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Lost In Translation

Written by Iver P. Cooper

Spring 1634

Grantville

"Hans, you fool, where are you!"

Hans hurriedly entered the room. The master's face was red, and his eyes were bulging, making him look rather like a choleric bullfrog.

Uh-oh, he thought. What is it this time? He lowered his eyes. "Yes, Master?"

"You took a book to the translators today?" asked Bullfrog Eyes.

"Yes, Master, I am sorry I didn't get around to it yesterday, but—"

"Which . . . book. . . ." Each word was carefully enunciated.

"The one you had rebound recently. The octavo with red covers. In the locked bookcase."

"Moron. Imbecile. Idiot." Bullfrog Eyes hurled a book at Hans. "That's the book you were supposed to bring them. As you see, it has red covers. But I am missing a very valuable book, an octavo with green covers. Which was in the same bookcase."

"I am sure I took them a red book . . ."

"Enough. You must retrieve it at once."

"I humbly beg your pardon, Master. I will go to the translator's office first thing Monday morning."

"At once, I say!"

"I am sorry, Master, but they are certainly closed for the day. In fact, for the weekend."

"Closed." Bullfrog Eyes now looked as though he had swallowed something unpleasant. It did not enhance his appearance.

"On the weekend, one of the translators might come by, and start reading the book. That won't do. No, that won't do at all." He stared at Hans. "You will have to break inside and fetch it back. Tonight."

****

Federico Ballarino contemplated the pile on his bed. I hate packing, he thought.

But he had to do it. Tomorrow morning he would be off to Magdeburg, to give Princess Kristina her dance lessons. And the following week he would be back in Grantville, to teach down-time dances to the up-timers, and continue his research into up-timer dances.

Bitty, the petite director of the Grantville Ballet, had told Federico that thanks to the Ring of Fire, he was now the World's First Long-Distance Commuter. It was a distinction he would have gladly done without.

If that weren't enough, he had gotten roped into helping out "Words International," the translation company. It had started when a couple of the foreign language teachers at the high school were asked to translate a few documents. A few became many, and they decided to form a company to parcel out the translation work to whoever was willing and able to do the job. The foreign language teachers, trying to fit it in during the evening, on weekends, and over the summer, couldn't keep up with the demand.

It was all Nicole's fault. Nicole, the French teacher, knew that Federico had taught dance in France. Nicole pleaded that she was already teaching two adult sections of European History after the regular school day had ended. Could Federico please help with the translations into French? At least until the end of the regular school year? You said you like to read on the train, didn't you?

Sighing, Federico added the green-covered octavo to the pile.

****

Hans' employment with Bullfrog Eyes was not a matter of choice on Hans' part. It was the price for Bullfrog Eyes' silence about certain events in Hans' past. Hans wasn't entirely sure how Bullfrog Eyes knew about his background. But he was sure that Bullfrog Eyes had deliberately sought out a servant with a secret.

Of course, there were secrets and secrets. Bullfrog Eyes didn't know, at least not yet, about Hans' other problem. The vision thing. Hans was afraid to tell him. Perhaps he would no longer be useful. Perhaps Hans would then be . . . disposable.

Hans stood in front of the Words International store. It was in an old, somewhat run-down commercial building, which had been divided up among several tenants. He looked up and down the street. For the first time in an hour, there was no one else in view. He gave the front door of Words International a swift hard kick.

"Owww!" He grabbed his injured foot and massaged it. He had assumed the door was ordinary wood. He now knew, the hard way, that it was just a wood veneer, with a metal core.

A few minutes later, the pain had eased enough for him to make a second attempt. This time one not involving forcing the door. There was a window he could climb through, once he dealt with the glass. He looked around, and while there was no shortage of pebbles, he wanted something with more heft. Hans sighed and hobbled down the street. He had to go several blocks before he found a likely place to hunt that was away from curious eyes. He picked up a suitable stone, and walked back.

He hefted it and . . . every time he even thought about throwing it, someone came down the street, or out of the tavern next door to Words International, and he had to hide it. Once, he actually dropped it, narrowly missing his injured foot.

Worse, he was starting to attract attention. The bouncer for the tavern was giving him the eye. Hans decided to move along, and come back later.

After walking a few blocks, he saw another drinking place. Why not? he thought. I have to kill the time anyway.

Sometime later, he staggered out. He returned to Words International, but its neighborhood was still hopping.

Then he had an inspiration. Perhaps he could try the roof?

But he had better collect some tools. The house which his master was renting came with an ax and saw, for cutting firewood. The ax had a blade on one side, and a pick point on the other. Hans approved. He also grabbed the hooded lantern he carried when he escorted the master on evening errands, and his "lighting kit." Flint, steel, and a tinderbox, that is.

It was a pity he didn't have one of those American "backpacks," so he could carry them with his hands free. No matter. He loaded them, and a rope, into a sack and carried them outside. Hans realized that it looked a little suspicious to be carrying a sack like that at night, but Hans figured that an ax and a saw would look even worse.

He sidled into an alley, and worked his way behind Words International. Too bad. No windows on this side. He tied one end of the rope around the mouth of the sack, tight as he could, and the other end around his waist. He struggled his way up a drainpipe, pulling himself at last onto the roof. He collected himself, let his breathing settle down. Then he gingerly hauled up the sack, hoping that neither the rope nor the sack would give way.

He took out his tools and, moving in a half-crouch, examined the roof, looking for a likely spot to begin. He couldn't waste time, it would be dawn soon enough. But had to work cautiously to minimize the noise he made.

Hans was equally worried about being seen. But there was a peculiar metal structure on top of the roof. He figured that he could use it to block any view of him from the street. And that would let him use a bit of light, which would make the search go faster.

Hans took out his lighting kit, and huddled over it. He tapped out the tinder into an untidy pile, and struck the steel with his flint. Sparks flew, and flitted into the tinder. There were glows here and there, which he blew on carefully. At last, he had a decent flame. He quickly lit the lantern, and snuffed out the tinder with his foot.

What was that? he thought. There was some kind of panel on the structure. He studied it more closely, bringing the lantern close up. Yes, there was a bit of separation on one edge. He forced the pick end of his ax into the crack, and started prying. His muscles strained—damn American technology—and then all at once it popped free. He almost dropped the ax.

There was an empty space beyond the opened panel, and beneath it, some kind of shaft. He stuck his head into the dark opening, and listened for a moment. He didn't hear anything suspicious, but he did feel warm air coming up. That was interesting. Was this a way inside? What was it, anyway? An up-timer would have recognized it as a rooftop air conditioning unit, but it was completely beyond Han's experience.

Hans held the lantern inside the structure and tried to look down. Metal glinted but he couldn't really tell much. He carefully tied his rope around the handle of his saw, and gingerly lowered it down. After a few feet, he heard a chink, of metal against metal. He didn't know what to make of it.

Hans considered his options. It would be nice not to have to cut through the damn roof. But he didn't think he could take his lantern with him into the shaft, so any further exploration would be blind.

He shrugged. He tied one end of his rope around a pipe that came out of the roof just beside the RFU, and the other around his waist. It would keep him from falling, if there were something odd about the shaft, and also make it easier to back up if he had to.

Taking a deep breadth, he leaned in. He pressed his hands and thighs outward against the sides of the shaft, to control his descent, and he started to snake down. The blood rushed to his head. After a few moments, his hair grazed the bottom of the shaft. He explored, first with one hand, then the other. It seemed like there were horizontal passages. Narrower, unfortunately, than the shaft he was hanging in. It all seemed very familiar all of a sudden, like something he had seen in an American movie at the Gardens, on their TV.

Hans wrinkled his nose. Mama didn't raise a boy stupid enough to try crawling through a passage that small in the dark, with no one to pull him back out if there was a problem, he decided. He would leave the vent-crawling to Bruce Willis.

Hans pushed himself off the bottom of the shaft, and laboriously worked his way back the way he had come. Outside, he untied himself with relief.

What was the American phrase? "On to 'Plan B.'" Hans spat on his palms, rubbed them together, and hefted the ax.

****

With a combination of axing and sawing, Hans had made a Hans-size hole in the roof. Well, a few feet across, at least. The lantern beam revealed a maze of cables and vents. Looking at the vents from this angle, Hans gave thanks that he hadn't gone any further with his John McClane imitation.

Below the tangle was a peculiar checkerboard structure. It appeared that there were square panels of one of the peculiar American materials, resting between, and perhaps on, metal strips. Ah, yes, he remembered now. The ceiling of the translator's shop had a square pattern. Hans had thought it was some kind of decoration, he hadn't realized that the squares were removable.

At least, Hans hoped they were removable. He looked for nails and screws, but didn't notice any. Then he started tapping the structure gingerly with the top of his ax. He wondered whether it would take his weight, let him crawl around and pick exactly where he dropped to the floor of the store.

****

Nicole Hawkins hadn't planned to stop by the Words International office that morning. But she hadn't been able to find her earring at home, or at her classroom, and she was getting desperate. The pair had been a gift from her second husband, Barry, who had been left up-time.

She opened the door, flicked on the lights, and locked the door behind her. Girl couldn't be too careful, even in Grantville. She headed over to the desk that she usually worked at. The earring wasn't on the desktop, or on the floor nearby. Sighing, she got down on hands and knees, and expanded her search area.

****

That's when she heard the noise. Rats, she wondered?

She heard a more pronounced thump. Definitely not rats, unless they were of the man-sized variety. It seemed to be coming from the ceiling. Somewhere above the ceiling, to be precise. It was a standard office-type suspended ceiling, with big two-by-two acoustic tiles.

She thought for a moment of running out the door. But if someone had somehow broken in above, he might have an accomplice waiting outside.

Nicole, moving as slowly as she could, unlocked the special drawer. A revolver had been kept there ever since the Croat Raid, just in case.

She readied the weapon, hid behind a desk, and waited.

She saw a side of a ceiling tile lift up, ever so slowly and the ceiling tile started to slide away.

Nicole fired at where she guessed the burglar would be perched.

There was an answering shriek.

****

Hans was lucky; Nicole wasn't a great shot.

But he didn't know that, and he wasn't eager to present the shooter more of a target.

Hans hadn't tried to crawl around on ...