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Venus and Mercury

Written by Kirt Lee

 

 

 

Madame's earthly affairs had long been largely in order, but this latest bout, lasting weeks, came at a bad time. Events in England had erupted. Her incapacity had tragic consequence for Thomas' dear nephew, Adam, who she loved as dearly as if he had been her own. She was now recovered sufficiently enough to give him her full attention. Given her condition—not to mention his—she dared no further delay. Perhaps the matter could yet be repaired.

The sweet child now stood at the door. "Come closer, dear Adam, so Madame can see you." Adam did so. "But the years pass so quickly. You are no longer a boy. Such happy years they were."

"Madame fares better?" English accent, with just a touch of Parisian.

"For today, child. But Madame forgets her manners. There is wine. Will you pour for us both?"

"Of course."

"And if you would also, to mine please add a measure of the medicine that you will find in the drawer to the left."

Adam opened the drawer and examined the medicine closely, tasting a bit. It was mercuric, and of high quality, the medicine of a syphilitic. Beside it, a spoon. "One of this measure, Madame?"

"Yes, thank you." She watched him stir the medicine into her wine.

"Madame finds the medicine more agreeable with wine?"

"I am French, child. If I wished to take hemlock, I would mix it with wine."

As he started to put the medicine back, she added, "Do take as much as you like for yourself, child. I'm sure you are at tight ends lately."

He paused. "Madame?"

"Wicked tongues delighted in bringing Madame this news."

Adam knew word would get around soon enough. Still, he had hoped it would not happen quite so quickly. He would have spared his late Uncle's paramour this news. He gave her the cup, and sat without speaking.

"Tell Madame how this occurred."

"Does it matter now?"

"Speak."

"Madame knows of events in London?"

"On most days, Madame is uncertain of events in her own chambers."

"Charles Stuart ran amok, tossing accusations of treason with abandon. Father is dead, his estate confiscated. When the news got about, I was courted. I needed friends, so I consented. When a chancre appeared, I knew what it was." Adam had seen enough syphilis chancres. He had come to Paris to study medicine. "My 'friend' accused me of infecting him. It was quite a scene. He told the faculty at University, and they expelled me." His tone was a bit flat.

"You were had, child. The wicked man who sent word of your infection to Madame was one who sought revenge. He wishes to see that I suffer in my last days, but dared not attack one whose cousin is so close to Le Cardinal. Thus, he struck at you, while grief and need left you vulnerable. It would have been easy enough to find a desperate young man in need of medicine, willing to do such work. It was simple cruelty, well aimed."

"Name him. I will kill him." Adam's tone was still flat.

"You will not." As usual, Madame seemed quite certain of herself.

Adam stared sullenly.

"Obey me child. I have other purposes for you."

"Can I kill him and still fulfill these purposes?"

"He is Madame's privilege. Assassination has never been my way, but I have no time for more gracious means. He would soon have you killed, of course, since he will assume I have told you how you came by the syphilis. He will fear you will seek revenge. He will expect you. This is a matter for professionals, not revenge."

"Your privilege, Madame," Adam conceded.

Madame now studied him in a way he would have found ominous when younger, but now found pleasing. Whatever she planned for him, he would find it worthy.

"In the other drawer, you will find papers, some bound. Look first at the bound set."

Adam retrieved them. Next to them was another bottle of medicine, a year's supply at least, perhaps two, and a bag clearly filled with coin. He opened the bound volume.

"Sonnets: Bacon. Marlowe. de Vere. Others."

"Just so. You know them?"

"I do. The usual parlor amusements for those with the right training."

"And the rest?" Madame asked.

"More sonnets. Correspondence regarding business. I see little in them, Madame. More parlor amusements?"

"Another method is also present. Examine the last two pages."

He did. "An interesting variation . . . clever . . . it would be more compact. Certainly more laborious, but one could conceal more with it."

"Just so. Memorize the method, child, then toss those parts in the fire."

Adam needed but a moment, then the papers burned.

Madame continued. "It was a method Bacon shared with few. It will unlock all but the first three sonnets in that binding. Use the better known method for those, though you'll find little of interest in them. As you say, they are mere parlor amusements. I'm uncertain how many know the more difficult method. Some, I'm sure, but I would not know who. I am the last of my own acquaintance who I am certain can read those. "

"And what will I find in those, Madame?"

"Scandal."

"Scandal?"

"Scandal, and more, some of which will still be of fresh fifty years from now. Some date as far back as the reign of Elizabeth and concern Raleigh, Walsingham and others. Madame has added some work of more recent vintage, detailing some events in France. All the sonnets contain something in the simpler method. Most conceal something in the more difficult method. This is a lesson that will serve you well in life, child. Always keep some lesser coin where a thief can find it, but not too easily. Keep the better coin better hidden."

"True wisdom, Madame. And you wish me to . . . ?"

"To keep them safe. They are historical documents. One day, scholars will drool over them, smearing the ink. Madame would not have them lost, or the method forgotten. Who could I trust other than my dear late Thomas' nephew? Will you undertake this, and see that they are not misused?"

"I would be honored. But I must remind Madame, I share her malady."

"You must pass them down, as they were passed to me, as I pass them to you. Add to them if you wish."

"I would be honored, but . . . yes, I will undertake it."

"Good. Now examine the other papers."

He did, and as he did, grew perplexed. "Travel papers. Who is John Smith?"

"You are. Madame has done many favors over the years, and knows where many bodies are buried, if you take my meaning."

The old bird looked quite predatory. He wondered how many stories he would find in her papers. Too few, he was sure. Bacon's methods were flexible, but not thrifty."Why would Madame wish me to go to Basel?"

"Read on, child."

"This man in Basel is to provide bank drafts and papers for me to travel to Grantville." He paused. "You mean for me to go to Grantville?"

"They have begun a medical school you know."

"Yes, it was all the talk among faculty and students."

"And why would I wish you to travel to Grantville, Adam?"

"To study medicine?" Light dawned. "Oh. Chloramphenicol."

"Unobtainable elsewhere. It is said to cure syphilis, not merely alleviate it. A student might have better access."

Adam considered. It was true. And he had no other prospects.

"The money is yours, whatever you choose. I have no heirs of my own. Take it, before the lawyers get it."

"I will do as you say. And I will see if I can find enough of this chloramphenicol for two."

"I may be no longer in need of it by then. In truth, it has become a rare day when I am so lucid. My concern now is for you, and for those papers. Take care of yourself, and them, and Madame will be well rewarded."

"Yes, Madame."

"Good. It is best you start soon. Tonight. Do not return to your rooms. Take up the coin and the medicine, then one last thing, before you go. Take down the sword above from the wall, please."

He did, looking closely. "It was Uncle's. He wore it on special occasions."

"It is a near match to the dirk your uncle gave you when you were twelve. The dirk was made for you. The sword is older."

"Uncle left it with you, Madame?"

"Yes. It was my father's. I gave it to Thomas. I wish you to have it now."

Adam bowed.

"We take care of our own, child. Never forget this. It is possible that you will find a new circle of friends in this Grantville. I cannot imagine a town of that importance without such prospects. Choose carefully. You now carry a great historical treasure, so give some thought to the future, and be watchful for opportunities."

"Yes, Madame."

"Go with God, Adam. Your uncle loved you, and so do I."

Madame received a kiss on the cheek, and the lad was gone.

****

A servant entered shortly after.

"Adam's visit was noticed, Andre?"

"By no one now living, Madame," Andre answered.

"Very good, Andre. Please gather up half of mother's silver from the basement. Take it to the Savoyard. Tell him the rest is his if the brings me the head of the Burgundian Stork before morning. Be certain he understands: Madame will only give the rest if she can see the head, and know its face. He must not mutilate the face."

"Yes, Madame. The Savoyard will be pleased." Andre looked pleased also. But then, he had always been fond of Adam.

For the first time in her long life, Madame would now be a killer. She rested more easily now, satisfied.

****

Adam left the house, looked at the sky, then started walking. With each step, he retreated deeper into himself.

A robot named Adam walked to Basel. Inside, a young man named Adam noted every house, every window, every cobblestone. He expected never to see them again.

****

The robot named Adam had walked into Grantville. Inside, the young man named Adam resented every intrusion from the world outside.

He had read the words hidden in the archive of Madame, finding Bacon, Walsingham, Raleigh, Elizabeth, the Stuarts, the Valois, the Bourbon. It was beyond price. He wondered if it might be the only such archive outside the hands of monarchs.

Likely it was not, but being its custodian kept Adam alive. In that, as in all her efforts, Madame knew her business. He could not bear to think of such papers being lost or abused.

The robot now sat in a small examination room in Leahy Hospital awaiting a doctor. Safely inside, the young man watched with curiosity. How would the examination differ from those he knew? Would he be cured? Would he be tossed out? Fascinating questions.

The door opened and a man came in.

The man stared at Adam's sword hanging by the door, then at Adam. He looked at Adam's paperwork, and smiled oddly.

"Good morning, Adam Tyrrell. I am Doctor Balthazar Abrabanel." Mildly cheerful, English accent. There could only be one doctor by that name, with that accent. "I don't believe we've met, but would you be Thomas Tyrell's nephew?" Abrabanel pointed to Uncle Thomas' sword.

The robot was gone. The young man remained, naked. Abrabanel had served the court in England. He may have done intelligence work. Which factions, which sides had he been on over the years? What was he doing here? The voices of his elders flashed advice though his imagination.

From Father: Kick him in the stomach and run, boy!

From Uncle Thomas: Trip him up. Find the medicine. Then run.

From Madame: Offer him wine. Converse.

Then Adam got advice from himself: Father never would have known this man, so try Uncle's advice first. Then Madame's. Hold Father's in reserve.

"Madame Rossignol sent me," Adam said.

The smile left the doctor's face. Nothing took it's place. "Beg pardon?"

"Madame Rossignol."

"I don't understand."

"You knew her." It wasn't a question, and Adam emphasized the pronoun.

"I knew Henri Rossignol well enough, but long ago. He was close to your uncle. Why would Henri send you?" The doctor emphasized the pronoun and the name.

"Chloramphenicol."

"I'd heard he had syphilis. He was the last of that circle, since your uncle died."

"Not quite the last."

Abrabanel digested that, then passed over it. "I understand your uncle fell at Breitenfeld?"

"Yes. He preferred an honorable end to a demented one."

Abrabanel digested that, too. "More syphilis?"

Adam nodded.

"What can you tell me of Henri's condition?"

Adam rendered a description that would have gotten a fair mark from a professor.

"Have you been studying medicine?" Abrabanel asked.

"Two years in Paris."

"You know the prognosis?"

"She may already be dead."

"Perhaps. We might get the medicine to him while he still lives, but you must understand . . . At best, it would only stop the disease from causing further harm. The injuries already done would remain. From your description, he would not live much longer in any event."

"I suspected as much, sir."

"But you had to try anyway. I understand. In your place, I would do the same."

"There's more, Doctor."

"Yes?"

"I have it, too."

"Syphilis? What symptoms have you had?"

While the doctor examined Adam, Adam examined the doctor's instruments. They were marvelous up-time devices. He was intrigued to find he understood most of them. He made a mental note to try to learn more about their construction.

When it was done, Abrabanel said, "No signs of it just now, but the university doctors are good. You can put your clothes back on." There was still no expression on his face.

"You can cure this?"

The doctor nodded.

"I have coin. A legacy from Madame."

The doctor ignored that. "You've been taking mercury?"

"Yes."

"Stop. It's nearly as bad as the malady. Give it to me. We'll use chloramphenicol, but it's short just now. Sieges breed epidemics, so we sent much to Amsterdam. Emergencies only at the moment. In three weeks, perhaps four, we'll have more."

Adam deflated. He would live.

Uncle had walked into a block of pikes, and died. Adam had walked into Grantville, and would live. He considered that a moment, and decided it might be good to live. It would make it easier to preserve Madame's papers.

"Thank you. Should I apply to medical school elsewhere if I mean to continue my education?" Adam surprised himself. He hadn't known he would say that.

"We can speak of that later."

"I'll be grateful if you can just rid me of the syphilis." Yes, It felt good to live.

"Chloram will fix that, well enough. Do we need to discuss anything else at the moment?"

"No."

The doctor took a piece of paper and wrote. "Very well. This is my prescription until then. Where are you staying? "

"I'm at the Y."

"Your uncle was a very talented man, Adam Tyrrell. Henri more so. I will send word to you at the Y when we have the drug." As he left, the doctor looked at Adam's sword hanging by the wall. "Do keep it sheathed, lad."

Perhaps he meant the sword. Perhaps. There was no trace of humor in his voice.

Adam looked at the prescription. The top was typeset:

"From the desk of Balthazar Abrabanel, MD. Prescription:"

Below, handwritten:

"Essay a composition on the book And The Band Played On, by Randy Shilts, to be found in the Medical Reading Room, third floor, Leahy."

Curious title. Likely a morality lesson.

Adam returned to the front desk and asked where he might find the reading room.

****

Adam had an early lunch in the Leahy cafeteria before going to the reading room. where he presented his "prescription." The librarian seemed to find nothing odd about it. He received the book, and settled in a comfortable chair by a window. A laudably quiet up-time clock behind the librarian's desk showed the time just before noon.

He made many trips to the dictionary chained to the desk.

Much later, he stopped and closed his eyes. It was dark outside. He had not finished the book, and did not care to continue just now. He could see that this project was big. Four weeks might do. Maybe.

Early the next morning, he stopped at the stationer across from the downtown library. He bought a folder, filled it with paper and chose a partly used up-time pencil. He did not care to mix bottles of ink with priceless books.

He noted that the up-time lady ahead of him had brought in a handful of well used pencils with no erasers. She left with two fresh pencils with erasers, muttering angrily. He filed this away in his growing collection of anecdotes.

At Leahy, Adam started the book fresh, this time using the dictionary more carefully. He learned new words, and new uses for old words. He wrote down references to other publications. He marveled at the index in the back. He seldom spoke to anyone. Others politely left him to his work.

Inside the book's cover were notations and a pocket indicating that it had once been in the collection of the high school. Adam checked with the librarian, and learned that yes, that meant it had been freely available to any adolescent in town. The book did not look well used. He added this to his list of curiosities.

Had the University of Paris possessed this book, it would have been heavily restricted, solely for professional use. The entire faculty would have had apoplexy over the author's presentation of sodomites, but on no account would it have been discarded.

It was not a medical book, but a popular account of the AIDS epidemic, written by a journalist.

What was Abrabanel's purpose in assigning it to Adam? Surely the man knew what was in it. The parallels to syphilis were glaringly obvious. He wanted Adam to learn a practical lesson, to go with moral teachings. But the rest?

Whatever moral or professional lessons Abrabanel was offering, another thing was clear enough: the doctor needed help with this, whether he knew it or not. As a gay syphilitic, Adam had a certain perspective on this topic.

He learned that up-time attitudes toward sodomites had been evolving, amid great social contention. There was a Sodomite movement! Sodomites had attacked police outside an American tavern, and boasted of it!

Madame would never have approved. Uncle Thomas? A more interesting question, but he was no longer around to ask.

Adam added a problem to his notes: how to discretely research sexual topics.

He preferred handling leaches to that book.

****

Adam left a note for the doctor: How many cases were there in Grantville?

The answer: One known, now deceased. More were very unlikely. The note offered no further comment.

****

Adam did more reading at Leahy when he finished the Shilts book, then shifted to the other libraries. The Leahy reading room had been decorous. The SoTF State Library, though, was a mob scene. The wait for the encyclopedias, in particular, was lengthy.

Periodicals were easier to browse at leisure, and the collection included more than two decades of Time Magazine. Adam's notes from Shilts included some references from that publication.

Time was eclectic. Politics. War. Entertainment. Science. Medicine. Business. People. Even the very price on the cover suggested new lines of up-time research, as it increased over time. Amazingly, it was vastly cheaper if home delivered. Down-time, these magazines were treasure beyond even that carried by the Spanish Caribbean fleets. Up-time, they had been as disposable as an old man's apple core. He could write one hundred learned commentaries, and still only scratch the tip of this one collection of magazines.

Adam added to his growing list for future research. The Cold War. Republicans and Democrats. Punk rock. Disneyland. Oil sheiks. Gates, Wozniak and Jobs.

Most of the world, including Europe, seemed to have lost its aristocracy. The noble families were covered in the same pages as theater and music, rather than politics. It was a stunning world, but in the pages of the magazines, it seemed as ordinary as a woman beating a rug in Southwark.

His most shocking discovery? Grantville was a rural backwater. Certainly that was common knowledge, but after a few dozen issues of Time Magazine, Adam knew it in his bones. He did not see it merely in terms of technology or history. He saw it in terms of culture and society. These vaunted up-timers would have been judged backward by the twentieth-century sophisticates of New York City or Paris.

He started going through the Time collection issue by issue, starting in 1980, just before the AIDS epidemic was discovered. He made a fast note of each title and topic as he went, regardless of relevance to this assignment, building his own index. He slowed only to read the articles relevant to the AIDS epidemic thoroughly and abstract them. Time enough for the rest later.

More paper. Another pencil. Always another puzzle on the next page.

Shilts had died in 1994. Some important material dated after his book had been published in 1988. Adam saw that the story could not be understood from the book alone. Had any down-timer done this additional research yet? The up-timers must already know the story, but AIDS, far more than syphilis, was a disease of pariahs. Would this blind them to its lessons?

****

The library never closed and was always crowded. Even in that busy place—no, especially there—people began to notice that Adam was on a quest. Finally another researcher approached him.

"You seem to find the magazine collection useful. Perhaps you are compiling an index. If so, I would find ways to be grateful if you would share it."

Adam made a noncommittal answer, but began to surface from the magazines and books more often to take notice of his surroundings. After a day of that, he stopped and just looked at where he'd been working.

Some patrons, especially up-timers, just seemed to be reading. Others, both up-timers and down-timers, read and wrote more furtively. This was made easier by the rows of carrels, almost booths, for the researchers, Without that added privacy, the situation would have been intolerable. Some cast challenging glances at any who looked too closely. Many, very many, shielded their materials from others. A few of the researchers had men with them, humorless men, who seemed to be there only to keep prying eyes at a distance. Other researchers acted like spies from a poorly written comedy.

These men were not hiding their work from the authorities so much as from each other.

Adam had never seen a library with a bouncer before. This library had more than one.

Adam speculated that the cloak check at the entrance collected blades for reasons beyond preventing patrons from using them on books. The stakes were high indeed. Monarchs paid some of these researchers, seeking to gain some advantage of history or technology over their rivals. The outcome of wars might be decided in these rooms.

He was sure it was the largest collection of learned spies ever assembled. Certainly it was the most industrious—and most ironic. What they were "spying out" was free for the taking!

What did this say about the authorities who permitted it? It couldn't be stupidity. It must be a statement of strength, or perhaps of arrogance. Or was there some deeper game here? Adam was accustomed to deeper games.

From the door, a woman's voice called out, "Roach coach!" The midnight meal wagon had arrived. People began drifting outside. Some left a friend behind to guard their work.

Uncle Thomas would have loved this, had he only lived to see it. Madame would have set up court in a corner, reading romances while directing her mignons in their research. Adam wished for their advice.

Yes. It felt good to be alive, and more so each day.

****

"Pizza. Italian food!" A young man, Tuscan by his accent, smiled at Adam. "An excellent choice." He sat next to Adam uninvited, but not entirely unwelcome. They ate outside the library in darkness broken by gas lights.

"I grew weary of sausage and sauerkraut." Adam's conversation skills felt rusty. For weeks, he had avoided conversation.

"My card." The young man handed it to Adam.

 

Stephano Vasari

Grantville Library Research

Specializing in History & Biography

Best Rates—Can you afford not to ask?

"I'm Adam. How's business, Stephano?" Adam was genuinely interested in the answer. If he were judged morally unfit for medical training, he would need other work.

"The usual for a freelance researcher with no great or wealthy patron. Castoff questions not wanted by researchers with better sponsors." Stephano assumed a bored voice: "How will my children fare? Should I invest in Virginia? Will the siege of Amsterdam destroy the tulip market, or create a shortage? Is there anything I should know about Lord Him or Lady Her which will help me gain favor? They seldom phrase that question so baldly, but it's clear what they want. All very predictable. I hope one or another of them will be so pleased with my answers as to refer me to a patron with real money and better questions. I'm seldom so lucky as to find an inquiry from someone who is in the encyclopedias. I seldom even bother to cover my work. I should have listened to my mother, finished my education, and become an attorney." Stephano rolled his eyes to indicate his opinion of that option.

"It all sounds terribly tedious."

Stephano shrugged. "It can be. The speculation is that you are compiling a magazine index. If you are generous with it, you might find many willing to share information or hire you in times of need, but be advised, few are willing to share patrons. Of course, you may already have one—not that I would pry."

"Actually, I'm at loose ends. I intend to petition to study medicine."

"You invest your idle days shrewdly, friend."

"So I'm learning."

Stephano finished his pizza. "And now, back to work. I have to find a way to tell an abbot in Campania that I can not find for him the current whereabouts of Prester John. I fear he will not pay well for that news, if he pays at all."

Adam decided he liked Stephano. Perhaps it was the charmingly downscale American Western garb. It might have been fun to prowl Southwark with him. He made a mental note to watch for Time Magazine references to Prester John.

Adam remembered Stephano's remark about "Italian food," and made another note in his future research list, adding "Hamburgers, "French Toast" and "French Fries." Americans and their culture, even their food, were the proverbial child of a thousand fathers.

His research list was getting long. He was not sure of a market for it.

Adam had enough material for his commentary on AIDS. The epidemiology aspect was obvious, but he would write a much longer paper. He began writing it the next afternoon. It would have been a much shorter paper without the magazines.

****

Several days later, he dropped the essay off at Leahy for Dr. Abrabanel. He was told it would still be a few days before the doctor had his medicine, so he went back to the library. Stephano had recommended music by The Village People, so he signed up for a CD player.

The Village People lyrics were suggestive, and the costumes more so. Adjust for period and Adam could imagine those Village People fishing the piers of London—with their hooks baited for sailors. But Adam found he could "stop the music" and did. The librarian suggested Steeleye Span, which turned out to be more agreeable, and quite fascinating to an Englishman.

Adam had several references to The Village People in his Magazine index. He gave the dates and page numbers to Stephano without comment. The Village People were gay icons.

Adam wondered when gay had replaced somodite in his mind. Recently, to be sure. The change had not happened easily, but he now found that he occasionally felt "uppity."

****

Adam lay in his bunk, listening to a dozen neighbors breathe, snore, and turn. They didn't keep him awake. Something else nagged him.

The lady with the pencils.

Erasers. Ballpoint pens. Light bulbs. A child bawling over a deflated bicycle tire. Amid this, monarchs moved spies through the libraries like chess pieces.

He got up, dressed, and stepped out into the night. Clear sky. Gas lights.

Gas lights. Not electric.

He went to the library, and sat at a picnic table near his usual gas light. Within the building, Prometheus.

Instead, Stephano emerged. He must have been sitting near a window, watching. This pleased Adam.

"Pondering the night, Adam?" he asked.

"One should, from time to time. Will you walk with me, Stephano?"

They meandered quietly from one gas light to the next, never very close to the lights, never very far.

After a time, Adam spoke, "Grantville."

"Yes," Stephano replied. "Grantville."

"They are Prometheus, Stephano."

"Bringers of light. Yes."

"And you know what happened to Prometheus? Look in the library, Stephano, and see the vultures."

"Grantville isn't bound yet. They still stand defiant. But look again, Adam. When I see Grantville, I sometimes see the city of Rome. You know what they say of Rome these days?"

Adam shook his head.

"I would render it poetically: Where barbarians failed, Barbarini prevailed. Today's Romans use the monuments of the Caesars as quarries."

"I'm afraid I've never been to Rome, Stephano."

"I would love to show it to you some day, Adam. But here, have you seen the streetcars? The airplanes? The APCs? They had none of it when they arrived. All of it, quarried from whatever they found in their pockets. How long can they do this?"

"I've been so buried in my own affairs. I hadn't noticed. But yes, I see it now. And it's of a part with all the frantic work. Steel. Chemicals. Guns."

"Have you heard of their Granges, Adam? One of their major works is preserving their stock. They have refined seed and livestock breeds, but some of it hangs by a thread. There are not enough of the cattle, for instance, so they must breed carefully."

"The large horses, also?"

"Yes."

"The vision of Prometheus came to me earlier. But there was more to it, Stephano. Look closely at the vultures feeding on the liver of this town, and what do you see? Indigestion."

Stephano considered a moment. "Yes, it is true. It is such a delicious irony, such a magnificent jest. The Grantvillers could not be more clear than if they had hung a sign over the door. 'Heads I win. Tails you lose. Take what you like.' It must be galling."

"Look deeper still, Stephano. Have you studied the nations of their world? There's not an important monarchy remaining except maybe in Arab lands."

"True. Galling indeed."

"And how did that happen, Stephano?"

"That's the big question, my friend. You'll hear it discussed among researchers, if you sit at the right tables for lunch."

"It almost doesn't matter. Whatever did it, it's right there in that library, being copied and spread round the world by the very spies who seek to stop it. An information plague, like one of their computer viruses. That's why they keep the library open to all."

Stephano went dumb. Then it sank in. "My God! Can this be true?"

"I'm sure of it. I think I may even have some grip on the details."

"Adam, you're a very rich young man if you do."

"Rich? Did Cassandra prosper? Stephano, to understand what they do, it helps to study epidemics. Look closely and see this one spreading. The CoCs. The Granges. The Ram and the Ewe. Religious toleration. Women in pulpits. Jews in Prague taking up arms and tearing down ghetto walls. They're spreading a cultural contagion that touches anything, everything."

"And the library is the center of all this? I don't buy that, Adam."

"The people take part also, just by the way they speak and carry themselves, Stephano. The library is how they persuade the great and mighty to steal it!"

"You may be right, friend. It would explain much. But forgive me if I keep some skepticism."

"Not at all."

They walked more.

"Did you expect all this when you set out for Grantville?" Adam waved around.

"No. I met an up-timer in Rome named Harry Lefferts, who spoke of the medicines. I came for chloramphenicol and stayed for the library."

"I'm on the chloramphenicol waiting list. Soon, I hope."

They stopped and looked at one another, each waiting for the other to speak first.

After a very tense moment, Stephano suddenly grinned rakishly and sang. "YYYYY-EMMM-CEEE-AAAAAA."

A dam burst inside Adam. He fell to the ground convulsed in laughter.

Stephano stood looking down at him. "Damned gas lights," he said mournfully. He then winked brightly. "But as Grandmother always said, chloramphenicol first."

When Adam's laughter had run its course, Stephano helped him up. "Adam, when I went in for treatment, I got Doctor Nichols. He's not an easy man to fool." He paused a painful moment, then said, "So they know about me. Hang around me too much and . . . I suppose I should go now."

"Wait." Adam considered a moment. "Adam and Stephano. I like the sound of that. Do you?"

Stephano smiled. "I ...