Grantville Gazette 46

Ein Feste Burg, Episode 7

Jena Lokschuppen, Jena, Saxe-Weimar County

May 1633

Nikki Bourne didn't exactly know why she was here.

One year ago she had started a chicken farm in Grantville-something she thought she was good at-but then the Croat Raid came, and the Croats had torched the farm and killed all her chickens and her future.

Then she had concentrated to get the best grades in her senior year, but now she still didn't know what to do after graduation, which was due soon.

When the principal announced that the senior class of the Grantville Tech Center would arrange a career day at the R amp;D facility of a new railroad company in Jena, and that the senior class of the high school, her class, was invited, too, it seemed a good idea to her to attend. But now she was the only high school girl among all these tech geeks.

The whole morning had been full of information about the jobs and training as machinist, surveyor, engineer, etc.-that the facility (everybody here called it Lokschuppen, even if there was not a single locomotive or even tracks to be seen)-had to offer for the tech center and high school graduates.

But manual labor was not exactly fitting for her. Ninety pounds, five foot high-or short- delicate, blond. Not a figure to operate one of these enormous lathes they had been shown or to haul a twenty pound theodolite through the wilderness.

At least Marshall Ambler, the guy who was in charge here, had promised to talk about office jobs in the afternoon, not that that seemed to her like a primary target to aim at.But what was her primary target?

Now was lunchtime. The large canteen was already nearly full of Germans, when the Grantville students-eighty percent of them Germans too-arrived. They got their share of vegetable stew and dark bread and now she looked around for a place to sit down.

"He, Puppchen, willste dich setzen?" Her German was not perfect, but "sit down" was something she could easily understand. And when she saw the friendly faces of some young workers-cute, they had introduced dungarees and overalls here-she smiled back and sat down on the space they had freed.

"Hi, ich bin Nikki." She introduced herself.

"Johann," "Hannes," "Hanns," "Johannes," were the answers from the four boys around.

"Are you joking?"

"No, welcome to the Four Johns, as chief Marshall calls us."

They didn't speak the Grantville Amideutsch but German with an admittedly not too heavy dialect. Nikki had enough contacts with Germans since the Ring of Fire to understand them-as long as they were talking to her. But when they talked to each other, Nikki was left out.

So she concentrated on her stew and let her thoughts wander. Nice guys, but no nice job in sight.

Her thoughts traveled back to the table, when she noticed that the boys were studying a book. An American chemistry schoolbook.

". . need a bowl of china. ." Hannes was reading haltingly. Then translating "eine Schussel aus China. . Where do we get a Chinese bowl from?

". . eventually you get. . eventuell bekommst du. . Why 'possibly'? Why not in every case?"

"Boys, you're wrong," Nikki interrupted them. "These are false friends."

"Hey, girl, don't get fresh at us," Johann said scowling. "We're honest friends, not fraudulent."

Nikki blushed. "Sorry, I didn't intend offense. Look, here 'false' means 'not fitting.' These are words which seem to be equal in German and English, but have a different meaning.

"'China' is porcelain-you know that as modern pottery-and 'eventually' means 'at last.' Didn't your English teacher tell you that?" Nikki wondered.

"We don't have an English teacher any more. Only a dictionary."

"And let me guess: You only look into the dictionary when you think there's something you don't understand."

The four boys nodded in unison.

"So you need someone to tell you about the subtleties of modern American."

"What about you?" The voice came from behind her.

Nikki turned around and saw Marshall Ambler standing there. How long was he listening?

"What do you mean?" she asked.

"It seems you just found your market niche. Do you want the job?"

"Teaching English? ESOL? I'll need a certificate for that first."

"Not in Germany. Not here in the Lokschuppen. We need people who can do something, regardless of certificates. We have journeymen who run shops; we will have high school graduates who work as engineers. We don't have the time to wait for them to finish their BS at the college.

"Oh, and come to think of it, we don't even have a college for this. The only thing we can do is on-the-job training. And it seems you have just started it." He waved over to the four boys who had obviously tried to follow the Americans' discussion.

"I'll talk with Archie Clinter. He can organize teacher training at the middle school for you, and we'll pay for it. Then you'll have a contact when you need help. They're only a radio away."

Nikki took a deep breath. Yes, he was right. Tutoring her classmates had always been something enjoyable and satisfying. To see that her 'A' grades in English mattered for something, even in this new and wild world made her feel good. Eventually. She laughed.

The four boys at her table looked quizzical.

"Wollt ihr mich als Lehrerin?" she asked them.

"Yeah, Miss Schoolmarm!" Johann shouted.

"Darned good idea!" Hannes added.

"But you'll have to work on your diction," Nikki said laughing. "Slang words are not what you'll learn from me."

"Nae bother," Hans interjected with Scottish slang. All of them laughed.

Road from Rudolstadt, near Jena

September 1633

Wolfgang Hilliger shifted his hat to his neck and looked around. The traffic here was not normal. There were not only the normal merchants on the road between Jena and Rudolstadt, but many, mostly young, men transporting all kinds of things around.

Weird wagons dragged or pushed by horses or men, and suddenly even a steaming wagon appeared without any draft animal, but with a young man on a kind of chair behind a horizontal cart wheel on it. The wagon blew smoke or steam from a small chimney. Other young men were running behind it and cheering.

Wolfgang jumped aside to leave room for the crazy thing and its obviously equally crazy coachman.

"Stop it, stop it!" another young man cried from behind, and the wagon slowly came to a halt. Now Wolfgang could see what weird kind of clothes they were wearing. Dark blue pants with a patch going up their chest, held by cloth belts over their shoulders.

Since they were completely occupied by their strange wagon, Wolfgang decided to make his way to the gate they had emerged from. Two burly watchmen were standing there. They had followed the motion of the wagon with their eyes, but now concentrated on the young man approaching them.

Wolfgang reached into his bag and produced the broadsheet which had brought him here.

"Craftsmen wanted!" it read. Fortunately for Wolfgang, who couldn’t read English and could speak only the most necessary sentences to get something to eat and drink in Grantville, it was printed in two columns, the other one in German: “Handwerker gesucht!”

"Experienced journeymen preferred. All crafts needed. Report to JenaLokschuppen of Jena-Eisenach Eisenbahngesellschaft."

"Guten Tag," he greeted the watchmen. "Is this the L-o-kschuppen?" he slowly spelled out the uncommon word.

"Ja, junger Mann," the older of the two watchmen answered friendly, and then pointed to the next building. "You're lucky. The boss is holding the hiring interviews in person today. Just proceed into the office."

"Danke," Wolfgang said and made his way into the building.

A young woman was sitting behind a desk there and looked up when he entered the room.

Wolfgang removed his hat. "Guten Tag," he said, but before he could continue, the young woman interjected.

"Want a job? Here's a pencil. Fill out this form and give it back to me! Sit down over there until you get called."

"Ah, thank you."

He sat down on a bench and studied the "form." It was a sheet of paper, partly printed, with space to fill in his name, date and place of birth, and much space to write about his career.

Freiberg, Sachsen, 7/17. im Brachmond 1607he wrote behind the text "Geboren/born." He stopped, then struck Brachmondand wrote the modern name Juni above it.

Four years at the Elementarschule, just enough to learnreading, writing and calculating; thenten years working in the family's foundry. They were not rich enough to let the children waste time on books.

Son of a bell founder, grandson of a bell founder, great-grandson. . back to the early fifteenth century.

Apprentice-bell founder, what else. .? Then his journeyman time at the places where bells were cast. Or cannons; in the last ten years more and more bells were melted down to make cannons. In Prettau at the Lofflers' foundry; in Augsburg at the Neidhardts'; in Nurnberg at the Herolds'. At least one year and one day at each, as determined by custom.

Next station would have been, perhaps, Aachen, but first a visit in this new town, Grantville. Wolfgang was overwhelmed from the achievements of the new time. And then he had seen this broadsheet. Perhaps they would need some bells for the railroad. Jena was on the way to Aachen, anyway.

"Hey, you."

His thoughts returned to the present, to Jena, to the woman who had called him.

"Yes?"

"Are you finished with your form? The boss awaits you."

The "boss" was a tall, haggard American. Middle-aged, but for an up-timer that could be forty or up to sixty.

"Guten Tag. Ich bin Marshall Ambler, Chefingenieur," he said in very good German and extended his hand.

"Guten Tag. Ich bin Wolfgang Hilliger, Glockengie?er," Wolfgang answered while shaking the hand. The American's hand was hard, callused, the hand of a man who worked. Not the hand of a noble who directed.

"Sit down," Marshall pointed to a chair, "and tell me about you."

"What do you want to know, mein Herr?"

"First you should stop this 'mein Herr' Zeugs. Even if we are talking German now, we're on first names in the Lokschuppen. We're all workers here."

"But you are the 'boss', mein-Marshall."

"No matter. Tell me what you think I should know about you. And take your time."

Wolfgang looked at the table. There was his "form," so Marshall already knew his career. But not his aims. Wolfgang looked up again. While he was gathering his thoughts, his eyes traveled through the room, and then out through the window.

The steam wagon he had seen before was just passing by. But something was wrong. There was no longer a young man sitting on the chair. And that steering wheel was missing, too.

Completely forgetting where he was, Wolfgang jumped up to look at the lower part of this wagon. The young man was dangling there upside down, his foot entangled somewhere on the wagon, his head pounding against the cobblestones of the street.

"Jessas, Maria und Josef!" Wolfgang shouted, falling into his Erzgebirgisch.

Marshall followed his gaze with his eyes and then jumped up.

"Come with me," he screamed and ran out of the room.

Wolfgang followed him. Out in the yard he could just see the wagon disappear into one of the buildings, crashing through a large wooden door, followed by the young men who had been cheering before but now were yelling and crying.

Then "Thump, thump, thump" a continuous thunder came from the building, where the wagon had disappeared. Wolfgang ran after Marshall. They entered the building, where Wolfgang suddenly felt at home. This was obviously a foundry. A small furnace could be seen on the other side of a large room. Sand, coal and several types of metal were heaped up along one wall.

And in the middle was that wagon thumping against the furnace.

"Oh my God!" Wolfgang shouted. The furnace was obviously heavy enough not to be moved by the wagon, but another-older-man was also lying under the thing. Some of the young men tried to approach the wagon, but the heat of the furnace drove them away. The force of the wagon had opened the furnace door, and even some of the melting dripped down to earth.

Other men were helplessly standing there and looking.

"Where's the master?" Marshall asked, and several men pointed to under the wagon. "Shit!" The American looked around, apparently as helpless as the others.

Wolfgang's eyes examined the room. There had to be. .There! On a shelf lay a founder's clothes. A heavy leather apron; gloves and spats from the same material. He ran to the shelf and started to don these things.

When Marshall recognized what he was doing, he followed Wolfgang and helped him into the heavy garments. "Here," he said and handed Wolfgang something uncommon. It was a kind of hood, but with a window to look through.

"Do you have water? Can you wet me?" Wolfgang asked, while he was putting on the hood.

"Sure," Marshall said.

"But only me! Don't hit the furnace!" A small part of Wolfgang's mind was wondering what would happen afterwards. He was just giving orders to his prospective employer.

But he wiped the thoughts away. Saving lives was now top priority. Firing before hiring was to come later. Through the hood, he could see-not very well-but hear nothing, so he didn't know if Marshall had heard him.

He started in the direction of the wagon, when he suddenly noticed Marshall pounding on his shoulder. He lifted the hood again.

"There's a lever on the locomobile."

Wolfgang's eyes followed Marshall's finger. "Yes, I can see it."

"Push it down. That will stop the thing."

"In Ordnung." He nodded, and then lowered the hood again. When he approached the wagon, he noticed water beginning to pour over him. Continuously. They have a hose. That's good.

He could sense the heat, but it didn't really bother him. But the lever did. He could barely reach it, and that infernal vehicle was still moving back and forth. There was only one possibility.

When the wagon hit the furnace again, Wolfgang seized the pole where the steering wheel had been. He leapt onto the vehicle and just got hold of the lever, when the wagon hit the furnace again. In spite of the shudder that threatened to throw him down, he kept his grip and forcefully lowered the lever.

It worked.

The wagon ceased moving.

Wolfgang took a deep breath; then climbed down. He looked at the young man, but he was obviously dead, his head a mass of blood.

But the master under the wagon-

"Meister Loffler, is that you?" Wolfgang shouted, but the hood muffled his voice. He had seen that man in Austria; he had been one of the masters in Prettau.

The master's face was red and burned, but he opened his mouth.

Then closed it again. He was alive.

Wolfgang managed to get his hands under the older man's armpits and started dragging. A loud shriek penetrated the hood, but at this moment he couldn't consider this.

Backwards he moved, until he felt a hand on his shoulder. Marshall was there. Wolfgang removed the hood. Marshall had a tankard in his hand. "Water?"

"Oh, yes, thank you." Wolfgang seized the tankard and gulped half of its contents, then poured the rest over his head.

Two young men appeared with a litter and proficiently sped Master Loffler away.

"What about Peter?" Marshall pointed to the body of the young man who still dangled from the wagon.

Wolfgang shook his head. "He's dead. Do you have a rope? We must move the wagon away from the furnace. It's too hot there."

"Can you manage that?"

"I've managed worse things." And so Wolfgang once more covered his head with the hood, took the end of the rope Marshall handed him, and wrapped it around the wagon's rear axle.

While the other men were slowly hauling the wagon out of the foundry, Wolfgang supported the body of the young man so the wheels couldn't torture him anymore.

Outside, a crowd had gathered. Many hands took the young man's body and helped Wolfgang to remove the heavy protective clothing.

Although all of them were obviously shocked, he received a huge amount of backslapping. It seemed he had introduced himself properly.

Then he followed Marshall back to the office building.

"When can you start working here?" Marshall asked.

Wolfgang was puzzled. "But we have not yet had the interview."

"Do you think it could tell me something I don't know yet? After this?" He pointed to the foundry.

Wolfgang shrugged. "Perhaps not. What do you want me to do?"

"Isn't that obvious? We need a leader for the foundry team. Loffler is definitely out for the next few months. The doctor said he doesn't know if the old man will ever return."

Wolfgang was stunned. "But I'm no master."

"We'll change that as soon as possible. But we need you now. You've seen these youngsters. They can build a steam car, but they fail completely if something unexpected happens."

Marshall rose and extended a hand. "Deal?"

Wolfgang nodded and his hand. "Deal!"

Nikki's classroom, Jena Lokschuppen

The next day

It had been a horrible school day. The day before that dreadful accident with a steam car had happened, and Peter, one of Nikki's students, had lost his life. Everyone was still in shock, so she had decided to let her students read and translate sentences from a Washington Post article on the Challenger catastrophe in 1986.

The students were rather astonished that such accidents still happened up-time. It seemed that knowledge helped them.

While the students were leaving, she saw Marshall outside the classroom, with a middle-sized, mid-twenties, brawny-good-looking, very good-looking-down-timer at his side. Then they both entered the classroom.

"Nikki," Marshall said, "This is Wolfgang Hilliger, your new student.

"Wolfgang, das ist Nikki Bourne, deine neue Lehrerin."

They shook hands. Nikki tried to divert her gaze from the down-timer. "Wolfgang, nice to meet you. But, Marshall, you haven't introduced new students to me personally before."

Marshall closed the classroom door.

"There are two reasons. Wolfgang, sorry for speaking English now.

"First: Wolfgang has to speed up in American language very fast. He's taking over the foundry from Master Loffler. He will direct the research on better bronze alloys, so he needs to scan through the Tech Center books on that issue very soon. He also needs a special vocabulary on metallurgy. So you two will have at least two hours of private lessons every workday."

Nikki looked up. Private lessons. With this very, very good-looking guy. O. .kay. Nikki, stop it. He's too old for you.

While she was still thinking, Marshall continued.

"And second: Yesterday's 'accident' was in fact not an accident. Somebody sawed on the steering axle, and so the wheel broke off."

Nikki's eyes widened. "What? Who did that?"

Marshall frowned. "'Whodunit.' Yeah, that's exactly the question. The night before yesterday, that steam car was locked up in a metal workshop. But one of the windows was open, so nearly everybody could have come in.

"But one somebody used a hacksaw. Took it off a toolbox, and put it back; we found no traces of an intensive search. So the person apparently knew where to find the saw in near darkness." He stopped.

Nikki looked at him then at Wolfgang.

"Yes," Marshall continued now changing to German. "Wolfgang arrived here yesterday. He's the only one completely free from suspicion. And you."

"Because I'm American?"

"No, because you never have been in the metal workshop. And even if you had, have you ever sawed a steel pipe?"

"What?"

"That's what I thought. It was done by someone who knew what he did and considerably exceeds your physical strength."

Nikki frowned. Her "physical strength"-or better the lack thereof-had always been one of her biggest-ha! — flaws. In the meantime, she had discovered that "Puppchen,"which the Four Johns had called her, meant "dolly." Perhaps they meant it to be friendly, nevertheless it was nearly insulting.

"And you want us," she pointed to Wolfgang and herself, "to play Holmes and Watson? Or better Wolfe and Goodwin? Not that I would call Wolfgang fat."

Not in the least, with all those bulging muscles. .

"Entschuldigung," Wolfgang interjected, "what do these names mean? Will they help us?"

"No," Marshall laughed. "They are 'consulting detectives.'"

"Yes, what?"

"Oh, I forgot. There is nothing like 'criminal investigation' in this century, only torture. Okay. Here's an example: Have you heard about Cain and Abel?"

"Genesis four? Certainly. Who hasn't?"

"Okay. How do you know what happened there? Who told the author of the Bible? Did he ask Cain? Why should he tell him 'I murdered my brother'? And don't even think about torturing Cain."

"There were witnesses."

"Very good. First rule of a detective: find witnesses; ask them. But keep in mind: All witnesses lie, or at best tell what they think is the truth. So find as many witnesses as possible, ask them, compare their testimonies and ask again if you find differences.

"But if there weren't any witnesses? The world was very sparsely inhabited at that time. What else is there?"

Wolfgang frowned, and then beamed. "The weapon! 'Cain attacked his brother Abel and killed him.' Perhaps he used a weapon."

"Okay. Second rule: find objects related to the deed. Look at the corpse-I won't tell you what they did up-time-perhaps you can see what kind of weapon was used. Then look for appropriate objects. If you can find something at the scene, you have to find evidence about who used it. If you find a weapon in the possession of a suspect, you need to prove that it is the murder weapon.

"That doesn't apply here, but that's the way a detective ought to think. Do you understand me?"

Wolfgang nodded slowly, smiling. "I think so. It's the way of thinking like Daniel in the crime stories did."

Nikki and Marshall looked at each other puzzled.

Wolfgang continued. "Daniel thirteen, where he solves Susanna's case, by proving that two witnesses lied, and Daniel fourteen, where he convicts the priests of Bel from their footprints."

Nikki shook her head. "In our Bible, Daniel ends with chapter twelve. But it seems he in fact was an early predecessor of Holmes."

Then to Marshall: "I've got The Complete Sherlock Holmes at home in Grantville."

"Very good," Marshall smiled, "send a telegram to your Mom and have her send the books here. The company will pay for it all. Then you can use them for Wolfgang's private lessons."

Every time he used that term, Nikki flinched a little.

"But don't get me wrong," Marshall continued. "I don't want any of you to get into danger. Perhaps we have an agent here from a foreign government, or it's a case of greed or hate. Nikki, you'll brief Wolfgang in detective methods, and you can chat with your students about this. Wolfgang, you'll try to investigate."

The next day

"They are different!" Wolfgang was astonished. The black stains on the glass looked similar from a distance, but using a magnifying glass, he could see different patterns. "Arches, loops and whorls," that little girl had called them.

Hmmm. That little girl is not a child; she's eighteen. She has been in school for twelve years. She knows much more about these science things than me. And she's schnuckelig. Wolfgang, stop it. She's too young for you.

Aloud he said, "And you say that no two of them are alike in the whole world?"

"Yes, even with the six thousand million people in our world, nobody ever found two fingerprints from different people that were the same. And all of your ten fingers have a different pattern."

And it was surprisingly easy. He had used some fine iron filings from the metalworking shop, and a very soft brush to distribute them over the glass. The bottle he had held before now showed black stains at each point he previously had his fingers on. And at other places. Perhaps the glassmaker had touched the bottle or somebody who had cleaned it. That led to another thought.

"But how can I find out whose fingerprints are the others here?"

Nikki frowned. "That's exactly our problem in this century. It was the same in our own, but the FBI had a big database, where all known criminals were registered with their prints."

"The what had what?"

"Never mind. But we've got fingerprints on that hacksaw and on the steering axle and as soon as we have a suspect, we can ask him for his prints."

"Give him a bottle? Or two bottles at the same time?"

Nikki laughed. "Did you watch too many episodes of Columbo? No, it's much simpler."

She opened her desk, fetched a sheet of paper, and an inkpad. "Give me your hand and extend one finger."

Her hand was petite and soft. She seized his hand, rolled the finger onto the inkpad and then on the paper. There it was. His fingerprint saved for eternity. Or at least until the paper was burned.

Wolfgang checked with the magnifier. Yes. It had the same pattern as his forefinger's stain on the glass.

Wolfgang cleared his throat. "So we now only need to find a suspect."

"'Only' isn't the word I thought appropriate. 'Big task' would be a better term."

Some days later

"It's frustrating," Wolfgang said groaning. "There are at least twenty people who are familiar with the metal workshop's arrangements. But I think we can drop the 'foreign agent' idea."

"Why do you think that?" Marshall wondered.

"The action did not yield any consequences. If we hadn't locked the steam car up until now, the young machinists would only have needed half an hour to fix it. An agent could have locked the security valve and the whole steam engine would have blown up."

"It's fascinating," Nikki said thoughtfully, "how fast a seventeenth-century bell founder grasps technical concepts like these."

"Oh, I only repeat the words I heard from the guys in the workshop." Nevertheless, Wolfgang blushed. "No," he continued. "This deed was especially targeted to the driver. But from all the people I talked with, I found no one who hated Peter."

"Me too," Nikki continued. "I mentioned him several times in the class, and all I saw and heard was regret and sympathy."

"And," Wolfgang lifted a finger, "The death was not necessarily intended. Nobody saw exactly what happened when the axle broke, but they all said he could have stopped the engine without the wheel, exactly how I did it in the foundry.

"Perhaps he was so surprised that he stood up and fell from the car. And even that would not have been mortal, if his foot hadn't become entangled."

"But it was intentional," Marshall interjected. "Somebody wanted to do him harm or make fun of him."

"Of him?" Nikki asked. "Or of the driver? Was Peter the only one who drove that infernal thing?"

Marshall and Wolfgang looked at each other.

Wolfgang said: "Clever question." Marshall nodded.

Nikki blushed.

The next day

"I think we've got it-more or less," Wolfgang said.

Nikki nodded. "Julius."

Marshall frowned. "Julius?"

"Yes," Wolfgang said. "Julius Hartung was the target. He's an asshole." He grinned.

"He didn't learn that word from me," Nikki protested.

"No the term is common knowledge, and the fact, too. 'Julius is an arrogant asshole,' they all say. I only wonder that nobody calls him an 'arrogant Catholic asshole.' Nearly all team members are Lutherans."

"It's fascinating," Marshall said, "how fast religious disputes disappear, when people work together and build something together. And are too tired afterwards to talk about religion.

"And you think Julius was the target of that prank?"

"Certainly," Nikki said confidently. "He boasted 'I can drive that thing without a wheel.' Perhaps he can do it. But he was sick that day."

"Yes," Wolfgang continued, "and so Peter assumed the driver's role. If I could only remember my first day better. I don't know who of the team members was not running behind him and cheering.

But-" he stopped. His forehead showed deep furrows.

"What?" the others asked unison.

"Proverbs 16:18 says 'Pride goes before destruction.' That was the aim. I think I know who did it."

"No," the elder machinist said. "Thomas has taken a day off. 'Urgent family matters,' he said."

"Where does his family live? In Erfurt?" Marshall asked.

"I don't know. But I think I saw him on his way to the railway station."

Wolfgang asked: "Are there any of his personal belongings?"

Nikki grinned. "Clever question."

Wolfgang blushed.

Grantville

Later on the same day

They arrived with the late train. To Marshall and Nikki, Grantville was familiar. Wolfgang had spent some time here, too. But for Nicolaus Happe, colonel of Jena's town watch-or Stadtpolizei, as they were starting to call it-it was the first time to visit the town.

The first thing he did after leaving "Central Station" was kneel down and touch the asphalt. "I've heard of this," he explained, "but I never could believe it, how smooth and level the streets in Grantville are. We need that in Jena, too. As soon as possible."

The he rose again. "Where is this church?" Marshall and Nikki pointed to St. Mary's. "Let's go."

Pater Heinzerling welcomed them. "Yes, he's here. But I won't tell you anything he told me under the seal of confession."

"We won't ask you, Pater," Nikki stated firmly. "We already know everything."

Thomas Hartung entered the room. His eyes were red. "I'm prepared now. I'll follow you."

"I only want to know one thing," Marshall said. "When your brother was sick, why didn't you try to stop this horrible affair?"

"I wasn't there," Thomas whispered. "I've been in Jena, buying medicine for Julius. I didn't know that they would use the steam car without him. I never intended any harm to Peter. He was my friend."

Rasenmuhle, south of Jena

April 1634

"Wolfgang, do it," Marshall said, and Wolfgang turned the wheel to open the big valve that had closed the Lache, the channel that had fed the Rasenmuhle for over a century.

In the meantime, the miller had moved to the Muhllache, the larger channel near the center of Jena. The railroad company had bought the whole Rasenmuhlen-Insel, the artificial island that lay between the Saale and the Lache. Nothing could be built there because the spring floods regularly drowned it.

Now the water was streaming into the dry channel again. It flew into the newly built tunnel and filled it nearly to the top. And then it happened. The new turbine started rotating. The engineering team had planned and constructed it from an up-time design called a Kaplan turbine, and the foundry team led by Wolfgang had cast the large adjustable blades, which made up a propeller six feet in diameter. And the bronze bearings which guaranteed that the turbine could work twenty-four hours a day.

For nearly a year, the glassmakers had produced light bulbs, and the electricians had laid copper wires and sealed them with sealing wax. But the small generators attached to water wheels in the creek called Leutra could only light some of them at a time, and when the electric ovens in the materials development department were in operation, all other loads in the Lokschuppen had to be cut off the grid.

But now the turbine gathered speed, the big generator turned and when an electrician gave a sign, the grid was attached to it. And the lights went on in the Lokschuppen.

All lights in all the houses, one after the other. Then the lights in the alleys and yards between the houses. Then the lights along the road between the entry gate of the R amp;D premises and the Rasenmuhle, which now contained the new power plant.

And then some technicians started the large carbon-arc lamps they had installed on both sides of the entry gate. Two white fingers of light pointed up into the evening sky and met far above.

The electrician who observed the flow of the electrical power lifted a hand with two fingers extended. Two hundred kilowatts.

That was only half the calculated maximum output, but enough for now.

Applause went up from all the people who had gathered there.

"Wolfgang, would you please come over here?" Marshall shouted and waved a hand.

Wolfgang went over and saw a middle-aged man standing beside Marshall.

"Wolfgang, this is Meister Leonhard Low from Nurnberg."

"Guten Abend, Meister Low," Wolfgang greeted the man hesitantly. He had heard the news that Low had taken over the business from bell founder master Herold, who had died shortly after Wolfgang had left Nurnberg. So this had to be the new founder master for the Lokschuppen Marshall had spoken about the last weeks.

"Guten Abend, Meister Hilliger," the older man answered. "It seems the 'propeller' you have cast has proven to be a fine piece of craftsmanship."

"Thank you, Meister, for the honor, but I'm just a journeyman."

"No you aren't. Not from now on."

Low took a large parchment from his bag and handed it over to Wolfgang. It was a master certificate.

For founder master Wolfgang Hilliger.