Grantville

Reardon Miller liked to joke that he had six jobs: his real job, and the five that certain clients of the Grantville Research Center thought he was doing. As the token male at the GRC, he was the researcher nominally assigned to those clients who were obviously very uncomfortable with the idea of working with a female researcher, but who were trying to be polite and not say so.

The would-be clients who weren't polite about it were just shown the door.

Reardon had a plan of action for, as he put it, "weaning the clients away from himself." (He said this with full recognition of the incongruity of applying the word "weaning" to the process of switching a client from male to female support. ) The first step was to introduce the female researcher as his assistant. The next was to let her deliver progress reports. Hopefully, the client would notice how knowledgeable and articulate she was. And finally, she would deliver the final presentation, with Reardon beaming benevolently in the background. Once the client expressed his thanks for the work, Reardon would lower the boom: "I'm just the pretty face here, this lady did all the research."

"Okay, Christine, we've got another client, name's Olafur Egilsson, a Lutheran minister from Iceland of all places. Something of a hardship case; he and his family—in fact, his whole congregation—got captured by the Barbary pirates.

"Wow. How did he escape?"

"He didn't. They released him to ask their friends and relatives, and the king of Denmark, for ransom."

Christine raised her eyebrows. "But—"

"But Denmark had just gotten its ass kicked by Count Tilly, so the royal cupboard was bare. And the Icelanders are rather like hillbillies with fishing boats. . . . They don't have much in the way of resources, other than fish.

"So your job is to find goods that they can trade to the pirates, or sell somewhere for lots of cash.

"He's pushing seventy, we think, so we are going to reduce the shock to his system of how we do things in Grantville. I will be introducing you as my assistant."

"Great, I have three strikes against me; I'm young, I'm Catholic, and I'm female."

"So don't talk religion. "

****

Hendrick Trip steepled his fingers. "Well, you certainly did your homework, Miss Onofrio."

Christine smiled at him. "Thank you. I am just an apprentice researcher, but I try to be thorough."

The two of them were sitting in one of the conference rooms at the Higgins Hotel. Trip had rented it, and had been conducting meetings there all day.

"As my agent told you, my uncle Elias is a former partner of Louis de Geer. Our families still cooperate, and since I was coming to Grantville on my own business, Count Louis asked me to meet with you.

"He was quite interested in what you had to say about the aluminum industry in late-twentieth century Iceland. That aluminum was more than ten percent of its exports, and that it made it from imported alumina very cheaply, thanks to its vast energy resources, both hydroelectric and geothermal.

"You are of course correct that Louis de Geer is interested in aluminum production. It is not a secret anymore that he has been acquiring bauxite and cryolite toward that end.

"And it's also true that the availability of electricity is one of the bottlenecks in producing aluminum anywhere outside Grantville. Magdeburg or Essen.

"Alas, Herr de Geer has asked me to inform you that it would be premature to invest in a hydroelectric plant in Iceland at this time. While the coal-fired plants we have access to now are certainly less efficient than hydro, they are adequate for our current production level and we can still charge a high price for aluminum. More than enough to cover the cost of the coal.

Perhaps in a decade, he will reconsider the issue."

Christine caught herself nervously chewing on a pencil. "What about the advantage of the proximity of Iceland to Greenland, where the cryolite is mined?"

"I am no technical expert, but I have been told that the cryolite is just a flux, it is not consumed in the reaction. So De Geer didn't need a lot of cryolite to start, and only needs enough in a future to replace that which is lost by evaporation, or when the dross is removed from the smelter. "

"The cryolite can also be used to make soda ash."

"Indeed it can, and I believe that was the back-up plan if aluminum smelting proved impractical. But Iceland doesn't have significant wood or coal, and so—barring those hydroelectric or geothermal power plants—it's hardly the place to base a chemical plant."

"Well, I'm sorry for wasting your time." Christine began collecting her papers and stuffing them into the portfolio case her mother had given her.

"It wasn't a waste of time. I wanted to meet you."

Christine's eyes widened. "Me?"

"My family is always on the lookout for bright young people. Your teachers wrote to me that you are in the advanced track. When you graduate high school—next year, is it?"

She nodded, looking slightly dazed .

"Think about coming to work for Trip Enterprises. We even have a branch office in Grantville now, although your star may rise faster if you're in Amsterdam."

****

"German Sugar, Not Made by Slaves," Reverend Egilsson read. "Each ton of New World Sugar costs two human lives."

He handed the can back to the storekeeper. "Is it true?"

"Which part? The German sugar is real enough. There's a kind of sugar-rich grass which was grown in Grantville, called 'sorghum corn.' They used it as a fodder before the Ring of Fire. When the Americans discovered how expensive sugar was in this day and age, they decided to extract sorghum sugar. The sorghum is fast-growing and produces lots of seeds, so more and more acres are planted every year."

"What about the cost in lives?" Egilsson asked.

The shopkeeper stepped off the ladder he had climbed to reshelve the can. "Well, that's what the Anti-Slavery League pamphlets say. I've never met a slaver myself."

Lucky you, Egilsson thought.

"The pamphlet said that in the African slave trade, there are many deaths at sea, of crew as well as of slaves," said the storekeeper. "And the life expectancy in the sugarcane fields is only ten years."

"You seem to have studied the pamphlet carefully," said Egilsson.

The storekeeper smiled sheepishly. "I see it often enough.. When I run out of sugar from sugarcane, I set the German sugar out front, and leave a stack of those pamphlets nearby."

"Does the pamphlet say anything of the Turkish slave trade?"

"The Barbary pirates, you mean?" The storekeeper frowned. "I don't think so. But then, they don't grow sugarcane on the Barbary coast, do they?"

"Not on the coast, but in Sous, in the Berber kingdom of Tazerwalt to the south, they do."

"You know, the Anti-Slavery Society has an office in town. It's over by the Golden Arches; you can take the senior citizens bus there."

"Unfortunately, I don't qualify as a citizen of the town."

"Oh, they don't mean 'citizen' in the German sense. They'll take anyone that's, um, rich in life experience."

****

Reverend Egilsson found the ride on the bus to be quite remarkable. The bus rode on a strange black material that Egilsson took to be some kind of smooth lava rock. The bench seats, each sitting two, were comfortable, and there was little vibration as the bus forged ahead. The hum of the motor was a bit disconcerting, however.

He introduced himself to his seat companion, who was Edgar McAndrew, an up-timer in his seventies. Eventually, Egilsson revealed his purpose in coming to Grantville.

"Well, lordy me," McAndrew said. "You have certainly survived a lot. But I'll tell you what you should do, Rev. I'm retired now, but I was once one of the best salesmen in the U S of A, in my lines; I have the achievement certificates and statues to prove it.

"You need to get one of the GRC youngsters to make a list for you of old, rich people. The young rich, they're just thinking of making money. The old rich, they get worried about what'll happen to them when they come before the pearly gates, on account of all the dirty tricks they played on the way up the ladder, and they start giving to charity. You tell them that ransoming some of the Icelandic captives, people they don't even know, will count for a lot in Heaven."

Reverend Egilsson pondered this nugget of wisdom. "The GRC is trying to find new products for Iceland, so that we are prosperous enough to pay the ransom ourselves."

McAndrew snapped his fingers. "Hey, I've got an angle on that, too! If the business plan's a good one, then sell stock to the old misers. You prod them with the carrot of maybe making more money and the stick of going to Hell if they don't help. There's nothing like the iron fist of greed in the velvet glove of charity. Or something like that."

The ex-salesman reached for the stop cord, and pulled. "Get off when the bus comes to a halt, Anti-Slavery office is to your right. God bless you, Reverend."

"May God have mercy upon you."

The ex-salesman chuckled. "At my age, mercy is infinitely preferable to justice."

As he disembarked, Reverend Egilsson mentally reproached himself for not lecturing the ex-salesman on the evils of Popery, with particular reference to indulgences, and the concept that someone can buy himself into Heaven. However, Kastenmayer had warned him against provoking religious arguments with up-timers, and Kastenmayer, as the resident Lutheran preacher, would have to live with the consequences of any disturbance caused by Egilsson.

Anyway, with Egilsson's stop approaching, there hadn't been time to properly educate the up-timer as to his doctrinal oversights.

****

The man behind the desk at the Anti-Slavery Society stood up when Egilsson entered his office. "Please come in, make yourself comfortable. I am the Reverend Samuel Rishworth. What brings you to the Society office?"

The Reverend Egilsson told him.

"A sad story, and all too common. The Society has a committee studying the Barbary slave trade; perhaps you should speak to them. But I must warn you, it is Society policy not to pay slave owners to free their slaves. I hope you understand why—it would just encourage more slave-taking, would it not?

"Instead, we educate the public as to the immorality of slavery, and we seek to make slavery uneconomical in a variety of ways. Making it possible for Europeans to work in the tropics, for example. Organizing boycotts of products made with slave labor. And commissioning privateers to harass slave traders. "

Rishworth started pacing, hands clasped behind his back. "Until the Ring of Fire, opponents to slavery were few. I was once the minister for the Puritan settlement of Providence Island, in the Caribbean. When we sailed across the Atlantic, we prayed that God would shield us from the Turk. Yet we were quick enough to buy slaves from the Dutch once we were ashore.

I saw the hypocrisy in this, and preached against it. And eventually I practiced what I preached; I hid fugitive slaves, and eventually fled with them aboard a USE ship that visited the island.

"If there is one thing you need to know about the Americans, it is that they are adamantly opposed to slavery. If you read their history books, you will find out that they fought a very bloody civil war to get rid of it. Since the State of Thuringia-Franconia adopted the American legal system, slavery is already illegal here. And I know that the Committees of Correspondence want to make that part of USE law, generally. Having the ability to grow sugar at home has strengthened their position."

Rishworth stopped short. "I'm sorry. Once a preacher, always a preacher."

"I understand. But is there nothing you can do to help me?"

"Perhaps not in the short term. But our committee would like to find a way to persuade the Barbary states to at least treat their captives as prisoners of war, not slaves. And we hope that we can find goods they want to buy and goods they can sell us, so we can engage in peaceful trade instead of preying on each other. "

"Reardon Miller of the Grantville Research Center, and his assistant, are trying to find goods which Iceland can trade to the pirates in exchange for its people. Or at least, which Iceland can sell to someone in order to raise the ransom money."

Rishworth nodded. "That's a step in the right direction. If they like the goods, perhaps in the future they will accept trade as an alternative to war. And if not, then perhaps with increased prosperity, you can afford better defenses."

****

Reardon Miller peered through the blinds.

Christine came up behind him. "What are you doing, Mr. Miller?"

"There's a busker out there. He's drawing quite a crowd. Never thought I'd hear someone playing 'Yesterday' while looking like an escapee from the Renaissance Faire. Give a whole new meaning to the word, don't you think?"

He turned to face her. "I am sorry the aluminum idea didn't work out. You're looking cheerful, so I assume that you've come up with something else."

Christine drew herself up, and announced, "Rhubarb."

"Sounds like a password to a speakeasy in a Groucho Marx movie. Why rhubarb?"

"The 1911 encyclopedia said that rhubarb was grown in Iceland. And I asked around and rhubarb is more expensive in the here-and-now than cinnamon, opium or saffron. You're looking at around sixteen shillings a pound." That worked out to more than three hundred USE dollars.

Reardon nodded. "What's the catch?"

"What do you mean?"

"If the price is high, it's for a reason. It's hard to grow, or it comes from far away, or they shoot you if you try to take it from where it grows naturally, or it's illegal. Find out what's the catch."

Christine sighed. "I will."

****

"By the King of the Night," said Cornelis Janszoon van Sallee. "I almost wish I hadn't thought to look up what the American books said about the future of al-Maghrib." In Arabic, the "al-Maghrib" meant the setting sun, and by extension, the western limit of Islamic expansion—the coast of North Africa. Which, Cornelis had learned, had become the twentieth century countries of Morocco, Algeria, Tunisia, and Libya.

Cornelis was the son of the Corsair Admiral Jan Janszoon—Murad Reis—and his father had sent him to Grantville to study their military technology. Garbled rumors of their mechanical marvels had come even to Sale in coastal Morocco, the capital of the Pirate Republic of Bou Regreg, and the home of what the English called the "Sallee Rovers."

"Forewarned is forearmed, sir," said Sergio Antonelli. Antonelli, who had visited Grantville before, was captured by Cornelis' father and commandeered to serve as Cornelis' servant, guide and protector during his stay in Christian Europe. Antonelli's son remained in Sale, as a hostage.

Cornelis took another bite from the American apple in his hand. "This is quite good, but I've had enough. Want the rest?"

Sergio accepted it gratefully.

Cornelis returned to his earlier train of thought. "Still, this Thomas Jefferson—may the fleas of a thousand camels infest his armpits—humiliated the Algerines. The Tripolitans, too. I fear that this Michael Stearns would be no kinder to those of the true faith than Jefferson, and that his ships will be more powerful."

"There would be no reason for the Americans to harm your people if you didn't take slaves," said Antonelli. It was something he wouldn't have dared to say a few months ago, when their trip began, but Janszoon even in the beginning had been strict but not cruel, and lately had shown him some small kindnesses. Like the offer of the apple.

"Yes, well, all unbelievers are fair game. Besides, if my father made peace with all countries today, he would lose his head on the morrow. We must have a nation to cruise against, the richer and weaker the better.

"But perhaps my father will make a peace treaty, or even an alliance, with the USE. Are they not at war with the English, the French and the Spanish? Are we not their friends, as the enemies of their enemies?"

Antonelli objected to this reasoning. "Temporarily, at least, there is peace. The members of the League of Ostend have been licking their wounds since June of last year."

"Pah," said Janszoon. "I would have liked to have seen the USE forces at war. Here in Grantville, all I have seen fired are a few small arms. They are excellent weapons, but I need more to impress my father."

Antonelli nodded. "We could visit the airfield and watch the planes take off and land. "

Janszoon clapped his hands. "Excellent idea."

"And we could go up to Magdeburg, see the Swedish troops at drill, and continue on to Hamburg where the ironclads were in action. Perhaps an ironclad will even be in port."

"Even better!"

Antonelli had finished the apple and was about to toss the core away.

"Wait, give it to me," Cornelis ordered.

Antonelli handed it over. Cornelis hefted it, and threw it at a squirrel that was sitting on a stump some yards away, licking its paws. It squawked indignantly when it was struck.

"A hit! A palpable hit!" Cornelis crowed. "I am quite the marksman, am I not? Too bad that military technology has advanced a bit beyond stone throwing."

****

Christine looked disapprovingly at Reardon Miller's desk. "It's a mess, Mr. Miller. I could organize it for you."

"No, please don't," he admonished. "I know where everything is; I have a system. Anyway, what can I do for you?"

"You were right, Mr. Miller."

"It's so nice to have a young lady tell me that. Or a lady of any age, now that I think about it. What was I right about?"

"The price of rhubarb is high because it comes all the way from China. By the time we could get the seeds from the Chinese and have the Icelanders raise a crop, the captives would have died of old age."

"I see. So, what's next?"

"Back to the library, I guess."

"Are you sure?"

Christine paused. Miller suddenly seemed fascinated by the papers on his desk.

"That . . . sounds like a trick question. . . ."

Miller started humming the "waiting for the contestants to answer the big question" music from Jeopardy.

"Please, Mr. Miller, I'm an apprentice researcher. Take pity on me." She batted her eyelashes at him in an exaggerated manner.

"It's a mistake to rely exclusively on books, Miss Onofrio. Never underestimate the value of intelligence collected by talking to human beings."

"Human beings. . . . Oh, like the garden club members?"

Miller nodded. "There are those in town who like rhubarb pie. So perhaps you can find some rhubarb seeds in Grantville. Bit less of a trip than China, don't you think?"

****

"Well, Hannah, for your sake, I hope you've produced an egg today," said Catherine Genucci.

"Come on, girl, let me have a peek." She tried to shoo Hannah out of her nest.

Hannah the Chicken from Hell declined to cooperate.

"Come on, now, be a nice lady, and . . . owww!" Hannah had pecked her.

Catherine licked the wound. "Oh, you nasty b . . . b . . . beast. I hope you're still barren, and I'll take the axe to your neck myself."

This charming pastoral scene was interrupted by a visitor. "Hi, Kathi!"

"Huh . . . Oh, hi, Christine. I thought you were working at the GRC." Christine and Kathi were born the same year, and knew each other from both school and church.

"I am, I'm here on business. So, are you the Queen of Hearts today?"

"The Queen . . . Oh, 'off with her head.' I hope so."

"I don't suppose you grow rhubarb here?"

"Rhubarb, no. But Mom might know who does. You want to talk to her?"

****

"Some more milk and cookies?" asked Fran Genucci.

"No thank you, Mrs. Genucci," said Christine. " But I hope you can answer some questions for me, being a Master Gardener and all."

"Well, I can try."

"Who around here has rhubarb seed? And how easy is it to grow?"

"Well, not me. I am more of a flower gardener, as perhaps you've noticed." She gestured vaguely in the direction of the front yard. "But there's rhubarb in Grantville, that's for sure. I think Mildred has it in her garden." Mildred was Fran's cousin, once removed, and another Garden Club member.

"But before you head over there, Christine, you ought to know, that people usually don't grow rhubarb from seed. It takes too long—two years, I think—and they don't grow true."

****

"Fran's right," said Mildred. "Wait until the plants are four or five years old, then divide the crown. You should be able to get eight or ten divisions from a single parent."

"But would they survive a trip to Iceland?"

"I'm sorry, dear, I am not sure. That's weeks? Months? I suppose they'd have to sit in pots on a ship. Perhaps Fran's nephew Philip, would know? He's the one that stowed away on a ship to Suriname, because he was gooey-eyed over that botanist Maria Vorst, from Leiden. He came back with plant specimens."

Mildred cocked her head. "Why Iceland, if I may ask?"

Christine told her.

"Oh, the poor man. Well, I can explain to you how to grow and propagate rhubarb, and give you some divisions, and a seed pod too, but I can't make any promises that they won't be D.O.A."

****

"I . . . I . . . I'm back," Christine announced. With a pseudo-Austrian accent.

Reardon Miller laughed. If anyone looked less like Arnold Schwarzenegger, it was Christine Onofrio. He motioned for her to sit down.

"It's strange," she said. "According to the 1911 encyclopedia, Prosper Alpinus was growing rhubarb in 1608, in Padua. And he gave seeds to Parkinson, who gave them to a 'Sir Matthew Lister,' supposedly physician to Charles I. I was puzzled, since I heard that William Harvey was Charles' physician, so I spoke to Thomas Hobbes." The philosopher had come to Grantville in 1633, escorting young ...