-• To Cheryl Daetwyler •-

Baen's Bar

Throughout this book you will see references to Baen's Bar and a conference there devoted to the 1632 universe ("1632 Tech Manual" conference). The Bar is an Internet website, a virtual bar, if you will, where readers and fans of Baen Books hang out, chat, and take part in some serious (and not-so-serious) discussions, including Baen books.

How do you get there?

1. Go online and open up your web browser. Type (without quotes): "http://bar.baen.com" into the Address/Location bar in your browser & hit the Go radio button.

2. Sign up for the Bar at the WebBoard sign-in page.

3. Log into the WebBoard and you will see a listing of all the conferences at the Bar.

4. Be sure to read the FAQs conference, especially the "Newbies FAQ" before posting for the first time in the Bar.

Editor's Preface

Eric Flint

The Grantville Gazette originated as a by-product of the ongoing and very active discussions which take place concerning the 1632 universe I created in the novels 1632, 1633 and 1634: The Galileo Affair (the latter two books co-authored by David Weber and Andrew Dennis, respectively). This discussion is centered in one of the conferences in Baen s Bar, the discussion area of Baen Books' web site (www.baen.com). The conference is entitled "1632 Tech Manual" and has been in operation for almost five years now, during which time over one hundred thousand posts have been made by hundreds of participants.

Soon enough, the discussion began generating so-called "fanfic," stories written in the setting by fans of the series. A number of these, in my opinion, were good enough to be published professionally. And, indeed,

a number of them were—as part of the anthology Ring of Fire, which was published by Baen Books in January, 2004. (Ring of Fire also includes stories written by established authors such as myself, David Weber, Mercedes Lackey, Dave Freer, K.D. Wentworth and S.L. Viehl.)

The decision to publish the Ring of Fire anthology triggered the writing of still more fanfic, even after submissions to the anthology were closed. Ring of Fire has been selling quite well since it came out, and I'm putting together a second anthology similar to it which will also contain stories written by new writers. But, in the meantime . . . the fanfic kept getting written, and people kept nudging me—okay, pestering me, but I try to be polite about these things—to give them my feedback on their stories. The problem, from my point of view, was that that involved work for me with no clear end result I could see.

Hence . . . the Grantville Gazette. Once I realized how many stories were being written—a number of them of publishable quality—I raised with Jim Baen the idea of producing an online magazine which would pay for fiction and factual articles set in the 1632 universe and would be sold through Baen Books' Webscriptions service. Jim was willing to try it, to see what happens.

In the event, the first issue of the electronic magazine sold well enough to make continuing the magazine a financially self-sustaining operation. Since then, a second volume has come out and we're in the process of putting together the third and fourth volumes.

So, Jim decided to try a new experiment: this volume, which is a paperback edition of the first electronic issue, with a new story by me included in the mix. Its an experiment, because we don't know yet

whether well do the same thing with later volumes of the magazine.

There are four stories in this issue, in addition to the one I wrote for it. Two of them—Loren Jones' "Anna's Story" and Tom Van Natta's "Curio and Relic"—were originally submitted for the anthology Ring of Fire. Both of them were stories I would have included in the anthology, except that I ran out of space and, for one reason or another—none of which involved the actual quality of the writing—I decided to accept other stories astead. Loren does have a story appearing in Ring of Firj, by the way, entitled "Power to the People."

Virginia DeMarce, the author of another story contained here ("The Rudoldstadt Colloquy"), is another of the authors with a story in Ring of Fire. She is also my co-author in an upcoming novel in the 1632 series, 1634: The Austrian Princess. Finally, her story here introduces a character—Cavriani—who will figure in later stories in the series. (Indirectly he already has, in fact, in the form of another member of the Cavriani family, in 1634: The Galileo Affair.)

Gorg Huff's "The Sewing Circle" was submitted for the magazine. Gorg is a new writer in the setting, who has not previously been published. He does have other stories coming out in later volumes of the magazine, including a sequel to the one in this book.

All three factual articles in this issue were written at my request. Rick Boatright was the radio expert whom David Weber and I leaned on for advice while writing 1633, and his article fleshes out the background for the radio material contained in that novel (as well as future novels in the series). The same is true for Bob Gottlieb's expertise with regard to disease and antibiotics. Karen Bergstralh is an

experienced horsewoman and an expert on horses, a subject which I find is routinely mishandled in fiction. (Especially the movies—the downhill charge in the recent movie The Two Towers is admittedly a lot of fun. It is also preposterous.)

—Eric Flint April 16, 2004

Portraits

Eric Flint

"I still can't believe I did that," said Anne Jefferson, studying the painting. It was obvious that she was struggling not to erupt in a fit of giggles.

Pieter Paul Rubens looked at her, smiling faintly, but said nothing. He'd gotten a better sense of the way the woman's mind worked, in the days he'd spent doing a portrait of the American nurse, even to the point of understanding that for her the menial term "nurse" was a source of considerable personal pride. But he still didn't fool himself that he really understood all the subtleties involved. There was a chasm of three and half centuries separating them, after all, even leaving aside the fact that they were—at least officially—enemies in time of war. If not, admittedly, actual combatants.

The sound of siege cannons firing outside reminded

him of that enmity. For a moment, the big guns firing at distant Amsterdam caused the windows in the house to rattle.

The Jefferson woman heard them also, clearly enough. Her grin was replaced by a momentary grimace. "And back to the real world . . ." he heard her mutter.

But the grin was back, almost immediately. "Its the pom-poms and the baton," Jefferson said. "Ridiculous! I never even tried out for the cheerleading squad."

Rubens examined the objects referred to. His depiction of them, rather. The objects themselves were now lying on a nearby table. They weren't really genuine American paraphernalia, just the best imitations that Rubens' assistants had been able to design based on the American nurses description. But she'd told him earlier than he'd managed to capture the essence of the things in the portrait.

"Coupled with the American flag!" she half-choked. "If anybody back home ever sees this, I'll be lucky if I don't get strung up."

The English term strung up eluded Rubens, since his command of that language was rudimentary. He'd spent some months in England as an envoy for King Philip IV of Spain, true, during which time he'd also begun painting the ceiling of the Royal Banqueting House at Whitehall Palace. But he'd spent most of his time there in the entourage of the English queen, who generally spoke in her native French.

However, he understood the gist of it. Jefferson had spoken the rest of the sentence in the German which they'd been using as their common tongue. Jefferson's German was quite good, for someone who'd only first spoken the language three years ago. Rubens' own German was fluent, as was his French, Italian, Latin and Spanish. Not surprising, of course,

for a man who was—and had been for several decades now—recognized by everyone as the premier court artist for Europe's Roman Catholic dynasties, as well as being a frequently used diplomat for those same dynasties.

"Do you really think they will be offended?" he asked mildly.

Jefferson rolled her eyes. "Well, if anyone ever sees it 111 probably get away with it just because it was done by Rubens. You know, the Rubens. But they don't call them 'hillbillies' for nothing. Seeing me half-naked, wrapped in an American flag and holding pom-poms and a cheerleaders baton . . ." She brought her eyes back to the portrait, and shook her head ruefully. "I still don't know what possessed me to agree to this."

"Indulging a confused old artist, shall we say?" Rubens smiled crookedly. "You have no idea what a quandary your books from the future pose to an artist. If you can see a painting you would have done, do you still do it? When every instinct in you rebels at the notion? On the other hand . . ."

He glanced over his shoulder. His young wife Helena Fourment was sitting on a chair nearby, looking out the window. "Who knows? I may still do the original portrait, with her as the model as she would have been. But this seemed to me an interesting compromise. Besides . . ."

His eyes moved to the portrait, then to the young American model. "I was trying to capture something different here. Hard to know whether I succeeded or not, of course. You are such a peculiar people, in many ways."

Hearing a small commotion in the corridor outside his studio, the artist cocked his head. "Ah. Apparently the day's negotiations are concluded. Your escort is here

to return you to Amsterdam. It has been a pleasure, Miss Jefferson. Will I see you again some day?"

Anne went over to a side table and began gathering up her things. "Who knows, Master Rubens? We might none of us survive this war."

"True enough. Even for those of us not soldiers, there is always disease to carry 7 us away. So—please. Take the portrait with you."

She stared back at him over her shoulder. Then, stared at the painting.

"YouVe got to be kidding. That's ... a Rubens. " For a moment, her mouth worked like a fish gasping out of water. "The only place you find those in the world I came from is in museums. Each one of them is worth millions."

"You are no longer in that world," Rubens pointed out. "Please. In this world of mine, you will do me the favor. And—who knows?—perhaps the portrait will somehow help shorten the war."

He took it off the easel and presented it to her. Hesitantly, Anne took it.

"You're sure?"

"Oh, yes. Quite sure."

After Jefferson left, Rubens turned to his wife. "A pity she is such a skinny thing," he murmured. "Of course, she wouldn't let me portray her breasts properly anyway. Odd, the way their American modesty works."

Fourment simply smiled. It was a rather self-satisfied smile. She was even younger than Jefferson, had a bosom that no-one would describe as "skinny," and there was nothing at all odd about the way her modesty worked. In her world, she was a proper wife and always properly attired as such. In her husbands world, she was whatever he needed her to be.

"When are you going to do The Three Graces?" she asked. "Or The Judgment of Paris?"

He shrugged. "Perhaps never."

Fourment pouted. "I thought I looked good in those paintings!"

Rubens didn't know whether to laugh or scowl. In another universe, those paintings would have been done in the year 1638. Bad enough for an artist to be confronted with illustrations of his future work. Worse still, when the wife who served as the model for them began wheedling him about it!

In the end, he laughed.

Another man was scowling.

"I still don't like the idea," Jeff Higgins grumbled, as he and Anne Jefferson brought up the rear of the Dutch delegation returning from the parlay to Amsterdam. "And Gretchen'll be having a pure fit."

"She'll get over it," Anne said firmly. "Look, I had orders. So there's an end to it."

She gave Jeff a none-too-admiring sidelong glance. "How is it, three years after the Ring of Fire, that you still can't ride a horse?"

Jeff gave the horse he was mounted on a look that was even less admiring. "I don't like horses, dammit. I'm a country boy. The only breed of horse I recognize is Harley-Davidson."

"You own a Yamaha."

"Fine. I'm a traitor too."

"Give it a rest, Jeff!" Now Anne was scowling. "I had orders."

"Mike Stearns is too damn clever for his good," Jeff muttered.

"So run against him, the next election."

Jeff ignored the suggestion. His head was now turned to his left, where the Spanish batteries were located.

"Well, at least it looks like theyVe stopped firing. I guess we'll get back into the city after all."

"Like we have every other time. You're paranoid. And what are you complaining about, anyway? I'm the one who has to ride a horse carrying a great big portrait. The only thing that's saved me so far is that he didn't have it framed."

Jeff looked at the portrait Anne was balancing precariously on her hip. He couldn't see the actual image, because it was wrapped in cloth.

"I can't believe it. A Rubens. When are you going to show it to us?"

Jefferson looked very uncomfortable. "Maybe never. I haven't decided yet."

"Like that, huh?" Jeff's scowl finally vanished, replaced by a grin. "Gretchen won't let you keep it under wraps, you know that. She'll insist on that much, at least."

When Rubens was ushered into the small salon which the Cardinal-Infante used for private interviews, Don Fernando rose to greet him. The courtesy was unusual, to say the least. The Cardinal-Infante was the younger brother of the King of Spain, in addition to being the prince in all but name who now ruled the Spanish Netherlands. People rose for him, not the other way around.

But he was a courteous young man, by temperament— and, even for him, Rubens was . . . Rubens.

"What is it, Pieter?" asked Don Fernando.

"Thank you for responding to my request so quickly, Your Highness." Rubens reached into his cloak and drew forth several folded pieces of paper. "After Miss Jefferson departed my studio and returned to Amsterdam, we discovered that she had left this behind. It was lying on the side table near the entrance."

The Cardinal-Infante frowned. "You wish me to have it returned to her? Forgive me, Pieter, but I'm very busy and this hardly seems important enough—"

"Your Highness—please. I would not pester you over a simple matter of formalities. Besides, I'm quite certain she left it behind deliberately." He gestured toward a desk in the corner. "May I show you?"

The Spanish prince nodded. Rubens strode over to the desk and flattened the papers onto it, spreading out the sheets as he did so.

"She is a nurse, you know—a term which, for the Americans, refers to someone very skilled in medical matters. But I'm quite sure she didn't draw these diagrams. That was done by a superb draftsman. Not to mention that the text is in Latin, a language I know she is unfamiliar with."

The Cardinal-Infante had come to his side, and was now bent over examining the papers. As was to be expected of a royal scion of Spain, Don Fernando's own Latin was quite good.

"God in Heaven," he whispered, after his eyes finished scanning the first page.

"Indeed," murmured Rubens. "It contains everything, Your Highness. The ingredients, the formulas, the steps by which to make it—even these marvelous diagrams showing the apparatus required."

The Cardinal-Infantes eyes went back to the lettering which served as a title for the papers. How to Make Chloramphenicol.

"But can we trust it?" he wondered.

Rubens tugged at his reddish beard. "Oh, I don't doubt it, Your Highness. I realize now that was why she agreed to pose for me, even though it obviously made her uncomfortable. That strange American modesty, you know. Scandalous clothing combined with peculiar fetishes regarding nudity."

The Spanish prince cocked his head. With his narrow face, the gesture was somehow birdlike. "I am not following you."

Rubens shrugged. "Over the days of a sitting, an artist gets to know his model rather well. Well enough, at least, to be able to tell the difference between a healer and a poisoner/' He pointed to the papers on the desk. "You can trust this, Your Highness. And, in any event, what do you have to lose?"

"Nothing," grunted Don Fernando. "I'm losing a dozen men a day to disease now. Mostly typhus. We can test it on a few of them first. If we can make the stuff at all, that is."

"That's no problem, I assure you." Rubens hesitated a moment. "We're in the Low Countries, you know. Not—ah—"

"Benighted Spain?" The Cardinal-Infante laughed. "True enough. Outside of Grantville itself—maybe Magdeburg too, now—there is probably no place in Europe better supplied with craftsmen and artisans and workshops."

The two men fell silent, looking down at the papers.

"Why?" the Cardinal-Infante finally asked. "From what you're saying, she could hardly have done this on her own."

The continent's greatest artist pondered the matter for a moment. Then, shrugged. "Perhaps we should just tell ourselves they also have peculiar notions of war. And leave it at that."

"That won't be good enough, I'm afraid." Don Fernando sighed. "I have no choice but to use it. But. . . why do I have the feeling I'm looking at a Trojan Horse here?"

Rubens' eyes widened. "It's just medicine, Your Highness."

The Spanish prince shook his head. "Horses come in many shapes."

Gretchen was, indeed, still in a steaming fury. "Why don't we hand them ammunition as well?" she demanded.

Anne was tired of the argument. "Take it up with Mike, dammit! I was just doing what he told me to do, if I ever got the chance."

Gretchen stalked over to the window of the house in Amsterdam where the American delegation was headquartered. Along the way, she took the time to glare at the wife of the man in question.

Rebecca just smiled. Diplomatic, as always. "Its not just the soldiers, you know."

Diplomacy was wasted on Gretchen. "You propose to tell me that? I am the one who was once a camp follower, not you!"

Gretchen was at the window now, and slapped her hand against the pane. Not, fortunately, quite hard enough to break it. "Yes, I know that three women and children die from disease in a siege, for every soldier who does. So what? Its the soldiers who do the fighting."

Rebecca said nothing. Eventually, Gretchen turned away from the window. To the relief of everyone else in the room, her foul humor seemed to be fading. If nothing else, Gretchen could always be relied upon to accept facts as given.

"Enough," she stated. "What's done is done. And now, Anne, show us this famous portrait."

Anne fidgeted. Not for long.

"Do it!" Gretchen bellowed. "I will have that much satisfaction!"

After the portrait was unveiled and everyone stopped laughing, Gretchen shook her head.

"You coward," she pronounced. "If we're to play at this posing game, let us do it properly. I will show you."

The next morning, Rubens was summoned by the Cardinal-Infante to that area of the siegeworks where the Spanish prince was positioned every day.

Once he arrived atop the platform, the prince handed him an eyeglass and pointed toward Amsterdam.

"This, you will want to see/'

After peering through the eyeglass for a moment, Rubens burst out laughing. "That must be the famous Richter."

He lowered the eyeglass. "No odd modesty there. What a brazen woman! And I see she's read the same books I have. One of them, at least."

Don Fernando cocked his head. "Meaning?"

Rubens pointed toward the distant figure of Gretchen Richter, posed atop the ramparts of the besieged city. "That's a painting that will be done—would have been done—two hundred years from now. By a French artist named Eugene Delacroix. Its called Liberty Leading the People. And now, Your Highness, with your permission, I must gather my materials. The opportunity is impossible to resist. What magnificent breasts!"

The Cardinal-Infantes eyes widened. "You will not give it the same title!" The words were half a command, half a protest. "Damnation, I don't care if she's naked from the waist up and waving a flag. She's still a rebel against my lawful authority!"

"Oh, certainly not, Your Highness. I'll think of something suitably archaic."

A moment later, Rubens was scampering off the platform, moving in quite a spry manner for a man in his mid-fifties.

The prince sighed, and gave in to the inevitable. "Tell the batteries not to fire on that portion of the city's defenses, until I say otherwise," he told one of his officers. He smiled ruefully. "Hell hath no fury like an artist thwarted."

After the officer left, Don Fernando went back to studying the distant tableau through the eyeglass. A magnificent pair of breasts, indeed.

By the time Rubens returned, with his needed paraphernalia, the prince of Spain had made his decision.

"You will call it The Trojan Horsewoman" he proclaimed. "That seems a suitable title, for a portrait depicting what has become the most peculiar siege in history."

Anna's Story

Lorenjones

Anna ran for all she was worth as the mercenaries chased her, fleeing her fathers farm with no destination in mind except away. Two of the mercenaries followed her, shouting as she ran for her life and virtue. She didn't notice the change in the landscape until she ran over the edge of a small cliff and collided with a strange man.

Another scream ripped from her throat as she looked around. Strange men in strange black clothes were all around her, surrounding her and the man she had collided with. She looked down and saw some sort of medal on his chest. That medal proclaimed him the leader, and her fear redoubled as she imagined the punishment he would inflict for her seeming attack upon his person. Again instinct sent her surging to her feet and running away, down the hill and across a stream that shouldn't be there.

Behind her she heard the boom, boom of two arquebuses being fired in rapid succession, followed by several sharp cracks that sounded like pitch-bubbles snapping in the hearth. She didn't look back. If the new men were fighting Tilly's bastards, all the better. It gave her more time to escape and hide.

George Blanton was spending his Sunday in the same way he had spent every Sunday for over twenty years: watching sports on TV. It didn't matter what sport was on. Football, baseball, basketball, hockey, soccer, horse races, car races, even golf: if it was a sport, he watched it. He was watching his favorite "all sports" channel when the world suddenly went white. Tremendous thunder roared through his house, making his ears ring.

George sat stunned as the world around him returned to normal, except that the TV was off. Looking at the clock, he saw that the second hand had stopped. Power failure? he asked himself, nodding as he saw that even the VCR's incessantly flashing clock was blank. Yep, power failure. Shit. But what was that flash and boom? Standing, he walked to the pantry and opened the breaker panel. A quick inspection showed that nothing was tripped, and the tattletale on his incoming power was off. It was the line again.

Anger and disappointment roiled in his belly, making him clench his teeth. He had been complaining for more than a year about the lines into his farm, and the power company still hadn't done anything. Walking over to the window, he looked outside as he angrily

picked up the phone. He knew the number by heart, and started dialing before he noticed that there was no dial tone either. Power and phone? Lovely. Well, he had a solution to one of his problems. Dave's generator was already hooked up and ready to start. Slamming the phone back onto the hook, he stomped out to the back porch, turning the main breaker off as he passed the pantry.

He paused before starting the generator to say a quick prayer for his son, Dave. Dave had gotten divorced a few years after George and Mary had retired and moved to the farm. The place was big: fifty acres of pasture and a ten-acre garden that Mary had adored, and the farmhouse had six bedrooms. There had been more than enough room for their only child to join them.

That was before Mary had gotten sick. She had played it down, refusing to go to a doctor. She had sworn that it was just her misspent youth catching up to her. Three months later she was gone. Cancer had taken the love of his life.

Dave had taken his mother's death hard. He'd been working at the mine, bringing home decent wages, but he had become eccentric. That's what his friends called it; George called it bonkers. Dave had decided that the end of civilization was near, and had begun hoarding things: guns, ammo, food, water purifiers, survival books, assorted other weapons, and clothing. And booze. The hayloft out in the barn was packed with his stuff—cheap department store footlockers full of it.

The union contract had allowed Dave to list his parents as his beneficiaries, rather than his ex-wife, and George had become financially independent on the same night that he'd lost his will to live. Dave had been driving home after drinking with his buddies, and had died when his truck hit a tree.

George shook off his momentary grief. Mary had been gone for seven years, and Dave for three. The generator had been one of Daves better ideas. It was a good one, commercial quality, and it was tied directly into the house. So long as the main breaker was off, it would power the house and barn. The flick of a switch turned George s power back on.

George went back in to watch TV again, dismissing the flash and thunder as figments of his imagination. He was drifting these days, and figured that he had drifted off in a doze until something happened to wake him up. Probably whatever it was that knocked out the phone and electricity.

He spent fifteen minutes fiddling with the satellite receiver, but couldn't locate a signal. Now he was really getting mad. Sports had become the only thing that he looked forward to anymore. Stomping over to the phone, he grabbed it to check for a dial tone, but it was still dead. Then a flicker of movement drew his attention outside. Someone had just run into his barn.

His eyes narrowed even further. He didn't like his neighbors. They knew it, and didn't like him either. None of the kids in the area even cut across his land any more. He had seen to that by having a few of them arrested for trespassing. Now someone was in his barn.

His anger at the power company transferred to whoever was out there, but now it had become a quiet fury that bore little resemblance to his earlier boisterous rage. He walked silently out of his door and crossed the yard. The barn doors were open wide, and his Dodge Ram pickup was sitting right where he had left it. Looking around, he couldn't spot anyone, so he yelled, "Who's in here? This is private property! Get out!" Nothing moved. Then he heard

a scraping sound from the loft, and something that sounded like a stifled sob.

"Come down from there!" he shouted, but there was no response. Climbing the ladder, he carefully looked around. He didn't want to be surprised and lose his grip. When he didn't see anyone, he climbed the rest of the way up into the loft. There was a trail of sorts in the dust that had blown in since the last time he had been up there, and he followed it to the back corner. As he drew near, he saw a flicker of movement. Moving closer, he grabbed the top locker in the stack that whoever was up there was hiding behind, and pulled it toward him.

A shriek pierced his ears as he spotted the disheveled young girl in the dirty dress. She was plainly terrified, and he quickly backed away. It didn't do much good. She continued to shriek as he held his hands over his ears. "Stop that noise!" he roared, almost drowning out the girl's shrieks.

Something about his shout silenced the girl. When his ears were no longer being assaulted, he took a step forward, but she shouted, "Nein! Nein! Geh weg! Geh weg!" George stopped. He didn't understand everything that she said, but he understood "Nein! Nein!' 9 Anyone who had ever seen a WWII movie knew what that meant. "No! No!" In German.

German? What the hell?

George looked at the girl for a moment, and then started to put two and two together. Power and phone dead. Loud noise. Messy, frightened girl who speaks German hiding in his barn. Nodding to himself, he figured out exactly what had happened. A car or busload of German tourists had crashed and taken out a telephone pole.

Now that he knew what was going on, he calmed down. Looking at her, he saw that her dress was torn

and she was covered with dirt. Well, that explained some of her fear. She'd probably heard all sorts of horror stories about the sexual habits of hillbillies. Chuckling to himself, he looked around. There were a few things in the loft that weren't part of Daves hoard, and a box of them was right where he needed it to be. Opening the box, he brought out the old bathrobe that Mary had given him one Christmas. He hated the thing, but it was from her, so . . .

He walked back over to the girl and tried to hand it to her, but she shrank away from him, still frightened. George was getting annoyed now and stepped back to glare at her for a moment before sighing deeply. Take it easy, you old fool. She's frightened and doesn't understand, he silently said to himself before deciding on a plan. He put the robe on to show her what it was, and almost cursed when it stopped short of closing with six inches of his belly still exposed. Mary had given him the robe a long time ago. Taking it off, he again tried to hand it to the girl, but she still cried out when he stepped closer. He finally gave up and threw it at her.

"There. Put it on or don't, I don't care. Come down to the house when you feel like it." He pointed over to the house as he spoke, but the girl just sat there staring at him. He decided to try some of the pidgin German that he had picked up from the movies and said, "Comen see to da housen, ya?" The girl still just stared at him, so he gave up and left.

George returned to the house and tried the phone again. Still dead. Taking a deep breath, he looked around. Nothing seemed to be out of the ordinary. Looking back out at the barn, he nodded to himself. That girl came from somewhere. The power and phone were out for some reason. That left only one thing to do: drive to town.

The keys to his truck were hanging near the door. That had been Marys idea when they first moved here, to hang the vehicle keys by the door like her parents had done. Now there were only two sets hanging there: the truck and the tractor. Grabbing the truck keys, he left, carefully locking the door behind him. No telling if anyone else was going to follow the girl to his farm.

He got into the truck and started it, then looked up at the loft. There was no sign of the girl, so he backed out and headed to town. He drove slowly, watching for pedestrians or any sign of a wreck, but there was still nothing out of the ordinary. He made the turn off of his road and headed toward town, but slowed and stopped in the middle of the road as his mind finally registered the countryside. There was something very wrong with what he was seeing. There was supposed to be a hill off to his left, but it wasn't there. A column of smoke was rising into the air off to the south, but there should have been trees in the way.

Cautiously driving on, he kept his eyes open for any other signs of trouble. He made it into town and found people milling about, lining the streets. Whatever the problem was, it was widespread.

An old woman in her Sunday dress waved him down and immediately climbed into the truck. "George, take me out to Jimmys house. I have to get to the children."

"Beth, what the hells going on here? I don't have power or phones at my place, and there's a little girl in my barn shouting German at me."

"I don't know, George. No one does. But the word we got was that Dan Frost has been shot, and there's lunatics on the loose with antique rifles, shooting at whatever moves. Now, move, damn it! I have to ret

to the children." Elizabeth glared at George as he put his truck in gear.

"All right, Beth, all right. If there isn't any help here in town I may as well go home, too. Damn, I wish I knew what was going on around here." He started driving back out the way that he had come, then slammed on the brakes. Looking closely at Elizabeth, he lifted one eyebrow. "You said the police chief has been shot? Who's in charge, that fool Dreeson?"

"Drive, George. No, not Henry Dreeson. Mike Stearns has taken charge. Dan deputized him and the UMWA before he passed out. Now go. You said that there's a girl in your barn? Ken Hobbs said a girl ran over the side of some cliff and collided with Dan just before he was shot. The men that shot Dan was chasin' her. That might be her. It happened out your way. I'm surprised that you didn't hear any gunshots."

"Men were chasing her? With antique rifles? God Almighty! That would explain why she's so afraid, but why's she shouting in German? And it still doesn't explain where she's from." He shrugged. "As to hearing anything, I've got the generator going. It's quieter than most, but it's still noisy as a lawn mower. Can't hear much over it if I'm close." George drove on, thinking about what he was going to do when he got home. Men with antique guns running around shooting folks. A girl in a torn dress in his barn. He almost missed the turn into Jim Reardon's place, but managed to make it without getting off of the gravel.

Elizabeth gave him a sour look, but didn't say anything until he stopped in front of the house. "Go home, George, and lock your doors. And get out a shotgun. Just ain't safe 'round here right now." She hurried up the steps and was met by Jim's wife. Once the door had closed behind them, he drove off.

George pulled into the barn and climbed out of the truck, carefully locking it behind him. It was the first time that he had ever locked his truck at home. He started to climb the ladder to the loft, but decided that he should listen to Beth and get a gun first, so he turned toward the house.

The doors were still closed and locked, and there were no broken windows. Unlocking the door, he started to put the keys back on the hook, then thought better of it and put them into his pocket instead. Then he went to his gun cabinet.

The guns were mostly sporting rifles and light shotguns, but not all of them. Nestled inconspicuously in the corner was the M-14 that Dave had been so proud of. Antiques my ass, he thought as he quickly loaded the rifle. Then he went to the barn again.

At first he couldn't find the girl, then he heard her on the other side of the loft. Walking carefully over to her, he smiled and held his hands open out to the sides. "Young lady, you don't need to be afraid. I'm not going to hurt you. What's your name? I'm George. George Blanton." He patted himself on the chest and said his name several more times, just like in the movies. The girl continued to stare at him.

"Are you hungry?" he suddenly asked, desperately trying to get some reaction out of her. He took a step forward and reached out his hand.

The girl shrank away from him, shouting, "Fass mich nicht an!" She was trying to crowd herself farther into the corner, and her eyes were so wide that he could see the whites all around.

He still didn't understand what she was saying, but the way that she was acting made her meaning clear. She was still frightened. "Okay, I'll just stay over here," George replied softly, taking a step back. "Are you hungry?" he asked, pantomiming eating. The girl

didn't say anything, but she swallowed and licked her lips. George nodded and backed away.

The footlockers in the loft were all labeled, and he picked one marked ready to eat. In it he found vacuum-packed beef jerky, crackers that might still be edible, and an assortment of Army MREs. Where Dave had gotten them, he had never asked. And after asking to try one once, he had never asked that again either. Sheesh! The things they feed to soldiers. Grabbing some jerky strips, he turned back to the girl. She was watching him intently, and he tossed two strips to her.

She picked them up and looked at them with wide eyes and a confused expression on her face. George cleared his throat to get her attention, and, when she looked up, tore one of the packages open and took a bite of the jerky. Or at least he tried. The tough meat gave his dentures a real workout.

The girl looked carefully at the package in her hand, then followed Georges example. The plastic clearly confused her, but it was when she took a bite of the meat that she finally showed some sign of life. The first piece disappeared in seconds, and the second quickly followed. And after a few moments she had the reaction that George had been waiting for. She began swallowing and trying to clear her throat. Whatever else you wanted to say about jerky, it was dry as a bone.

George smiled and waved for her to follow him as he climbed down from the loft. There was a sink in the barn, and he always kept a cup or two handy. Now he made a big show of getting something to drink as the girl watched over the edge of the loft.

She finally gathered her courage and her skirts and climbed down, nervously watching over her shoulder to make sure that George didn't try anything while

her back was turned. Once her bare feet were on the ground, she carefully walked toward him. George put an old coffee mug on the side of the sink and left the water running as he stepped back.

The girl came forward cautiously, watching George all of the time. When she reached the sink, she picked up the old red and white checked mug and looked it over carefully, then got some water. She seemed to find the running water fascinating, and trailed her fingers through it as she drank. After three mugs of water, she put the cup down.

George was watching her carefully, and moved over to the side of the barn, staying in her field of vision, and picked up a scrap of cloth. He tossed it to her, but she just caught it and stood there. He pantomimed washing his face, and she dropped the cloth and backed away. Then her eyes opened wide and she looked past him down the road.

George spun around, unslinging the rifle and bringing it up to his shoulder fairly quickly. Scanning the area carefully, he turned back when there was a sound behind him. He glanced back just in time to see her disappear into the loft again.

George was torn between anger and amusement, but the amusement won out in the end. "Why, you little scamp! You suckered me," he said, turning his face up toward the loft. A chuckle rumbled in his chest, and he felt himself grinning. Girls: born to deceive. Shaking his head, he went to the house and left her to her own devices for a while. The jerky had awakened his appetite, and he intended to deal with it properly.

His mother had taught him to cook when he was a child so that he could help with his brothers and sisters. During his more than seventy years he had almost always cooked. Not everything, mind you. It

had been part of Marys pride that she held a job and kept up her household as well, but there were times when she had needed his help. When Dave had been born he had been given a choice of cook or change diapers, so he had immediately gone to the kitchen. Now that Mary and Dave were both gone, he tended to himself. And his unasked-for guest.

He thought about the girl as he rummaged around in his pantry. She looked to be about fourteen, maybe a little older. Wracking his brain for a moment, he finally remembered what Dave had eaten most when he was a teenager: macaroni and cheese. Fortunately, he had a ready supply and years of experience fixing it. He quickly filled a pan with water, salted it lightly, and set it on the stove to boil. Then he grabbed a box of mac-and-cheese and a measuring cup.

He caught himself humming a merry tune as he worked, and paused to wonder why he was so happy. When he finally realized what he was so happy about, he had to stop and sit down. He had been lonely for so long, and he had always driven off everyone who tried to befriend him. Now a stranger, a frightened little girl, was forcing her company on him. And he loved it.

The hiss of water splattering over the rim of the pot brought him back into the real world, and he quickly added the noodles to the water and prepared the rest of the fixin s. Ten minutes later he had a pot of prime teenager chow ready to go.

Two bowls balanced nicely on top of the pot, and he grabbed two spoons and a serving spoon. No sense in being a barbarian about things. Then he returned to the barn and stopped in his tracks. How was he supposed to get the food up to the loft? An idea occurred to him immediately. Setting down his burden, he walked over and grabbed his stepladder.

Setting it up beside the loft ladder, he put the pot on top, climbed halfway up the loft ladder, then reached down and put the pot up on the loft floor. Then he climbed the rest of the way up.

The girl was peeking out from behind a stack of footlockers as he heaved himself up the last step. "Well, there you are," he said, slightly out of breath. "You could have helped a little, you know." He bent over and picked up the pan and bowls, groaning a little as he straightened back up. "And don't you dare giggle." He glared at the girl, and she immediately vanished.

George spent a few minutes arranging a picnic area. Two stacked footlockers made a table, and two more, one on each side, made benches. Then he placed the bowls and served the mac-and-cheese. "Come on," he said gently, waving to the pair of eyes that was peeking at him over a pile of lockers. She came forward shyly, like a kitten, and he swore to himself that if she'd had whiskers they wouldVe been twitching. George sat with his hands in his lap, waiting. When she was seated across from him, he bowed his head and said Grace. He really didn't care if she joined him or not. He had been saying Grace and a lonely prayer for Mary and Dave for years. When he looked up, she was sitting with her head bowed, her lips moving silently. Then she crossed herself and looked up into his eyes. "Ladies first," George said softly, indicating that she should take a bowl.

The girl looked at him, then slowly took the bowl that was closer to her. He nodded and took the other bowl. She waited until he had taken a few bites before she started eating, but she was done long before he was. He smiled as he remembered that Dave had been much the same at that age. She was all but licking the bowl, and kept glancing at the pot, so he

chuckled and waved for her to help herself. There wasn't much left, but it was gone entirely before he finished his. They sat there staring at one another for a few moments, and she seemed about to say something w r hen there was the sound of a car horn honking on his road, coming closer by the minute. She was up and hiding in a flash, and George felt his annoyance growing again. Damn it all, the girl was acting like she had never heard a horn before.

Leaving the dishes where they were, he climbed down and waited at the tailgate of his pickup. A sedan soon pulled to a dusty 7 stop in front of him, and Beth Reardon climbed out. "George, is that girl still here?"

"Yes. I was just about to get her talking when you drove in, honking like a flock of geese."

"Harrumph! Not likely. George, Jimmy just came back from the high school. Seems that there was more trouble than we thought." She quickly related the story of the fire fight at the farm. "That girl the miners rescued claims that we're in Germany, Year of Our Lord 1631."

George stared at her for a moment, then looked back over his shoulder. "Bullshit." WHACK! He stared at Elizabeth as if she had grown horns and rubbed the suddenly sore spot on his chest.

"Don't you curse on the Sabbath, George Blan-ton." Elizabeth glared at him, and he felt surprisingly contrite. "Haven't you ever read any time travel stories?"

George eased away from her a little. "When I was younger, and didn't know any better. In the fifties. Even TV has given up on real time travel."

"Well, TV didn't come up with this, George. Those men who were chasing her raped her Ma and damn near killed her Pa. She doesn't speak German by

accident, and she doesn't speak English at all. And she's never seen anything like us before." Elizabeth stopped talking and looked up into the barn. Sure enough, there was a dirty face with wide eyes staring down at her.

Walking over to where she was just below the girl, she held out her hand. "Come down, child. You're safe here." Reaching into her pocket, she pulled out a book. George looked over her shoulder and saw that it was a English-German dictionary. Looking up words as she spoke, she said, "Kommen," flipped a few pages, "Unten" flip flip, "Madchen." "Come down, girl."

The girl had set straight up when Elizabeth spoke, and looked confused. Elizabeth pointed to the girl, then to the ground at her feet and repeated the three German words. "Kommen unten, mddchen/'

The girl was looking perplexed, but she climbed down the ladder. She shyly stepped up to Elizabeth and said, <€ Wer sind sie?"

That was the first calm thing that George had heard her say, and he almost knocked Elizabeth down reaching for the dictionary. "What'd she say?"

"Hold your horses, George," Elizabeth snapped. "Let me look. Ver sind zee!' She looked, but couldn't find the word "ver" Then she looked at the pronunciation guide. "W is pronounced V. Wer, translates as 'Who.' Sind translates as 'are.' Zee translates as—see. Ocean or Sea. That can't be right. Let's try sea. Nope, that ain't it either. Sei. Looks like 'be.' Sie could be 'she,' 'them,' or 'they' Who are they?" George and Elizabeth looked at one another and shrugged.

"How about 'Who are you?'" George suggested, and Elizabeth nodded.

"As good a question as any." Turning to the girl, she patted her chest. "Elizabeth. Elizabeth." Then she turned to George and patted his chest. "George.

George/' Looking at the book, she flipped a few pages. "Was. Was? Oh, I forgot. Vas," flip, "isf," flip, "ener," flip, "name. Was ist euer name, mddchen?"

"Anna. Ich heisse Anna."

"Glory be," George muttered as he rolled his eyes toward the sky. "Her name is Anna." Looking at Elizabeth, he grinned. "Ask her where she's from."

During the next hour they learned that she was from, "over there." The men who were chasing her were, "mercenary pigs." If they had caught her she would have been, "raped and killed." George grew angry at that and looked back toward the south. Then the girl whispered something to Elizabeth that he didn't catch.

"What did she say?"

Elizabeth started to open the dictionary to look it up, but stopped. She hadn't raised three daughters and ten granddaughters without seeing that facial expression and posture hundreds of times. "George, get out."

"Why?"

"Because there are some things that a gentleman leaves a lady to do in private." Elizabeth glared at him and he backed away.

'"Well, all right, you don't have to get nasty about it," he muttered as he walked away. "Bossy females."

Elizabeth knew the Blanton farm well. She and Mary had spent many an afternoon in the garden complaining about their menfolk. She knew exactly where the toilet in the barn was, and she quickly led Anna to it. She had banished George because the toilet stall was just that: a horse stall with a toilet in it. It had been built that way because there was normally only one, or at most two people in the barn at any given time. And since it was mostly men, they usually had their backs to the rest of the barn anyway.

Anna looked at the white porcelain fixture with a mixture of awe and confusion written clearly across her face. Elizabeth almost laughed. "What did you expect, a board with a hole in it over a hole in the ground?" It didn't bother her at all that Anna couldn't understand her. She walked forward and lifted her skirt, then took care of her own needs first. Then she flushed the toilet and waved Anna toward it.

The girl was clearly unsure, but also clearly about to burst. The feel of the smooth, cool plastic seat was a surprise from the look on her face. When she was done, she pushed the handle and watched the water swirl away. Her eyes were wide as she turned back to Elizabeth.

Elizabeth had been busy with the dictionary while Anna had been occupied, and said, "Kommen mit mir" She hoped that it really meant, "Come with me." From Annas reaction, it did, and the two of them walked up to the house. George opened the door as they climbed the steps and ushered them through, closing and locking the door behind them. "Phones working, Beth."

"Oh, good. I have to call Jimmy." Elizabeth quickly grabbed the phone and called her son. She related the details of what they had found out about the girl, chattering a mile a minute.

George glanced over and saw the girl watching Elizabeth talk on the phone. The look on her face said clearly enough what she was thinking. Mad. She was trapped by people who were totally mad. It was more than he could stand, and he burst out laughing. That earned him an even more troubled look from Anna, and a reprimand from Beth.

"George, whats gotten into you?"

"Her," he gasped, waving at Anna. "The look on her face, seeing you talking to yourself like a loony."

"I was not talking to myself, George Blanton." Elizabeth planted her fists on her hips and glared at him while he continued laughing.

"She doesn't know that. She really doesn't know that Jim was on the other end of the phone. She was just standing there, watching you have a conversation with no one. I swear, she was about to run back out of the house."

Elizabeth stopped snapping at George and looked at Anna. Sure enough, Anna looked like she was about to run away. Quickly grabbing her dictionary, Elizabeth looked up some words. "That; das. Is; ist. Our; unser. Way; weg. To; zu. Speak: oh, this is better. To speak to; ansprechen. Someone; irgendeiner. Far away; weit weg."

Anna looked at her as if she had grown horns.

"That book ain't going to do us much good for explaining things like phones or radio or TV. The girl doesn't have the background to understand. Hell, Beth, you and I both remember when TV first came out. Movies in the home. What a wonder, and we had had radio all our lives. If what you tell me is true, then she doesn't know what radio is or even that sound propagates in waves. If you showed her, she would probably think it was a demon." He paused and smiled. "Been known to think of the phone as a demon myself now and again."

Elizabeth gave him a sour look, but nodded. "Kom-men mit mir, Anna" she said softly. She led Anna into the kitchen and flipped on the light. Anna's reaction to that was almost comical, but Elizabeth didn't laugh. "Sit," she commanded, waving toward a chair, and Anna obeyed. George suspected that Anna hadn't understood the word, but had understood the gesture.

Over the next hour Elizabeth tried to explain a little of what they knew, fumbling through the dictionary

over and over again when Anna clearly didn't understand what she meant. It was only the ringing of the phone that finally distracted her.

George answered the phone while Elizabeth and Anna looked at him. After saying "hello," George just nodded and occasionally grunted his agreement with whoever was on the other end. Then he hung up.

"Beth, that was Jim. He wants you to stay here tonight."

"Why didn't you let me talk to him?" Elizabeth asked angrily.

George stopped and looked puzzled for a moment, then shrugged. "Didn't think to. Anyway, I agree with his reasoning. Its getting dark, and he doesn't want you to drive home alone. I'd like you to stay and help with Anna. She seems to have taken a shine to you."

Elizabeth nodded and said, "All right." Then she looked at Anna. "The first thing that we need to do is to get you cleaned up." Nodding sharply once, she stood and grabbed Anna's hand, and led her to the bathroom.

What followed would forever be a mystery to George. There was a lot of shouting in German, more shouting in English, some splashing and banging, and finally silence. The door opened a crack and Elizabeth looked out. Her hair looked like she had been in a tornado. She was splattered with water, and there were flecks of soap foam liberally dispersed around her face. And her dress was in her hand with a wad of other clothes. "Go wash and dry these, George, and get us some robes."

George raised an eyebrow, but took the bundle. Robes? The only robe that he had was his own. He got to thinking and went to the linen closet. No robes, but there were those huge bath sheets that Dave had

gotten. They would have to do. He handed them to Elizabeth and went to the laundry room.

Annas clothes felt like linen and wool, and he wondered which cycle he should use. Then he looked closer and shrugged. Her dress was already badly torn. Beth s dress was good cotton, so he just threw them all in together and pressed start.

Anna and Elizabeth were sitting in the living room when he came back. Elizabeth was brushing her hair and looking smug. Anna was pouting and looked as angry as a wet kitten. George wisely kept his mouth shut.

He looked at the TV and the satellite receiver and shrugged. No sports tonight. Or maybe ever again, for that matter. He sighed and looked at the video collection on the shelves to his left. He looked at Anna and Elizabeth, then back to the tapes, and nodded to himself. They needed a distraction, and so did he. And he knew just what he wanted to see.

Anna sat up straight when the TV came on and looked startled and frightened when the pictures started flickering across its face, and then mesmerized when the movie began. The Sound of Music rang through the house, and Anna seemed to be fascinated by it in spite of the language difference. She listened to the singing and hummed along, much to Georges annoyance. She gasped when the wonders of another world were displayed for her. And fell asleep on the couch before the second tape.

George and Elizabeth noticed and shared a smile. When the washing machine buzzed, Elizabeth went to put the clothes in the dryer. And when the dryer buzzed near the end of the second tape, she smiled and waited until the end before getting up. "That was nice, George," she said as she went to get her clothes.

George nodded and turned off the TV and VCR and put the tapes away. Anna was curled up like a kitten on the couch, and was showing far more leg than he could ignore. She was a pretty little thing, and just thinking of what had almost happened to her made his blood boil. There was a quilt over the back of the couch, and he gently pulled it over her, tucking her in carefully to avoid waking her.

Elizabeth said good night and headed to the guest room while George made sure the doors were locked and the generator had plenty of fuel. Then he went to his room, propping the M-14 beside his bed.

Morning was heralded by the arrival of Jim Reardon and his family. All seven of them. Anna stared as the group of lunatics swarmed around her asking questions, clearly not understanding what was happening. Elizabeths bellow was rewarded by total silence.

"Marge, Lizzy, Melody, fix something to eat. Jimmy, sit down. You boys go perch somewhere. Honestly, you have no manners."

George was standing by the stairs, watching with wide eyes as Elizabeth corralled her herd. Once things had settled down, he went to the kitchen. The tat-tletale on his incoming line was on, and he breathed a sigh of relief. Going to the porch, he shut down the generator, then switched on the main breaker. The lights flickered a little, but hardly anyone noticed. They were all focused on Anna, who was still seated on the couch, wrapped in the quilt.

"Beth, I think the boys and I ought to excuse ourselves while you women see to Anna. If I'm not mistaken, that's her towel there on the floor."

Elizabeth looked startled for a moment, then embarrassed. "Boys, outside. Right now."

There wasn't even one objection to her order and

George was soon out at the barn with Jimmy, Jim III, Bill and Alex.

Jimmy looked at him as he leaned against the truck. "George, what have you heard?"

"Only what you and Beth have told me."

Jimmy nodded and propped himself against the door. "That s about all anyone knows right now. Dad s history books hardly mention this era. It wasn't one of his interests. The encyclopedia says that we're smack-dab in the center of the Thirty Years War." He paused when Melody ran out of the house, opened the trunk of the car, then ran back inside. "Mom said that Anna's dress was torn, so we brought some of the girls' stuff with us. She looks to be about Mel's size. Anyway, the teachers are researching what they can. All we know is that there are a bunch of mercenaries led by someone called Count Tilly raping and pillaging their way across Europe. And we are in their path." Jimmy paused for a moment, then cleared his throat. "Uh, George, do you still have Dave's stash?"

George nodded. "Up in the loft. Why?"

"We may need it."

Elizabeth shouted from the porch, stopping their conversation as she called them back into the house. George almost didn't recognize Anna at first. She was dressed in a modest blue dress that he had seen Melody wear to church a few times, and her hair had been brushed out and tied up in a simple ponytail. Little Jim, Bill and Alex immediately went silent, but their wide eves said volumes. Volumes that their mother and grandmother could read immediately.

"Boys, go set the table," Elizabeth ordered, and they reluctantly obeyed, looking back at the pretty-girl until the kitchen wall got in the way.

George really couldn't blame the boys. She was a beautiful girl, a stranger, and fit right in between them

in age. As the old saying went, "I saw her first." He felt a chuckle building and finally let it loose.

Jimmy looked at him and grinned. "Yeah."

Elizabeth almost snarled at them both. "That's enough. Anna, come here," she commanded, waving to her side, and Anna obeyed. "After we eat, we have to go to the high school and see how her parents are doing. Marge says that her father is in bad shape."

Jimmy looked around. "Its going to be a tight fit in the car."

"I can take the boys with me in the truck, Jim."

"That'll be fine," Elizabeth agreed, and the boys immediately got excited.

"I call shotgun," Bill immediately shouted, and there ensued a fast and furious argument which George ended with a shouted, "Shaddup!"

Everyone looked at him with wide eyes. "Little Jim has shotgun. Literally. Jim, grab the Ithica 12-gauge out of the cabinet. I've got the M-14. Jimmy, you and Marge grab a gun too. If we're driving around these parts, we're going armed."

Jimmy looked at him and nodded. "We've got two 12-gauges in the car."

George looked at him and nodded, not needing to say anything else. Melody came out of the kitchen just then and announced that breakfast was ready Soon everyone was eating, sitting at the little table or standing in the kitchen, and Anna was timidly trying the strange food but apparently liking what she tried.

The boys did the dishes automatically, just like at home, and soon they were sorting themselves out in the vehicles. Bill and Alex were wedged tightly between George and Little Jim in the truck seat, but it wasn't too crowded. The two younger boys together weren't as wide as George, and Little Jim wasn't much bigger than his little brothers. Anna was wedged inlo

the back seat of the Reardon s car between Elizabeth and Melody, with Jimmy and Marge bracketing Lizzy in the front.

Jimmy led off, with George close behind them. It was a fair drive to the school, and George was watching everything as they passed. Everything seemed to be normal, except there were hills missing from the distance.

Mike Stearns and a beautiful woman with dark hair met them at the school. Elizabeth had explained where they were going to Anna, and she immediately looked around. "Wo ist Mutti? Wo 1st mein Water?"

The woman with Mike smiled and said, "Komm mit" then took Anna by the hand and led her into the school, talking every step of the way. George and the Reardons followed along in their wake, with Mike bringing up the rear.

In the makeshift hospital, Anna was led to her father first. The dark-haired woman explained what the doctor said, and comforted her as the seriousness of his situation became clear. Then they led her to her mother.

Anna spoke, but the woman on the cot hardly noticed. Then Anna cried, and collapsed, begging her mother to look at her, to speak to her. Finally, the woman on the cot seemed to realize who was there and burst into tears. She grabbed Anna in a fierce hug, crying and talking all the while.

George and the others stayed back, giving them as much time and privacy as they could. Finally Annas mother pushed her away as she drifted off to sleep. Anna sat on the floor, staring at her mother, until Elizabeth went and collected her and led her from the room.

Mike Stearns was waiting for them when they came out. "Mr. Blanton, thank you for taking care of her.

None of us had any idea where she went after she knocked Dan down and ran off. We'll see if we can find a place for her to stay until her parents are ready to go home."

George looked at Anna, then at Elizabeth, and back to Mike. "She has a place to stay, Mike. And her mother, too, when she's ready."

"I thought you liked living alone, George," Elizabeth said softly. "That you didn't want any company."

"I thought so too, Beth. But I guess that I was wrong." Smiling at Anna, he held out his hand. "Kom-men, Anna. Lets go home."

The drive back to George's farm was silent. Neither of them could speak the other's language beyond a few words.

Anna didn't want to risk annoying the old man. She was getting a sense of him, of his personality. He wasn't really a mean old man. He was just set in his ways. That, at least, she understood. Grandfather Steffan was like that about some things. He had his own ways, and no one could change him. That thought steadied her.

She looked out at the scenery as it sped by, amazed by how fast they seemed to be going, and how smooth the ride was. The farm wagon was nothing like this. Soon they were driving into the barn.

George opened his door and got out, but Anna just sat staring at the door.

"Well, what are you waiting for? Expect me to open the door for you like you were some lady?" he asked harshly.

Anna looked at him in confusion. She didn't understand him, and she couldn't see how to open the door.

The expression on her face finally registered, and George sighed. "Here, like this," he said, tapping on the door and pulling the handle.

Anna watched him carefully, then tried it. There was a click, but nothing happened. George said, "Push," and she looked to see him pushing the door with his other hand. Her hand came up and the door opened. She turned a radiant smile on him that stopped George in his tracks as she climbed out. She followed the example that the Reardons had set at the school and pushed the door closed behind her, then walked around the truck and stood waiting for him.

"All right, Anna, lets go inside and get you settled," George said, motioning toward the house. Anna walked beside him, watching him closely as he brought out the bundle of keys. Once the two were inside, George was at a loss as to what he should do. Elizabeth had taken her dictionary with her, and the five or six German words that he knew just weren't enough.

George finally sighed and shook his head. "What did you do that for, Blanton? Take on a foundling that you can't even talk to." He looked at Anna and saw her puzzled expression, and smiled. "Don't mind me, Anna. I've been the only person that listens to me for years. Living alone can do that." He smiled and saw her smile in return.

"Well, the first thing to do is get you settled in a room. The only rooms with beds are mine, the guest room that Beth used and . . . and Dave's room." He paused as a wave of grief and sadness washed over him. "I think Dave's room has been empty long enough," he said softly to himself. To Anna, he simply said, "Kommen."

Dave s room was at the far end of the house. That had been Marys idea, to give him some privacy from his parents' prying ears. After all, he had been thirty-three when he had moved back in with them. And a handsome man as well, if the women that he attracted were any indication. He had kept his affairs light and quiet during the years that he had been there, and seldom woke his parents late at night.

The room was musty and dusty. George hadn't really kept it up after Dave s death. He hadn't really cleaned it after Daves death. Now he sighed deeply.

"This place needs a through cleaning." Looking at Anna, he said, "Stay here," and motioned with both hands for her to stay while he went back downstairs to the laundry room.

Window cleaner, furniture polish, and a roll of paper towels were handy in a cupboard, and he returned to find Anna exactly where he had left her. "Anna, it's time to clean this mess up." Handing her the window cleaner, he tore off a paper towel, then laughed at her startled expression. "Here you go. Start on the windows."

Anna just looked at him, then at the strange bottle and stranger cloth in her hands.

George was almost annoyed again, but caught himself. Of course she's confused. Did they even have window cleaner or spray bottles here? Gently taking the bottle from her, he led her to the window and showed her how it worked. Her surprise gave way to an almost comical joy as he demonstrated how to wipe the windows, then handed her back the bottle. He watched as she cleaned the next window before returning to his own task.

The bookshelves in Daves room were mostly full, and George absentmindedly glanced at the titles as he dusted. Gunsmithing, cabinet making, herbal medicine.

how-to encyclopedias, explosives . . . Explosives? What the hell was Dave doing with a book about explosives? The Anarchist's Cookbook? Yikes. Dave really had been bonkers. He was just finishing the fifth shelf when he became aware of Anna standing at his side.

"Done are you? Well, lets move on then. The bathroom next/' Dave s room shared a bathroom with the next room over. That had been another reason that he had been given this room. George led Anna to the bathroom and opened the door, then quickly shut it. Dave s collection of magazines was still there. Turning to Anna, he motioned toward the bed. "Let's make up the bed instead."

George simply stripped the bed by grabbing comforter, blanket and sheets all at once and pulling. Anna stared as the good quilted mattress was revealed, and George grinned.

"Never seen anything like that before, have you?" he asked rhetorically. He knew that she hadn't, and that she couldn't understand him anyway. "Let's get these washing, and get fresh linen." He turned and left the room, pausing only once to look back and jerk his head in an effort to get her to follow.

The laundry room was big by most standards. It had a large-capacity washer and dryer, along with a large, three-by-eight foot table for folding clothes. That had been installed at Mary's insistence. Three of the four walls had cabinets mounted on them, and George grabbed a bottle of liquid laundry detergent from the one above the washer.

"Comforter first," he said over his shoulder to a curious Anna. "I have sheets and blankets enough, but no more comforters." He stuffed the comforter into the washer and turned on the water, smiling at Anna's surprise. "You may think I'm crazy, Anna, but this

beats the hell out of a washtub." He added a capful of detergent and led her back out into the house.

"This is the linen closet," he said as he opened a door. Shelves of neatly folded sheets, pillowcases, towels and blankets were arrayed in order from top to bottom. He grabbed a set of sheets and matching pillowcases and handed them to Anna. Then he grabbed a bright yellow blanket and headed back upstairs with Anna in tow.

Anna was delighted with the sheets, and her surprise at seeing the way the fitted sheet wrapped the mattress was enough to make George chuckle. He started to spread the blanket, but stopped and motioned for Anna to do it. When her fingers encountered the velvety material of the blanket she stopped and rubbed her cheek on it in sensuous pleasure.

George used her fascination with the blanket as an opportunity to slip into the bathroom and pick up Daves "collection." The boy had had some . . . strange tastes. Things that his mother and father never would have dreamed of. But he had been an adult, and could make his own decisions. Quickly bundling the magazines together, he went into the next room and stashed them in a convenient box.

Anna had finished the bed, even the pillowcases, by the time he returned. She was standing with her hands clasped in front of her and her eyes lowered as he walked up to her. "Smart girl. Saw me take the others off and figured it out yourself. Now we can clean the bathroom." Waving for her to follow, he led the way back and handed her the window cleaner again. He tapped the mirror, counter, window, and shower. The toilet bowl was dry after so long, and he flushed once to get it filled again. Rust-colored water flowed down fitfully, and he flushed three more times to get it to clear up. The bowl, however, was still badly stained.

Sighing, George headed back down to the laundry room cupboards. Even the best toilet-bowl cleaner on the market was going to have trouble with that mess. Anna was still working when he returned and came over to watch curiously as he poured the crystals into the bowl. She reached out to touch the foam as the crystals began their task, but George caught her wrist. "Not a good idea, Anna. That stuff burns."

The two continued cleaning for an hour more before George was satisfied. "Well, Anna, your room is ready. And I'm ready for lunch." He smiled and walked out of the room with Anna following close behind.

Like many of his neighbors, George ran his stove, water heater, dryer and furnace on gas from under his own land. The wellhead and compressor were out in the barn. The old O'Keefe & Merritt range in the kitchen was left over from the first occupants of the house, and he and Mary had loved it. All done up in white enamel, it was sturdy, simple to use, and heavy as hell. It had real pilot lights, none of those fancy piezoelectric igniters. Four burners shared the top with a built-in griddle. The oven was side-by-side with a broiler below, and there were drawers for storage below them. A back plate was behind the burners, and built-in salt and pepper shakers bracketed a clock at the top of it. There was also a cover that folded down over the burners and griddle or folded up into a shelf.

George considered Anna for a moment, then shrugged. She was already suffering from culture shock, and a little more was inevitable. George had traveled all over the world when he was in the Navy. He had been stationed in nine states in his six years, but only one of them had made a lasting impression on him. California. Specifically, California cuisine. California cuisine was a mix of so many different ethnic bases that it couldn't rightly be called anything else.

"Anna, have you ever had a burrito?" he asked, grinning. He went to the refrigerator and grabbed a pound of ground chuck, some sharp cheddar, lettuce, tomatoes, and onions. Smiling at Annas intensely curious stare, he put everything on the table except the meat, then went to the stove. His old cast-iron frying pan was on a hook beside the stove and he put it on the stove beside a burner. "Watch this, kiddo," he said with a smile, then turned the burner on.

Anna jumped back when the blue flames erupted into being, then came forward. She extended her hand slowly toward the flames, and pulled back when she felt the heat. Her questioning gaze made George chuckle again.

"You'll learn soon enough." He put the pan over the flames and dumped the meat into it. An assortment of large wooden spoons was in a drawer beside the stove, and he used one to break the lump of meat up and stir it around as the pan heated. Motioning Anna forward, he pulled a hot pad from the rack and wrapped it around the handle. "You take over here," he said, stepping back and handing her the spoon. "Fll cut up the rest of the stuff." He smiled and went to the table where he had left everything. He brought over a small cutting board and was soon slicing and dicing away. He glanced back at Anna, then quickly stood and moved to her side. "Stir it, girl, don't let it burn." He grabbed the hand that held the spoon and stirred the meat, turning it to get it browning evenly. "Keep stirring," he instructed, stepping back as Anna complied.

George quickly chopped the lettuce and onion and sliced the cheese and tomatoes, then turned back to the stove. "Time for salt and pepper," he said softly. He lightly salted the meat and then grabbed the pepper, but hesitated. He liked his meat peppery

hot, but both Mary and Dave had accused him of trying to kill them. Sighing, he lightly peppered the meat. He could always add more to his own later. He took the spoon from Anna and stirred it some more, then shut off the burner and moved the pan over to the griddle and propped it up on the spoon to drain the meat.

Anna had taken advantage of his momentary distraction and picked up the salt and pepper shakers. Salt she knew, of course, but the pepper was something that she didn't recognize. George turned around in time to see her make a huge mistake, but not soon enough to stop her from making it. Not being able to identify the gray powder by sight, she lifted the pepper to her nose and sniffed.

Annas eyes began to water as she was wracked by a series of intense sneezes that almost lifted her from her feet. George managed to catch the pepper shaker before it hit the floor, but there was nothing that he could do for Anna except let nature run its course. After about twenty rapid-fire sneezes she got control of herself and gave George such a bewildered look that he had to laugh. That earned him an all too eloquent glare.

"Don't sniff things that you can't identify, Anna," he finally managed to say as he gasped for breath. He put the pepper on the table and waved her to a seat on the other side. There was a Ziploc bag of large flour tortillas beside the stove and he placed two on each of the plates that he had laid out. Then he put on some cheese and onions, layered on a little meat, and added the lettuce and tomatoes. He almost added more pepper, but Anna's reaction was still making him chuckle, so he let it be. Placing a plate in front of Anna, he took his to the opposite chair and sat down. Clearing his throat to get her attention, he showed

her how to roll the tortilla and picked one up, then began eating.

Anna copied George, and soon found that, whatever else could be said about her host, he was a good cook. The meat had a bite that she identified after a few moments as pepper. So that's what the gray powder is, she thought to herself. She kept looking at George, glancing up when he moved to see if he wanted her to do anything. The dark-haired woman at the place where her parents were being helped had said that these people had many strange customs, but that they were good people. She was finally beginning to really believe it.

After they had eaten, George introduced her to the concept of a dishwasher.

The two spent the rest of the day trying to work out some signals that they both could understand. George was astute enough that he could read her body language in many cases, like when lunch caught up with her and she needed to use the toilet, but didn't know how to excuse herself. He sent her on her way and busied himself with his video collection. The only thing that he had that was in German was the subtitled version of Das Boot. She might understand the language, but what she would think of a U-boat and the war he didn't even want to consider.

He wanted something light and happy. Something that could bridge the language barrier. Something like a slow smile crossed his face as he found the tape that he wanted. Language would still be hard, but the situation would be something that she could relate to. Hell, she might even know the story.

Errol Flynn swung across the screen, his green hunters tights and feathered hat displayed in brilliant

Technicolor green. Anna clapped her hands as the wondrous story unfolded, occasionally shouting at the actors when she could see what they didn't. George sat back and relaxed. Far from being frightened by the movie, Anna seemed to be enthralled. The story of Robin Hood was, after all, set in medieval England, a land not that much different than medieval Germany.

After the movie, George led Anna back to the kitchen. He spoke over his shoulder while he started dinner. "I hope that you don't mind a light dinner, Anna. I don't usually eat much late in the day. Gives me indigestion no matter what it is." He had been washing two large russet potatoes as he spoke and then walked over to the microwave oven. He poked each potato with a fork several times and placed them on a paper towel, then turned the oven on for twelve minutes.

Anna looked carefully at the glowing box with the tubers in it, then looked at George. "Was ist?" she asked, and he was surprised to realize that he understood her.

"That is a microwave oven, Anna. It cooks food using radio waves to excite the water molecules in the food—oh, what am I saying? You don't understand any of it. Just wait until they're done and you'll see." George smiled and patted her on the shoulder as he walked back into the other room.

Anna followed him, wondering what wonders he was going to reveal to her next. What he revealed was a tendency to sit quietly while his dinner cooked. He sat in a glider-rocker and looked out the window as the sun set in the wrong place.

He began to speak softly, more to himself than to her. Anna realized that he was talking to her about

her parents, but didn't understand what he was saying. She thought that it was probably something about getting rid of her, or keeping her as his servant. After all, he was a rich man with a huge mansion, yet he didn't have servants. Just look at the room that he had had her clean. That was obviously meant for someone special. Especially that wonderfully soft and smooth blanket. She could only imagine royalty sleeping under something like that.

A bell chimed from the kitchen and George immediately went to get the potatoes. Anna, as always, trailed right behind him. He pointed to the cupboard to the left of the sink and said. "Get two plates," while he checked the tenderness of the potatoes with a fork. They were done, and done just right. Anna handed him two plates and he used the fork to lift a potato onto each, then handed one to Anna and nodded toward the table.

Anna stared suspiciously at the steaming brown tuber on her plate while George got the butter from the refrigerator. She watched even closer when he used his fork to open it up, and quickly followed his example. She found the white interior to be just as hot as it looked, and sucked a burnt finger as she glared at it.

George chuckled and buttered his potato before sliding the butter over to Anna. She watched as he spread the butter and salted his potato before eating, and she copied him. Like just about everything else, she found the potato delicious.

When they had finished eating, George allowed Anna to see to the dishes herself, smiling encouragingly as she rinsed the plates and loaded them into the dishwasher. It was getting late and he had decided that even if she wasn't tired, they were going to bed.

He pantomimed going to sleep by putting his hands together and laying his head on them with his eyes closed, and she nodded her understanding. She immediately went to the couch that she had slept on the night before, but George caught her elbow before she could lie down. "Upstairs, Anna. Your room."

Anna looked at him with questions and uncertainty clear in her face, and he guided her to the stairs. Her breath came just a little quicker as he led her up the stairs, but seemed to ease a little when they walked past his room. She was shocked when he opened the door of the room that they had cleaned and said, "Your room, Anna. For as long as you stay."

Anna looked at him with wide eyes. George was tired and getting irritated, so he put a hand in the small of her back and pushed her into the room. "You, sleep, there," he said, pantomiming by pointing at her, putting his hands under his head, then pointing at the bed. Then he turned out the lights and closed the door, muttering under his breath the whole time.

Anna waited until she heard the door down the hall shut, then turned the lights back on. She looked around the room, warily checking every corner, before walking over to the bed. She touched the wonderful blanket again, trailing her fingers across it, and a deep sigh escaped her lips. It was so soft, and so much too fine for her. Could George really mean for her to stay here, to sleep in this soft bed under that wondrous blanket?

A tear, unbidden and unwanted, trickled down her cheek. It was all too much. How could she be here? She was a poor girl, a farmers daughter, yet here she stood in a room fit for a lady, beside a bed fit for a queen. She finally took a long, shuddering breath and nodded to herself. Ever-fickle fortune had smiled

upon her when she hid in that barn. She would not examine her good fortune too closely, just in case it was illusion.

Quickly slipping out of the dress that she had all but been forced into that morning, she used the amazing toilet and scrubbed her teeth with a finger at the sink before turning out the lights once again and slipping between the smooth sheets on the heavenly soft mattress, under that oh-so-wonderful blanket. Sleep came as she smiled softly, content to let God watch over her.

George awoke early and contemplated his situation. Here he was, a grumpy old man, with a teenage girl as a houseguest. That was how he had decided to look at it. She was his guest, not an interloper.

He rose quietly and got dressed. His clothes were old and worn, but he doubted that Anna would comment on his fashion sense, or lack thereof. Thinking of her, he again shook his head. The first thing to do was to get her up and dressed, then go see her parents. He was unsure of exactly how badly her mother had been hurt, beyond the horror of the gang rape. Maybe he could talk to the doctor. Doctor Adams hadn't been his doctor, but that fellow and his associates were elsewhere. That was another thing that he had to start worrying about. His own health was not the best, and there was going to be a shortage of his medications unless another source could be found.

George shook it off and said, "First things first, old man." He finished dressing and walked down the hall, but Annas door opened before he reached it. "Up early, are you? That's good. Let's go see your parents first and talk to the doctor." Anna obviously didn't understand him, but nodded when he finished talking and followed him downstairs and out the door.

George opened the truck door for her, making sure that she saw how it was done. Once he was seated, he had a few moments of trouble convincing her to buckle up, and finally just reached over her and strapped her in himself while she just looked startled.

The ride to the high school was quiet. Normally George listened to a country station on the radio, but that station wasn't on the air here, so he left it off. Anna, of course, didn't know what she was missing.

When they arrived at the school, Anna immediately took off toward the clinic. George strolled slowly behind her, looking around as he walked. The place was busy. People who hadn't had anything to do with high school in decades were coming and going from every direction. He walked to the clinic and found Anna seated on the floor beside her mother's bed.

The two were talking rapidly in German. Anna kept nodding her head while her mother kept shaking hers. When Anna noticed him, she stood and grabbed his hand, dragging him to the side of the bed and talking a mile a minute again.

The woman on the bed fixed George with a bleak stare. There was something in her eyes that he couldn't describe, and was pretty sure he wouldn't like if he could. She whispered something to Anna, and the girl took his hand.

"Anna is safe with me, ma'am. I don't mess with children." A movement at the corner of his vision caused him to turn away, and he found himself facing a strange black man in a white doctor's coat.

"Mr. Blanton, I presume," the doctor said with a smile. "I'm James Nichols. My daughter and I were in town for the wedding, and got caught here."

"Wedding?" George asked.

"Uh-huh. Rita Stearns and Tom Simpson."

"Didn't hear about it. How is she?" he asked, looking down at Annas mother.

"As well as can be expected under the circumstances. Physically, she only has some scrapes, bruises and two broken ribs. Mentally . . . mentally she's fragile. Seeing the men who did it to her dead may have helped a little, but she's still a rape victim. She also saw what happened to her husband, and that can't help." Doctor Nichols walked away, motioning for George to follow.

"He lost a lot of blood before we got to him. That, plus the shock and other things that were done to him makes me wonder how he survived. He's going to be in danger for quite a while, and he's in for a long recovery."

George nodded his understanding. "I have plenty of room at my place when they're ready to go. Anna is settling in, but I wish I spoke German or she spoke English. It's hard to not be able to understand one another."

"Learn German, Mr. Blanton," Doctor Nichols instructed. "From what I've been hearing, there aren't many people in this area that speak English."

George gave him an intense look. "What have you heard? I've just been getting bits and pieces."

Doctor Nichols gave George a quick verbal sketch of their predicament. "So, here we are, a bunch of Americans in southern Germany. Unless some bright boy comes up with a miracle, we don't have anywhere else to go, and no way to get there."

George shook his head slowly back and forth, then returned to Anna and her mother. "I'm going to go talk to some people, Anna. You stay here, okay? Stay here with your mother." George motioned with both hands for Anna to remain where she was, then walked away.

Doctor Adams was also at the clinic, and George asked to see him in private. The doctor nodded and led the way to an empty classroom. "Yes, Mr. Blanton, what can I do for you?"

"Well, Doc, I don't know. I'm on several medications, but the ones that worry me are the blood thinners and blood pressure meds. What's going to happen when I run out?"

Doctor Adams rubbed his chin as he considered his answer. "This is something that weve already run into. One of the people that was rescued yesterday—day before yesterday?—time goes so fast sometimes. Anyway, one of the people that was rescued was having a heart attack at the time. Doctor Nichols managed to stabilize him, but we don't have the facilities to handle that sort of thing. I'm afraid that you and the rest of our elderly are in for a rough time. We can manage some control of your blood pressure with diet, and aspirin can be substituted for your blood thinners to some extent. I hate to say it, but you're in trouble."

George gave Doctor Adams a sour look. "That's not the answer that I wanted to hear."

Doctor Adams simply shrugged. "It isn't the answer that I wanted to give, but it's the best I've got right now."

George nodded and went to collect Anna. She was sitting beside her mother's bed, holding her hand as she slept. She looked up when George arrived and stood, tucking her mother's hand gently under the blanket. George simply nodded and walked away, and Anna followed him.

The walk out to the truck was silent as each of them considered their situation. George was watching Anna carefully, and the girl was watching the floor beneath her feet. She glanced up and caught him watching

her and smiled a sad little smile. Seeing that, George smiled in return and patted her shoulder.

Boys and girls who he assumed were students were rushing about the school, moving chairs and desks from room to room with seeming purpose. A woman passed by and George stopped her to ask what was going on.

"It's for the meeting tomorrow. Weren't you informed?" the woman asked, looking at him closely. "I don't recognize you, or this young lady. Were you just passing through?"

George gave the woman a sour look. "No, I live here. Name's George Blanton. I live out south of town. This girl here is Anna. Don't know her last name. She's from that farm where the miners rescued the family."

The woman was nodding as she listened. "Now I know who you are. Well, there's a meeting for all residents who care to attend here in the auditorium tomorrow morning. That's when the science types are going to announce what they have found out about how we got here, and how to get back."

George nodded and led Anna outside and put her in the truck. "Well, Anna," he said as he got in, "I think that we need to go see Beth and Jimmy." Anna's expression brightened at the mention of Beth s name, and he chuckled. "I'm going to get that dictionary so we can communicate better."

Little Jim was out front when George and Anna drove up, and he hurried inside to announce their arrival. Elizabeth and Marge met them on the porch and took them inside. "Beth, I need to borrow that dictionary of yours."

"Talking to her is harder than you expected, isn't it, George?" Elizabeth asked as she walked across the living room.

"Yep. There are a lot of concepts that I just don't know how to convey to her."

"Such as?"

"Well, such as who we are and where we're from. America doesn't even seem to register as a country to her."

Elizabeth stopped and looked over her shoulder at him. "If what we're hearing is true, America isn't a country yet, George. Just some English and Spanish colonies in the new world. I don't even know if they call it North America yet."

That stopped George in his tracks. "Not even America yet? Oh, God in Heaven, how could I have forgotten that?"

"Because it hasn't really sunk in yet. You know it in your head, but you don't really know it in your heart."

"No, you're probably right. I keep expecting something to happen, something that will make everything the way it was. It's almost like . . . it's almost like when Mary died." George looked at the floor and slowly shook his head.

Elizabeth nodded and stepped closer, putting her hand on his arm. "And when Jim died. I know. It's surreal now. We're still in shock. But the reality is going to set in soon enough."

George nodded. "They're having a meeting about it tomorrow at the high school."

"Jimmy told us," Elizabeth said softly. "He was talking to Mr. Ferrara, Lizzy's science teacher. He doesn't think that there's any way to get back."

George nodded and looked at Anna, but she was gone. He whipped his head around, scanning the room, but there was no sign of the girl. Marge saw his look and smiled. "She's with Liz and Mel. I think that they're trying on dresses in their room."

George sighed. He didn't have the experience for handling Anna. Not really. Dave had been his only child, and boys were easier than girls. "Well, since we're alone now, I have a favor to ask."

"Ask away," Elizabeth answered.

"Well, Anna is a teenager. I'm sure her mother took care of the basics, but, well, things have changed. I'm just not comfortable with the idea of trying to discuss it with her."

"Discuss what?"

"Well . . . her period," George answered somewhat sheepishly. He had been married for over thirty-five years, but that was part of Marys life that he hadn't intruded on.

Elizabeth shook her head. "Men. Jim never wanted anything to do with the girls when they were going through puberty either. I'll take care of it. Or we will." She glanced at Marge and received a nod of agreement.

"Thank you. Its just something that I never wanted to learn anything about."

Elizabeth led George into the kitchen and poured two cups of coffee. "She's a pretty girl, George. You may have other problems as well."

"How so?" George was seated at the kitchen table and accepted the cup that Elizabeth handed him.

"You saw how the boys reacted to her."

"Oh, no! Not my problem. That's for her daddy to deal with."

Elizabeth reached over and touched his hand. "He may not be able to, George. The doctors aren't sure that he'll make it. That leaves you so long as she's living under your roof."

George looked startled for a moment, then shrugged. "We'll deal with that when the time comes. I'm hoping to get her mother home with us soon. Ken Hobbs

said that their farm is still standing, but it's damaged pretty badly. It'll take a lot of work to get it livable again. Besides, I really don't think that she should be on her own for a while. I can take care of all of us with Daves stash."

Elizabeth nodded. "We talked about that last night. Dave's guns and stuff may be needed. We may have to defend ourselves against one of the largest armies in history/'

George closed his eyes for a moment. "There's more than guns up there, Beth. Lots more."

"Keep it there for now, George. That stash may be your salvation."

George chuckled and shook his head. "If Dave was here he'd probably be crowing like a spring rooster about being right."

Anna reappeared in a different dress and a smile a mile wide. Melody and Lizzy were grinning just as hard, and occasionally giggling. Melody finally had to say it. "Anna thinks Jim is cute."

George immediately put his head in his hand and just said, "Oh, lord."

Marge laughed and shook her head. "Are you ready to negotiate a dowry, George?"

George gaped at her while the rest of the women laughed, including Anna. Then Elizabeth and Marge gathered all of the girls and went toward the back of the house.

George walked outside and watched the boys as they did their chores around the farm. They had apparently been allowed to skip school. That made sense to George. Not much point in going to school when there weren't going to be any classes.

It was more than an hour later when the women reappeared, and Anna walked over to George's side with a slightly dazed expression. Elizabeth was shaking

her head, but she had an amused smile on her face. "She'll be all right, George. She s just a little shocked by us."

"Oh, gee, can't imagine why," George said sarcastically. "Come along, Anna. Lets go home." Turning back to Elizabeth, he gave her a little bow. "Ladies, I thank you. I'm going to see about bringing her mother home after the meeting tomorrow. I may need some more help."

"We're only a phone call away, George," Elizabeth answered, smiling at both of them.

George and Anna spent another quiet night, each lost in thoughts of their own. In the morning they returned to the school to find Anna's mother sitting up and sipping tea. Anna immediately dropped to her knees and started talking. George didn't understand a word of it, but her tone was joyous and light. Then she stood and motioned George forward. "George, diese Frau ist meine Mutti, Tilda Braun."

George was more surprised that he understood her meaning than the introduction. He shook off his surprise and bowed deeply at the waist, then said, "I am pleased to meet you, Missus Braun." He was also surprised to find that he had not learned Anna's last name until now.

Tilda looked at him with her haunted eyes, but there was something more in them than there had been. Surprise warred with fear and despair, and there was just a glimmer of what could be hope. "You ist gut, good man, George. Tank, thank you," she said in halting English, much to George and Anna's surprise.

"You are welcome. I wish I had that book." He smiled at Anna and Tilda, then shrugged. "When you are ready, we will take you home. You have a room of your own for as long as you need it." He smiled,

hoping that she understood, then nodded at Anna. "You stay here, Anna. I'm going to the meeting, and I'll be back for you when its done." He smiled and motioned for Anna to stay where she was, then turned and left. Anna and Tildas voices were a constant buzz of strange words behind him as he walked away.

The meeting in the gymnasium was not the tedious affair that George had feared. The information was mostly a rehash of what he already knew. They were stuck in 1631 Germany. It was spring. There was a huge war raging around them. And some ass from out of town thought that they ought to chase Anna and her people away. George was on his feet, shouting at the top of his lungs as John Simpson referred to his little Anna as a disease carrier. He hadn't been this angry since—well, he couldn't remember when he had ever been this angry.

Mike Stearns took the podium next and expressed his own displeasure with Simpsons comments, and George felt his admiration of the boy growing. Damn it all, now he understood why Dave had thought the world of Mikes leadership abilities. And of Mike as a person. The boy had what it took to lead a mob of hillbillies like these.

When the vote came, George added his voice to those for Mike and his agenda. Screw that stuffed suit. His kind had been why George had retired at age fifty-five, even though he could have continued on for another eight years. The stuffed suits had driven him out.

George left the gym with a definite feeling of unease, but a sense of purpose as well. Stuck here and on their own, he knew one thing for certain: they needed to plant crops. Food, as it had been pointed out, was going to be a priority. No arable land could be left

fallow, and he had—well, he had Marys garden. He hadn't planted it in years since her death, but it was good land. Maybe better now for having been left alone for a while.

George returned to the clinic and found both Anna and Tilda ready to go. Doctor Adams was there as well, slowly shaking his head. "Mr. Blanton, I'm glad to see you. It seems that my patient wants to leave."

"Already?" George asked, looking at Tilda.

"I go. Not gut to Aufenthault, to stay. Go zu Hause. Go home." Tilda nodded sharply at her last remark and stood.

"Well, home is my house for now. Fm sure Anna has told you that you have a place with me. Your house is . . . damaged." George looked away, saddened by the memories that were going to be part of that house for years to come.

Anna and her mother shared a sharp exchange of words, with Anna stamping her foot and saying something that needed no translation. George interrupted, earning a nasty glare from both of them.

"If you want to go back to your farm, I'll take you, but I really think that you'd be better off with me."

Again Tilda looked him in the eye and said, "Go zu Hause "

George sighed and nodded, then led the way out of the clinic and school with a loudly chattering Anna and Tilda right behind him. At the truck it took all of Anna's powers of persuasion to get her mother into the cab and belted in. Tilda still took the ride in white-knuckled silence with an indescribable expression on her face.

The end of the road was where the three first saw the true extent of the Ring of Fire. The cliff had crumbled due to the traffic over it that first day, but it was still a mighty testimony that something tremendous

had happened. George let Anna help her mother up the bank while he struggled up on his own. His balance was hampered by the M-14 in his hands, but there was nothing that could have convinced him not to take it.

At the farm they saw the evidence of the firefight and its aftermath. The house stood, but the interior was a wreck. A fly-infested stain near the barn told of spilled blood. George stood outside, scanning the area carefully while the two women searched the house.

Anna was the first to come out, her face tear-streaked and puffy. Tilda was not far behind. Her eyes were bleak with despair. All that they'd had was ruined, ravaged by the same men who had ravished her. Now she looked at George with pleading in her eyes. With the farm so thoroughly despoiled, they had only one hope.

George smiled sadly and put an arm around Anna and said, "Kommen." He added a little pressure and turned back the way they had come, leading them back toward the home that awaited them.

George spent most of the next day convincing Tilda and Anna that he was not making servants of them. It was an uphill battle. Tilda was just not willing to accept that good fortune had finally come her way.

George left the two women alone in the house while he checked out the tractor. It was a good little John Deere utility tractor that had been modified to run on natural gas. That plus the farm implements that were rusting beside the barn were his main concern. He and Mary had purchased the tractor new when

they had bought the farm, and had bought all of the attachments that they could afford to go with it. Harrow, plow, mower, reaper, loader and backhoe attachments were a hefty investment, but one that had paid off more than once.

He made several trips into town to buy penetrating oil, motor oil, hydraulic fluid and seed. The seed was the most important purchase. It was going fast now that the people of Grantville had awakened to their plight. Food, the emergency committee had decreed, was among their top priorities. The army was the top priority, and George graciously donated most of Dave s weapons and ammunition to the cause, only keeping the M-14 and a shotgun for his own use. And the Colt Python .357 magnum that was nestled under his mattress. That was a gun that no one knew about, and he intended to keep it that way.

Once Anna and Tilda understood that he was going to plant, they joined in wholeheartedly. George looked up from his work on the tractor to see the two women walking the field pulling weeds. He tried to stop them, but all he got for his trouble was a lecture in German and broken English about the state of his field and their duty to help. He finally gave up and concentrated on fixing the recalcitrant tractor.

When George finally got everything working, he hooked up the harrow and pulled it into the field. Anna and Tilda stood in openmouthed amazement as he plowed the weeds and old plants under, leaving behind bare earth when he was done. Where they had taken a half a day to clear less than an acre, George did all ten in just a few hours.

He smiled as he drove back to the barn. Tilda was a good woman, but just a touch on the stubborn side. She and Anna were waiting for him at the barn and he used the hydraulics to detach the harrow before

shutting off the tractor. Once he climbed down he faced off with Tilda. "You see?" he asked, smiling slightly. When Tilda answered with one sharp nod, he smiled and continued with his work. He took the opportunity to fuel the tractor up, topping-off both of the gas bottles before moving on.

George s next task was to attach the plow. It was only a four-row plow, but it would take care of the garden in just a few more hours. Tilda and Anna walked the field behind him, amazed at how easily he was able to plow, and pleased by how rich the soil was. By nightfall, the field was ready to plant.

George and Tilda sat at the kitchen table with the dictionary late into the night, trying to find a way to discuss their living arrangement. Tilda was absolutely convinced that she and Anna should share a servants room, and George was just as convinced that each of them should have their own room. After all, he repeatedly pointed out, her husband would eventually join them. Every 7 time he said that he saw hope flicker and die in her eyes. Tilda was convinced that her husband was never leaving the clinic except in a box. George and Tilda finally decided that each was the most stubborn person that the other had ever met. Tilda slept with Anna while George shook his head in despair.

Another week passed before the emergency committee contacted George again.

Three men drove up to George s house in a battered old pickup with a natural gas tank in the bed. They parked at the bottom of the steps and got out, but only one of them climbed the steps. He didn't get a chance to knock.

George opened the door and stood facing his visitor through the screen door. "Hi, Willie Ray. What's up?"

The man looked at him uncertainly. "George, the emergency committee put me in charge of food production. I see youve already started your plot, but we need that tractor of yours working pretty much nonstop, not just sitting in your barn until you need it."

George stared at Willie Ray for a moment, then crossed his arms over his chest. "You're not taking my tractor."

Willie Ray took in the stubborn set of George's face and tried again. "George, we've got to—"

"You're not taking my tractor," George said sternly, interrupting Willie Ray. "Have you given the emergency committee your tractor?"

"Well, no, but. . ."

"No buts, Willie Ray," George snarled. "I'll fight you if you try. You should know I didn't give the army all my guns. I gave them everything I could do without. All my son's stuff. All his guns, ammo, and supplies. I need that tractor for myself and my guests."

Willie Ray was puzzled for a moment, then seemed to remember about Anna and her family. "Well, we still need that tractor producing. If you won't give it up, you'll have to run it yourself."

"I can do that," George agreed with a single nod.

Willie Ray nodded back. "Good. We've been contacting everyone who has any land at all and making arrangements to get crops planted. We'll be contacting you when we need your equipment."

George said, "That'll do," and watched Willie Ray leave with his helpers.

"That'll do. George Blanton, you're a fool," George said aloud as he drove the tractor to yet another job. "Should'a known I'd get stuck plowing every backyard garden in the county."

The emergency committee had convinced just about everyone in Grantville to plant what land they had, but that wasn't really all that much. The real farmers, like Willie Ray and a few others, who had larger tractors and plows were off in the German countryside in well-armed groups making sure that every farm in the immediate vicinity of the Ring of Fire was planted.

George s destination today was the Reardon house. They only had five acres, but they were going to plant every inch of it that they could. Jimmy came out of the house as he pulled up.

"George, how are you?" he asked, smiling broadly.

"Sick and tired of plowing," George answered.

Jimmy laughed. "Then why don't you climb down and let me handle it for a while. Mom wants to talk to you anyway."

George left the tractor idling as he climbed stiffly down. "Thank you, Jim. Times like this I wish I'd let Willie Ray take the damn thing."

Jimmy laughed again and agilely climbed up to the seat, then drove into his yard and started plowing.

George sighed and limped up to the door, rubbing his back with one hand as he did. The suspension on the tractor just wasn't meant to be sat on for days on end. His knock was immediately answered by Elizabeth.

"Come in, George," she said, stepping aside. "What can I get for you?"

"Some strong muscles and a few new vertebrae, if you have them on hand," George answered with a little laugh. "If not, then I guess some iced tea will have to do."

Elizabeth smiled and guided him to a chair, then went to get some drinks. She returned to find him

seated with his legs stretched out. "Here you are. Let me get you a footstool." She nudged a padded footstool over to him and he carefully put his feet up on it. "You look tired, George."

"I am tired, Beth. Tilda and Anna are taking care of my garden without me since I'm always out and about. The good news is that it shouldn't go on much longer. We'll have every bit of arable land planted by the end of the month, and then I can relax a little."

Elizabeth nodded. "I was over to see them yesterday. We've been going through the girls' things and we had some more dresses for them."

George nodded and looked out the window to where Jimmy was plowing. "I heard. Tilda is finally adjusting to the situation and starting to really take charge. I haven't had to actually do anything except run the plow for a week. She's doing everything."

"She's worried about her husband. And you," Elizabeth said softly. "She told me that you were overdoing it."

"I'm not overdoing it, Beth. I'm just doing what I can to keep what's mine."

Elizabeth frowned, but nodded. "J ust don't kill yourself, George. Those people need you."

"I know, Beth. And you know what? It's a good feeling. A very good feeling."

George's health problems were a secret that he carefully kept from Anna and Tilda. He made regular trips into town, riding the tractor since the gas for his truck had been siphoned off by that pirate Stearns and his men for the army. Doctor Adams kept track of his blood pressure and coagulation factors, substituting one medicine or another when his prescribed medications ran out.

Anna's father hovered near death for weeks. The

damage that had been done to him was slow to heal, but eventually it did, and George was introduced to Jurgen Braun.

Jurgen listened in silence to what his wife and daughter had to say about the man who had taken them in. He was reluctant to stay in Georges house, fearing the debt that his family was accumulating with the obviously rich man, but found that he had little choice in the matter. He was free of the doctors, but still so weak that he could hardly stand on his own.

The planting was done long before Jurgen joined them. Seedlings were sprouting and George joined Tilda and Anna in the fields, hand weeding the tender young plants. It was a chore for Georges back, and as often as not he spent his evenings cuddled up with a heating pad.

Jurgen was in the guest room that George had tried to get Tilda into, and Tilda had finally moved in with him. That still left just three of the six bedrooms occupied, and George soon had other boarders as well.

After the Battle of Badenburg, or the Battle of the Crapper as it was irreverently called, he was joined by four more families, and Anna moved in with her parents. The men who joined George and the Brauns were all farmers who had been pressed into service with Tilly's mercenaries. The women were their families and camp followers. George shook his head at that, but kept his peace. Strange times made for strange arrangements. The big farmhouse that George and Mary had rattled around in started to seem mighty small with eleven adults and thirteen children crowding it.

George s pastureland was also pressed into service. The army had captured horses and oxen along with the men, and an assortment of other farm animals that ranged from chickens to goats and pigs. The

chickens were scrawny things compared to the birds that had come through the Ring of Fire with the Americans. The pigs and goats were, well, pigs and goats. Georges new boarders quickly cobbled together pens and a chicken coop from supplies that had been lying around the barn since before George and Mary had bought the place.

The barn was cleared of its decades-long accumulation of junk, often yielding odd treasures. The people who had owned the farm before George and Maty had been real farmers. Buried among the clutter and junk w T ere farm implements that the Germans understood. Good steel shovels. Steel rakes and hoes. A scythe with a broken handle. Old tack, with its leather brittle from age and neglect. The men and women tsk-ed at the state of George's tools, but kept their mouths closed. Tilda and Anna had told them of the wonderful machine that could plow a whole field in half a day. If George could let good tools rust this way, it must be a wonderful machine indeed.

The Brauns' farm was also being tended now that there were enough hands to tend it, and soon George found himself not being allowed to do anything but drive the tractor. It was still his chore because he was the only one who knew how all of the attachments worked, but the men and women who were living in his house insisted that it was more than he should have to do. After all, he was their host, and they saw it as their duty to tend to his lands while they lived under his roof. He was also just about the oldest person that any of them had ever met, and they were genuinely concerned about him.

The newcomers found George every bit as strange as Anna had in the beginning, and Anna took great pleasure in showing them all of the modern conveniences that Georges home had to offer.

George and the Reardons learned bits and pieces of the German language as the year progressed, and the Germans learned English as well, so that by fall and the harvest the babble in Georges house would confuse just about anyone. Still, they communicated well enough, and George found himself relegated more and more to the roll of Grandfather to All.

Little Jim was serving with the army now, and it was a source of constant worry for all of the Reardons and for one German girl in particular. Anna had a crush on Little Jim, and waited impatiently for his visits. Little Jim, fortunately, had just as big a crush on her and visited as often as he could. This made for some interesting times as the two negotiated. It didn't help that Jim s sisters, mother and grandmother were all on Annas side.

The time finally came as winter gripped the land that Little Jim, all six feet three inches of him, came hemming and hawing to stand in front of Jurgen Braun.

"Well, Mister Braun, I, well, I would like to have Annas hand in marriage," he finally managed to say, swallowing hard to fight down his nervousness.

Jurgen looked at Jim closely and shook his head. "Anna ist too younk. She ist only sechzehn. Zixteen. And you, younk man. You are but a boy. Too younk. You haff no land or trade off you own."

Little Jim looked at Jurgen with evident confusion. "Sir, I'm eighteen. I'm legally a man now, and I'm old enough for the army. And as for a trade, I've been working for Uncle Ollie in his machine shop off and on for years. The only reason that I wasn't working there this year was that he didn't have enough business to keep me busy. But now, with him starting to talk about making cannons and rifled muskets, he's going to have more business than he can handle."

Jurgen looked at Jim carefully. The boy was big enough, obviously strong, and even good looking in an overfed, American way. And he was financially well off. His fathers eldest son, he would have land of his own one day.

There was a flicker of sadness at that last thought. His son, born when Anna was three, hadn't lived through his first year, and Tilda hadn't quickened again in spite of all of their prayers and efforts. To have this boy as his son, even by marriage—it was a thing worth considering. But still, was he really interested in Anna, or did he wish to marry her to acquire more lands for himself? After all, Anna was his only child, and would one day inherit the farm. There was one way to find out. "You unterstand, younk man, dat Anna hass no mitgift."

Jim was perplexed by the German word. He had never heard it before, but Grandma Beth quickly looked it up and showed him the page in the dictionary. "If you mean dowry, yes sir, I understand. It don't bother me none. We can live with my parents until I can get a place of my own."

Tilda looked at Jim as if she were measuring him for a coffin. "Anna ist a goot girl. Sturdy and strong. She vill make goot wife for ju, even if she ist too younk and comes wit no lands yet."

"Missus Braun, you've got a lovely daughter, and when the time comes I'm sure that we'll have as much land as we'll need. As I said, I'll probably be working in Uncle Ollie's machine shop rather than farming anyway, so land isn't a big issue for me."

Elizabeth entered into the negotiations in earnest now that Little Jim had gotten things rolling. "Jurgen, Tilda, Little Jim is a fine young man. He is a skilled machinist, and has been working during his summers since he was twelve. That's quite a while by our standards. And

please remember that we have different assumptions about when it is proper to marry."

She looked at Little Jim with a definite frown on her face. "Sixteen is too young, by most standards. Well, todays standards. I was sixteen when I married your grandfather. He was nineteen then. But that makes no difference as far as these two are concerned/' She looked smiled at Little Jim. "What makes a difference to me is that they seem to be truly in love. They can wait a bit before the actual ceremony, but I, and his parents, wouldn't be against an engagement." She looked in the dictionary and came up with the German word for betrothal. "A verlobung"

Jurgen and Tilda consulted quietly for a few moments before Jurgen answered. "Ve ist not in goot times. Dis var ist not to end zoon. Ze school, they say it ist many years to come before it ist end. But ve are Americans now. Ve vill liff like Americans, ja? Zo we decide. She may be verlobung. Engage. But not to marry until she ist achtzehn. Eighteen."

Tilda continued at her husband's nod. "Anna ist not rich girl, but not beggar. In tee years ahead she vill make her mitgift. She vill not come to altar vith empty hands."

Elizabeth nodded and stepped aside to let Little Jim speak again. "Mister Braun, I am willing to accept these conditions. As a token, I offer Anna this ring. It's Grandmas engagement ring that Grandpa gave her." He smiled broadly at Elizabeth, then at Anna.

Anna stepped forward at her father's nod, and Little Jim went to one knee. "Anna, will you marry me?"

Anna looked confused for a moment. "I haf already say yes."

George smiled at her. "It's kind of tradition, Anna. He proposes on one knee and you say yes, then he gives you the engagement ring. That makes it official."

Anna looked slightly confused, but said, "Yes, my Jim, I vill marry you." Jim put his grandmothers ring on the ring finger of her left hand, then stood and took her gently into his arms.

Elizabeth and George stood to the side, smiling at the scene. She smiled at the proud smile on his face and patted his arm, then went to hug her grandson and his future bride.

George continued to secretly see Doctor Adams as his health, once propped up by modern medicine, continued to decline. As the medications that were stocked in the town pharmacies ran out, herbal remedies were tried. But as the winter wore on, even the herbs could not control his blood pressure.

George awoke in the middle of the night. He was gripped by a crushing pain that was driving the breath from his chest as he struggled to reach the few nitroglycerin pills that Doctor Adams had managed to find for him. They were there on the nightstand, he could see them, but they were out of reach. The pain eased slightly as his sight dimmed, and he managed to whisper one word with his last breath. "Mary/'

Anna found George the next morning. With the cold weather they had all taken to sleeping in late, snuggling under blankets until the sun was well above the horizon. George was usually the last one up, but when he hadn't appeared by ten she went to find him.

"George? 1st you goink to sleep all day?" she asked playfully. Then she saw his face. There wasn't anything obviously wrong, but she knew before she touched his cool cheek. A choked sob escaped her lips as she backed away, and she finally turned to scream, "MUTTI!" before she collapsed beside his bed.

Tilda and everyone else in the house crowded into

Georges room. The old man looked so peaceful, but there was no question about his death. One of the elder boys was sent to town to inform the authorities, and soon Doctor Adams and Chief Frost were driving up in a natural-gas-powered police cruiser.

Doctor Adams looked at George and took his pulse for forms sake, but he knew it was far too late. "He went quietly," the doctor said, as he noted the pills still on the nightstand. "He has been expecting something like this. Ever since his medications ran out he has known that he was living on borrowed time."

Dan nodded. "He told me, and swore me to secrecy. He didn't want anyone fussing over him. Now I'll have to tell everyone. Did he tell you who was to see to his affairs?"

The doctor nodded. "I am. He didn't have much of a will, and I brought it with me. We wrote it up about three months ago when the last of the blood thinners ran out. Here." The doctor handed over a single sheet of paper, notarized and witnessed as was proper, and the chief read the single sentence.

"I, George Armstrong Blanton, being of sound mind and failing health, upon my death do bequeath all of my worldly belongings to my adopted granddaughter, Anna Braun."

Curio and Relic

Tom Van Natta

May 1631

"Hello? Anybody there?"

Paul Santee took off the holstered .45 when he heard the call. It came again, nearer. "Hello, the house!" No sense in scaring someone who probably meant well. He tucked the .45 behind his belt in the small of his back. No sense in being stupid, either. Stupid tends to kill people, and he was still alive. Something strange had happened last weekend, and he didn't know what it was. It was good to hear another voice, especially one that seemed friendly.

"Hello! Mr. Santee?" The caller turned out to be a kid, a gangly blond teenager who stood at his gate. Santee stepped out on his porch and waved the boy in.

Eddie Cantrell carefully closed the gate behind him. He wasn't too happy about finding this cabin—he'd secretly hoped it was outside the Ring of Fire—but when Mike Stearns asked about war veterans, Santee's name had come up, and Eddie had been asked to go see if his backwoods cabin was inside the Ring, and if he was still alive. Obviously, yes to both. Eddie walked up the path carefully, slowly, trying to figure out how to explain things. He'd heard that Paul Santee was a survivalist, a loner, mean as hell. The man in front of him was small and wiry, grizzled, graying. He didn't look particularly mean, or particularly anything, except for his piercing eyes.

Santee stared at the kid appraisingly. "What can I do for you?" he said gruffly. The kid looked alarmed. Should have made some small talk first, Santee thought. That was a bit abrupt. I'm sure out of practice.

"Mr. Santee, do you know what happened?"

That was what Santee wanted to know. Give the kid some minimum information and see how he responds. "Well . . . Five days ago, thunder and a big flash of lighting from the clear blue sky. Path to the road disappeared about a hundred feet down the way. Weather's been strange. Phone is dead. My bedroom window faced south, but not any more—maybe the earth's axis of rotation shifted. There's a big wall of dirt that seems to go on and on." A long pause there, as he looked at Eddie. "And some damn bird was out there yesterday that sounded exactly like a cuckoo clock. Do you know what happened?"

"Uh, well, Mr. Ferrara—he's my science teacher— says we were moved to Germany, in the year 1631. And that there's a war on, with us in the middle of it."

Santee looked hard at the kid, trying to find some sign of repressed mirth that would indicate a joker.

He saw none of it, just an anxious teenager repeating what he'd been told.

"Who is we?"

Eddie was confused at first, then figured it out and responded. "About a six-mile circle around Grantville. Everybody inside—everything inside—moved here. Gas wells, coal mine, power plant, everything." He looked up the path on the other side of the house. "I guess your driveway leads off to Butterchurn Road. That didn't make it."

"Oh. Okay. Damn. Shit. Take some thinking on." That story was totally unbelievable, but so were the plain facts all around him. Goddamn it. The kid clearly had more information, but it would take a while to get it, and Santee didn't like standing for long stretches. "Would you like something to drink? I just have water, but its clean and cold."

Eddie nodded. "Thanks. That sounds good, but then I've got to get back." Santee still scared him a little. "Mike Stearns is the head of the committee. He said if you were here inside the Ring, he'd, uh, like to meet you."

"What's your name, son?"

"Eddie Cantrell." He paused, wondering if he should add "sir" to it, but it was too late.

Santee held his door open. "Come on in, Eddie. My name is Paul, but everybody just calls me Santee. It's real neighborly of you to come out here to tell me." He wondered if that sounded as hokey as it felt saying it.

They sat at Santee's table and drank cold spring water. Eddie told about the tumultuous day of the Event, and the town meeting and what the people were doing to cope with the war they found themselves in. They were going to fight, of course. They'd sent him here, he said, because they were trying to find

every American within the Ring and gather them in Grantville to help with defense. Santee didn't betray any surprise, just kept listening and asking occasional questions. After a while Eddie relaxed a bit and decided Santee was just trying to be nice, even if sociable chitchat came hard to him. At Santee's subtle probing, Eddie explained that he was on his own now, since he was on a different side of the Ring of Fire from his home, including his father (who he said was "okay, when he had the time") and stepmother (who he admitted he wouldn't miss much).

The talk returned to more immediate matters. "How did you get here?" Santee asked him.

"I rode my dirt bike up that hill"—he pointed across the canyon—"and saw your smoke, and then your cabin. Lots of Germans running from the war around here, but they don't make smokestacks like that. No way to ride here, so I just walked. Brush got thick in places, but no problem."

"Good job. You must move pretty quiet when you want to." Santee even gave him a brief, crooked smile. "None of my business, but what are you going to do? I don't mean the town, I mean you."

"Well, I've been drafted, I guess. Frank Jackson's running the army; I'll do what he tells me to. He's a Vietnam vet." Eddie sounded a little impressed at that. Then he looked at his watch and quickly stood up. "Uh, I have to get back. I'm late now. Thanks for the water and all. Hope to see you in Grantville. . . ."

On impulse, Santee said, "J ust a secon d, Eddie. You say there are armed Germans out there. Do you have a gun?"

"Uh, no. I had a .22 and a shotgun, but now . . ."

"Just a sec then. Be right back."

Santee disappeared through a side door and came

back in a few minutes with a pistol in a fully enclosed holster.

"This is a Russian Nagant revolver. Seven shooter, not the usual six shots. Damn ammo costs forty bucks a box, so the pistols are cheap. Uh, were/ Damn."

Eddie smiled. "Everybody's doing that. Weird for everyone."

"Yeah. I suppose so. You know about gun safety?"

"It's loaded. Don't point it at anybody. Know what you're shooting at." Eddie repeated it mechanically; it had been drilled into his head a thousand times.

Santee nodded and handed the pistol to Eddie. "You know it; just remember it. Take this outside and dry-fire it a few times. Trigger pull is god-awful. Cylinder moves back and forth front to back; that's normal. I'll go round up the ammo."

Eddie did as he was told and found that Santee was right. His forefinger got tired right away, the sights were terrible, and the gun was uncomfortable in his hand. But he was fascinated by the various moving parts and was peering closely at the mechanism when Santee rejoined him with the ammunition. Santee showed him how to load and unload the gun, then opened a box and took out some ear muffs and safety glasses.

"Ready to try it?" Eddie nodded. "Shoot at that metal gong by the woodpile over there. The hill will catch anything that misses the woodpile."

Eddie shot seven times, and missed all but the last. The ringing gong made them both smile. "You'll do," was all Santee said to Eddie as they moved back toward the cabin.

Santee briefly showed him how to clean the revolver, and Eddie said again that he had to get back. It was going to be dark soon. "Thanks for letting me borrow this gun, Mr. Santee."

"Not borrow. Its yours to keep. I don't need the damn thing. I was going to trade it off for something else, and I'm glad to see it go to someone who can use it. Just keep it clean and it'll last a long time. Ruskie guns are butt-ugly but hell-for-strong."

Eddie thanked him awkwardly but profusely, then headed off through the brush, leaving Santee alone with his thoughts.

He lit a fire in the wood stove and found a pan to heat up some canned stew. He normally tried to cook dinner, but tonight was a night for thinking, not cooking. He had moved to this small cabin in 1990, and hardly ever left it. It had a spring on the hill above, so it had running cold water, and a septic system, but no power. The power company would have been happy to bring him power at two dollars a foot from the road, but he didn't have the five thousand or so dollars that would take, nor really need the power. But he did have a friend with the phone company who'd made a "mistake" and got him telephone installation for sixty bucks. A generator provided power when he needed it—mostly to run power tools and check his e-mail daily—and his jeep took him on monthly trips into Fairmont or Wheeling or Charlottesville to get supplies. He had a garden, his hunting, his pension, his collection of old guns, and plenty 7 of time. Most of his old friends were dead or had gone all domesticated, and most of his new friends he'd never met except online. He'd been fairly happy, semi-retired, living the life every ex-sergeant says he dreams of. . .

He'd rarely been to Grantville. It had been out of his way from the roads he could reach, and too small a town for good prices, but now it was the only town he could get to. And from what Eddie had told him, it was at war, for chrissake. He'd left the war back

in Vietnam, and it had taken him quite a few years to get it out of his mind and sleep soundly again. Ever since then, he'd tried hard to never let any of that mindset back into his life. That kind of thinking, war thinking, really fucked you up for living in the real world.

But the real world had just changed, hadn't it? Snap to, he told himself. Good survivors don't waste time trying to play the old game when all bets are off. If he'd been dealt a new hand, he'd better take a close look at the cards.

Eddie had said that Mike Stearns, the head hon-cho, wanted to meet him. Like I'm going to go take tea with the fucking governor! Who I need to talk to is — what was his name, Frank Jackson? — the guy who's running the army.

The next morning, Santee walked into Grantville. There was no real path, just some game trails, so it had taken him two hours to go down the hill and into the town and would probably take him three hours to get back. Far from the sleepy town he vaguely remembered, the town seemed to be buzzing with activity. No cars, though; people were walking everywhere. Smart, save the gasoline for the army. The thought came to him with surprising ease, worrying him a bit. Damn it, I'm a civilian now. Have been for twenty years. No need to examine everything as if he was still a platoon sergeant. But he couldn't help noticing that lots of the men were wearing pistols, perhaps even most of them. The .45 on his own hip fit in nicely.

Asking around, he found out that the new army commander, Frank Jackson, was big in the Mine Workers union. Eddie had said he was a 'Nam vet; if he hadn't been just a desk jockey, he might do. Santee

headed for the cafeteria where people said Jackson usually had lunch. Lunch sounded good after his long walk, and he was pleasantly surprised to find the food abundant and free. After eating, he found Jackson surrounded by a dozen miners, deep in a spirited discussion. No time like the present.

"Frank Jackson? Can I talk to you after lunch? Alone ?"

Frank looked up, annoyed. "And you are . . . ?" His tone said "Who the hell are you?"

"Paul Santee. Tunnel rat. We ate some of the same bananas." He kept his tone flat, almost careless.

One of the miners next to him started to say something blustery, "Well, you can just . . ." but stopped when Frank interrupted. "Sure. I'll be with you in, say, five minutes?" Santee nodded and moved away to wait.

Frank held up a hand to the questions that came from all sides. "Vietnam. The tunnel rats went down into those little VC tunnels with just a knife and a flashlight, maybe a small pistol. There were booby traps, and spiders and scorpions and snakes, and a bunch of gooks who wanted them dead. Anyone who did it has twice the guts I ever had, and anyone who made it back has twice the luck I have, and was very, very good at it. Think about it." He wolfed down the last of his food. "I've got to go talk to this guy. Keep on trying to figure out what sort of problems we'll have once we open the second shaft, and then figure out what to do about it. I'll talk to you when I get back." Still chewing, he walked away from the miners, who were buzzing in low tones.

He and Santee stepped outside. Frank said, "Before yesterday I thought I knew all the vets around here. And you being a Rat, well, if this was a bar I'd buy

you a drink. So what can I do for you?" His tone was affable and open; Santee relaxed a little.

"Oh, I've lived here for years; up in the hills west off of Butterchurn Road. I guess my mailbox is still back in West Virginia, but my cabins on this side. I haven't been to this town in five or six years, because my road used to go off toward Fairmont."

"And now it doesn't go anywhere?"

"Right. The kid you sent to hunt for me told me what happened, so I came to see what's going on here—since it looks like we're all in the same little boat together."

"Yeah, Eddie told me he'd found you yesterday. We'd be glad to have you join us. We're putting together an army of self-defense, or the nearest thing to it we can manage. We need everybody we can get, and it would really help a lot to have somebody else with combat experience." He looked at Santee expectantly.

He thinks I'm going to re-up right here on the spot! Fuck him. "I'll think about it. I need to know more. What are the chances, what are the plans, who's supposed to be in charge, who's really in charge."

Frank nodded. "Sure. Sensible questions. Listen, I've got to get back to my Mine Workers committee right now, but I want to talk to you some more. And to get your questions answered, you probably need to see Mike Stearns—he's the guy we elected to run things for now. Mike's easy to talk to. How about if I make you an appointment with him this afternoon, and then I meet you for a beer after work?"

Santee nodded warily. Frank seemed decent, he thought, but so what. He'd go meet Stearns, and then talk to Frank again, and then maybe decide what to do. He followed Frank back toward the building.

Ok> C%> Ofc>

That evening, working on their third beer, Santee and Frank had gotten through discussing Grantville s defenses and started talking about the war—the old one. Frank had talked about what he'd done in Vietnam, and Santee closed his eyes and let some of the memories flood back. "Lets see," he said, "I got out in '79. Twelve years and I was back at corporal, and luck) 7 not to be in the fucking stir. We cleaned out some tunnels out by Dim Noc, then just sat there for three days while the surface troops tore us up. After a while, I just melted into the jungle. I don't know if I was the only one alive at that point or not, and IVe still got shrapnel in my hip. I sat there and watched my buddies get shot, and there wasn't a fucking thing I could do about it. I got back to our camp two weeks later. I found the motherfucking full-bird who ordered the choppers away from the pickup area and busted his jaw and both elbows."

He glared at Frank, who passed the unspoken test when he nodded emphatically. Bad officers were common enough in 'Nam; good men died when they did stupid things. "I'd just made E-7 and was breaking in some new guys. Tiece of cake,' I told them—the tunnels weren't big and we went through them fast . . . Bastards." The last was said almost under his breath.

Santee took a deep breath, let it out, and started again. "Anyways, I don't talk about it 'cause it just pisses me off. I get—got—some disability and some money from some stocks and such. I do okay. I live up on the hill, and I hunt and fish and garden . . ." He paused a moment. So, am I going to tell him? Yeah, he's going to find out anyway. "And for fun, I have an Oh-Three FFL." Frank looked puzzled and he explained. "I'm a licensed collector of Curio and Relic Firearms. I can get guns in the mail, legally, if

they're over fifty years old or on the special list. So I buy 'em and trade 'em, and keep a few I like."

Frank sat up with renewed interest. "Uh, if you don't mind my asking . . . how many guns do you have?"

"Oh, say fifty or sixty or so long guns, and maybe twenty pistols." The actual count was higher, but you didn't lay all your cards face up. "The thing is, lots of them are oddballs." At Frank's quizzical look, he went on. "I got German and French and British rifles from World War One—they all have different calibers, and they keep changing calibers too. For instance, I went hunting last year with a Turkish Forestry Carbine in 8mm Lebel. It started life as a French Berthier infantry rifle from World War One, and the Turks cut it down to a carbine in the forties. I'll bet I have the last boxes of 8mm Lebel ammo in . . . hell, in the whole world." Of course, the world had a different meaning now. "And some old rolling-block rifles, and Mausers, and Carcanos . . ." He stopped at Franks lack of recognition and waved his hand dismissively. "A bunch of 'em, anyway. I gave Eddie Cantrell an old Russian revolver. I figured he'd be safer with it."

Frank grinned. "Yeah, he showed it to me. He was real proud of it. I'm glad you did that; Eddie's basically a good kid." Frank closed his eyes and tipped his head back a moment, thinking. "Your arsenal may be screwy, but most of what we've got is screwy, and the whole Ring of Fire is screwy. If you'd be willing to contribute some of it, it could make a huge difference in our war effort."

So here it was. Santee had to make up his mind now. He kind of liked Frank Jackson, and Mike Stearns had seemed competent during their brief meeting that afternoon, but he still didn't like the choices—come join their army and give them all his guns, or tell them to fuck themselves and go back and defend his

cabin and guns by himself. He decided on compromise: give them some of his guns and help them out a little but stay independent. He'd long ago promised himself he wasn't going to take orders ever again, and that still held.

"I'll tell you what," he said slowly. "I'll do an inventory and see what I have that I don't need and you guys could use, and I'll let you know."

Frank looked deflated, but he said, "Thanks a lot. We'll appreciate any help you can give us."

They talked on for a while, but it was getting late. Too late and too dark for Santee to walk back to his cabin, even if there hadn't been marauding Germans around. He warily accepted the spare bed Frank offered him for the night, but he left early the next morning and chewed over his choices all the way back.

It was a cold shock to see his front door half broken, hanging open on its hinges. Santee froze, then stepped silently back behind some brush, drew his .45, and listened intently. Nothing. From where he stood he could see tracks in the dirt, coming and then going—big odd-looking, flat footprints. Germans! Three of them, he decided; two tall and one short. He waited a long while, then flicked a pebble onto the porch. Nothing happened. Very quietly, very stealthily, he crept up on the porch and entered the cabin.

He was shocked at the devastation. It seemed as if everything that could be broken was broken, and everything loose was on the floor. Dishes, books, lamps, pieces of computer equipment, food. Even the stovepipe had been knocked loose, and greasy black soot had fallen all over the mess. A few papers rustled forlornly in the breeze from the open door. But he gave the scene in the front room only a glance. Sick with apprehension, he stepped quickly over the piles

of debris and through the open side door into the spare room. The storage boxes there were dumped and things were thrown around, but the floor seemed unbroken. With a huge sigh of relief, he pushed aside an overturned box and flipped an almost invisible catch that released an almost invisible hatch cover in the floor . . . Thank God they hadn't found the guns!