struggled with the words a bit more than was really necessary. "I learn. You wish beer? I get beer."

"Just one for me, please. I'm going to study a bit more, then I've got to get some sleep. And have one yourself, if you like."

Anya wondered for a moment if she should, but decided she might as well. She went to the kitchen, poured two beers and placed one in front of Bernie Janovich when she got back.

He motioned toward a chair. "Have a seat. I get lonesome sitting by myself. And even if you don't understand everything I say, you're company." When Anya hesitated, he urged, "Come on. Have a seat."

Shrugging, she complied. Bernie Janovich was an important person even if he didn't know it. A complaint from him might anger her employer, both her employers. Besides, she was supposed to get close to him. He took a good look at her. Anya lowered her head and peeked at him from under her lashes. She wanted to show interest but not appear too easy to get. She needed him to work at seducing her. Throwing herself at him as some of the girls in the Dacha did would not get her what she wanted. Then what did he do? He buried his nose in the book. What was wrong with the fool?

***

All the things he didn't know meant Bernie had to study. It was worse than being in school, as far as he was concerned. All the stuff that he had been sure that he would never need once he graduated high school, he needed now. He was having to interpret words he'd never heard and in contexts he'd never dreamed of. What the hell was calcareous grassland? Calcareous turned out to be to do with chalk or calcium, at least that's what the dictionary said. But calcareous grassland? How could there be chalk grass? He had to go to the dictionary all the time to find the weird stuff that the Russian nerds wanted.

Then there was Bernoulli's Law. Pter Nickovich had found a description of how wings worked in one of the books. The explanation described a wing's dependence on Bernoulli's Law. Then they had looked up Bernoulli's Law, done the math and come to the conclusion that it couldn't work that way. Bernoulli's Law, Bernie was assured, would require a small plane to be traveling at over three hundred miles an hour to fly. They wanted to know if powered flight was really possible and if so how.

Bernie knew it was possible; he had flown twice and seen planes flying more times than he could count. But he didn't know how they worked. He built paper airplanes and wooden airplanes that flew, based on the rubber band powered airplanes he had played with as a kid, but he couldn't explain how they worked.

What Bernie didn't know, and for that matter most people in the Ring of Fire didn't know, was that planes flew through a complex mix of Bernoulli's Law, Newton's Laws and the complexities of air flow. The mathematicians and natural philosophers who surrounded Bernie now would have understood the complex explanation but Bernie didn't have it. He had seen the drawings of air flow over a wing and assumed that they were accurate. They weren't. This didn't mean the shape of the wing was wrong. They weren't really inaccurate either, just simplified. Using the drawing out of those books for the cross-section of the wing would produce a wing that would fly quite well. Assuming, of course, that you added the ailerons and the rest of the plane.

Every day he had people asking him questions that he didn't have the answers to. They weren't meaningless questions that didn't really matter, like how many planets there are in the solar system. Well, most of them weren't. The astrologers were nuts to know the locations of Neptune, Uranus and Pluto. Mostly, though, the questions were about how things worked and how to treat injuries and diseases.

"I just don't know enough. I don't know if anyone does." The candles were half burnt and the girl was dozing in the chair. She jerked awake at the sound of his voice. He looked over and saw how tired she looked. "Oh, Lord. I've kept you up when you need to sleep. I'm sorry. I lost track of the time. I'll get out of your way and let you get some sleep. I'm really sorry."

***

The outlander grabbed up a candle and hustled away. Anya watched him go in amazement. He was strange this, this Bernie from the future. That strangeness was giving Anya pause. What was his game? What was he up to? It hadn't occurred to her that Bernie might simply be a nice guy. She hadn't met many nice guys in her life. She worried about him possibly being onto her, but there wasn't really any evidence for that. This is just too easy. Anya didn't trust easy; easy usually meant a trap.

Anya had never seen the man her reports went to and didn't know his name. He was simply referred to as "the prince." The Dacha was filled with experts, but it was also increasingly filled with spies. She thought half the servants in the place, and more than a few of the craftsmen, must report to someone. This didn't in any way diminish the quality of the service. It was just as important for agents to provide good service as it was for a normal servant. In fact, most of them were normal servants just making a bit of extra money on the side.

For the ones, like Anya, who were agents, quality was even more important. The people who had trained and placed the agents had a pretty unforgiving attitude. If an agent got fired for spilling the soup, the result could be a tragedy for that agent and his or her family.

***

Filaret's forehead was creased with concentration. He was writing something, as he usually was. Mikhail sat quietly and waited for his father to lift his head. Filaret eventually did. He smiled when he realized that Mikhail had come in the room.

"Listen to this." Filaret picked up the sheets of paper. "I'll be reading it at the services next Sunday. I'll have copies printed. A lot of fair copies."

Filaret read:

Patriarch Filaret's Advisory

on the

Ring of Fire

It is clear through multiple sources that God, in his infinite wisdom, has chosen to take a hand in the conflict among the German States. He provides through this example clear evidence of both His infinite power and His will, that the Roman Church and the Protestants, whether Lutheran, Calvinist, or other peculiar sects, are wrong. God has endeavored to make clear to them that which of their errors is most wrong is not a matter worth fighting over.

That is clearly God's message to them. But what is God's message to us? It is obvious that we are not in need of the sort of correction the German States required, else surely God would have placed the Ring of Fire here in Muscovy. While His admonishment, gentle as it is, is for the Germans, the gifts which He sent with it are clearly for all the world. Willingly or not, the knowledge the up-timers bring is spreading to all the world. To their credit, the up-timers themselves seem willing enough to share most of the knowledge that God gifted their ancestors and our descendants with. This is an especially gracious gift to Holy Rus. For, while we have been strong in our adherence to scripture and the true faith, circumstances have left us behind the more western nations in some of the more mundane and earthly matters. We have been blocked by Poland from sharing in the technical advances made in the west.

The czar, in his wisdom, has long had a policy of trying to correct that problem so that we, the true heirs of Christianity and the Roman empire, could maintain the faith in relative safety, while at the same time limiting the corrupting ...