Chapter 7
Half an hour into the conversation with the patriarch, Boris felt wrung out. Patriarch Filaret apparently remembered every fact he’d read about Grantville, not to mention every bit of the history he’d read. They’d already been through the butterfly effect and every bit of Boris’ knowledge of the spies in Grantville. Now, Filaret changed the subject.
“So, this Bernie Zeppi, he has come to work for us?”
“Ah . . . not quite.” Boris twitched in his seat. “In fact, he has come to work for Prince Vladimir. Who has paid—and is paying—his salary, so far. And there is a personal contract.” Boris produced the contract for the patriarch’s perusal. Filaret took it and read through it rapidly. Several times during the reading he gave Boris sharp looks.
His brow creased. “A rather large salary. Do you feel it will be worth it?”
Boris was surprised at the choice of first question. By custom, outlanders were always hired to work for the czar, not members of the court or the bureaus. “I can’t say for certain. The up-time knowledge is worth a thousand times that salary. Patriarch . . .” He paused. “They could fly up-time. I have seen the movies, heard the stories—they could fly. And I have no doubt they will again, if they survive another five or ten years.”
* * *
Filaret leaned back in his chair. This was the reason he’d called for Boris Petrov to see him. He wanted to hear, first hand. “Yet they don’t fly now. None of the machines, the airplanes, was it? None came with them.”
Boris nodded. “True. It was a poor village of peasants that was sent back to us. Yet even there they have miracles in every art and philosophy and in things we had not even dreamed of. Undreamed of wealth, Patriarch. The products of mass production, they call it. Everything identical, made by machines. If we can make the machines, we should be able to do the same.”
Filaret raised an eyebrow. “Yet you say you’re not sure?”
Boris sighed. “You know the problems with hiring outlander experts. If they were really experts they would be getting rich where they were. What we get are the less adept or the ones no one is willing to hire for some reason. We have seen that, time after time.”
“Your outlander is a mal-adept?”
“You must remember that there were only around three thousand people brought back in the Ring of Fire. That includes babes still at their mothers’ breast and those so . . . sick that they could not survive without constant intervention from their medical practitioners.”
Boris had, Filaret was sure, almost said “so old” but caught himself in time. Filaret hid a smile. He was over eighty and Boris was afraid to offend.
“By their standards,” Boris continued, “it was not a particularly educated group. Most adults had high school diplomas . . . never mind. The point is that anyone who had much in the way of special skills or unusual talent was already employed by their government, or getting rich right there in Grantville, or both.
“Bernie is friendly, willing, and doesn’t lie about his abilities. That, above all else, Vladimir insisted on and I agreed. We have had too many master cannon makers who were more familiar with gold than bronze.”
Boris paused and Filaret considered. Boris was good at his job and Vladimir was clever. He didn’t think that Vladimir was planning anything against the czar, partly because Vladimir was a good lad and a friend of the family, but mostly because he was staying in Grantville. Manipulating court politics from such a distance was almost impossible. Not entirely impossible; Filaret had done it from imprisonment in Poland. But that was a special case and hadn’t worked out the way he had wanted. At the same time, Filaret realized that Vladimir was beginning to play politics, albeit at a remove. This project was to be the Gorchakovs’ entrance into the ranks of the high families and Filaret thought he could use that. There was a great deal of tension in the Boyar Duma, in part because of the Ring of Fire and the general uncertainty of what it might mean, but also because the word from Grantville had weakened the war faction and given hope to the Polish-lovers like his own cousin, Fedor Ivanovich Sheremetev.
By this time Filaret had almost decided to approve the project, but he had a few more questions.
“Then—” Filaret leaned forward with his fingertips steepled. “—if he is so unskilled, what is he doing here? And why did Vladimir hire him into the Gorchakov family’s service instead of the czar’s? Why agree to pay him so much?” He motioned toward the contract. “This is what we would pay for a colonel of artillery.”
* * *
“His salary is the least of the expense of this project,” Boris admitted. This was one of the most important parts of the plan. “Vladimir had an idea. He will be having copies made of the books in Grantville. They will be sent here. But they are only copies, Patriarch, not translations. Not even Latin translations, much less Russian. He doesn’t have the staff, or the cash on hand, to pay to have it done and the time it would take would put us years behind. The books will have to be translated here or our experts must learn up-timer English.”
“I still don’t understand what we need this outlander for. Not that I object to his presence. The czar has been anxious to meet an outlander from this miracle and I am curious myself. That, however, doesn’t justify this salary or this change in our traditional ways.” The patriarch waved a hand at the contract again. “Contracts like this . . . well, I suppose I can understand the idea. But it’s not the way we have done things and I don’t like the precedent it sets.”
“I speak the English of England in this century quite well,” Boris said. “The American English of the end of the twentieth century is full of words that I don’t even have the concepts for. What is an electromagnetic field?” Boris used Russian for field and English for electromagnetic.
At Filaret’s look, he answered his own question, sort of. “Had someone asked me that before I went to Grantville, I would have had no idea what they were talking about. Even if I had looked up electromagnetic in a dictionary from Grantville, I would still have thought it a nonsense phrase. The dictionary would tell me that ‘electromagnetic’ is the adjective form of the word ‘electromagnetism’ which is magnetism caused by an electrical current, which is useful to know. But the real trouble comes with ‘field,’ because the field they are talking about has nothing to do with plowing or reaping nor with grain or grass or battles or the flags and ensigns carried into battle. It’s the area where the electromagnetism is, which I didn’t find out because though I didn’t know the meaning of electromagnetism, I did know the meaning of field.
“When I asked Bernie what an electromagnetic field was. He told me ‘it’s what makes electric motors work and I’d have to look it up if you want to know more.’ I explained that I had looked up electromagnetic and it had not helped much. We discussed it for a while till it came about that Bernie’s definition of field contained several more meanings than mine did. Between us we worked out roughly how an electric motor works and how the changing of the electromagnetic field is crucial to its working. I understand it a little, but it feels profoundly unnatural to me, like the incantations of magic might feel.”
“Could it be magic?” Filaret asked.
“No, Patriarch.” Boris shook his head, trying to put into that gesture all the certainty that he had gained in his time in Grantville. “It feels like magic because it is so different from the way we are used to thinking. There are no demons running their machines and if an electromagnetic field is an unseen force, it carries no motive, no will. It is an effect like water turning a waterwheel. Not magic, just craftsmanship and great knowledge.”
“Very well. So this Bernie will tell us what the words from the future mean. What about the contract?”
“Bernie insisted on it, Patriarch. I think he was a bit afraid that once we got him here we’d lock him in a dungeon and use whips and tongs to get him to work.”
“Certainly an option worth considering,” Filaret said, and Boris knew very well that the patriarch wasn’t joking. Not even a little bit.
Boris nodded. “Hence the contract and a share of the money to be paid into an account in Grantville. The contract helps assuage his fears and the fact that we have to send some of the money to Grantville anyway helps even more. We need him enough to make it worthwhile to pamper him a bit before we attempt harsher methods.
“It’s hard to explain unless you have seen what they can do and how freely they give out their knowledge. Prince Vladimir is convinced that if we don’t have someone like Bernie, if we don’t gain this knowledge and do it now while the door is opened—” He paused and took a deep breath. “Russia, without the knowledge—the up-time knowledge—facing a Europe with that knowledge, will not survive more than a few decades.”
“Why is Vladimir paying for this?” The patriarch was nodding. Good, Boris thought. He understood why Bernie was needed.
“He wants to set up a think tank.” Boris spoke entirely in Russian but the concept didn’t translate well.
Boris tried again at Filaret’s expression of annoyance. “A gathering of minds, also a research center. A place where concepts and devices from the books and notes he is sending can be tried. Tests can be done to see what will and will not work. A place where the knowledge from the future can be combined with the talents of Russians to make both the things he sends us designs for and new designs of our own.”
The patriarch nodded, his mind jumping ahead of Boris’ explanation. “Where?”
“The Gorchakov family has a large and comfortable dacha and hunting park a day’s ride from Moscow. Close enough to Moscow for convenience, yet far enough away so that it can be kept fairly private. He promises not only its use but money for the materials needed for the experimentation. Some thousands of rubles a year.”
“That explains what he wants to do, Boris Ivanovich Petrov. It does not explain why the contract with this Bernard Zeppi is with Vladimir Petrovich Gorchakov, not Mikhail Fedorivich Romanov, Czar of all Russia.”
“Vladimir is willing to commit the Gorchakov family to the primary funding of the project.”
“And he wants what in exchange?”
“The exclusive rights to produce and sell the products of the dacha.” This was common. One family might have exclusive rights to mine iron ore in a certain area, rights they had purchased from the government. Another might have exclusive rights to sell the furs of another area. Filaret was hardly a novice when it came to that type of negotiation.
“No, that won’t work,” Filaret said. “The Gorchakov family is rich but not that rich.”
“He plans to sell the rights to produce individual products,” Boris explained. “The research center will make a working model of, say, a reaping machine, and designs for the parts to it, then sell the rights to make the reaping machines to another clan or to a set of villages.”
The patriarch nodded and considered. “Exclusive except for the government. I’ll not have the government giving the Gorchakov family the rights, then paying for the research as well.” That too was standard. The government of Russia maintained first call on everything. If a family gained exclusive control of a mine, what that family got was what came out of the mine beyond the government’s share.
“Of course, Patriarch.” Boris nodded. As each new device was made both the government and the Gorchakov family would have the right to produce it if they chose. In the case of the reaping machine, the government would be able to either make reaping machines itself or have them made; so would the Gorchakov family. The Gorchakov family might want to sell its rights to make the product but that would not affect the government’s rights. “Of course, the research center will need experts from some of the bureaus.”
Filaret nodded thoughtfully. “That can be arranged. And the church?”
“Vladimir would prefer not to make an open grant to the church.” Boris’ answer was delicate. “There have been abuses of such grants in the past. I am very much afraid the bureaus would not like such a blanket grant either.” The Russian Orthodox Church was neither monolithic nor free from corruption. Monasteries vied for power and wealth with the great families and each other.
The patriarch grinned rather sardonically and nodded. “The patriarch’s office, then.” He laughed at Boris’ expression. “Not even that?”
Boris steeled himself. “Who will be the next patriarch?”
Filaret nodded, but lost his smile.
“Vladimir did wish me to convey his warmest personal regards to you, Patriarch Filaret. His concern, and frankly mine, is that the next patriarch may not share your concern for the czar or for Holy Rus. Do you remember mention of Patriarch Nikon from the histories we sent?” Boris really wished he could avoid this part of the conversation. He was used to bureaucratic infighting but not at this level.
Filaret grimaced but nodded. “However, I am patriarch now.”
“As long as that happy situation remains, the patriarch’s office will receive anything the dacha can provide.”
Filaret’s fingers made a drum roll on the desk as he thought about it. “It is a great risk for young Vladimir. He could ruin his family if it doesn’t work.” Then he stared at Boris. “What about you, Boris? What do you gain in this? What do you risk?”
“It has been suggested that I would make an excellent candidate for the head of the Grantville section of the embassy bureau.” He shrugged. “That is both the reward and the risk. If it doesn’t work, well, my position in the bureau would become untenable.”
“Yes, it would.” Another pause while the patriarch’s fingers continued to tap out a strange beat on the desk. “Very well. I will talk to Fedor Ivanovich Sheremetev, then. I’ll even do what I can to get the appropriate people assigned to your section and loaned to the Gorchakov dacha.”
He gave Boris a hard look, his eyes seeming to glitter for a moment. “You understand what you’re risking?”
“I think so, Patriarch.”