Chapter 5: Costs and Probabilities
August 6, Ugolini household
Gabrielle Ugolini shouted, "Don't open that!"
Angela almost dropped the bottle at her daughter's shout. Angela had just pulled the bottle of red table wine named Frog's Seat out of the icebox to go with tonight's dinner. "What on earth has gotten into you? And why shouldn't I open a bottle of wine to celebrate. Your dad just got a contract to cut markers for the cemetery in Rudolstadt." It was the first down-time contract that the family business had gotten and a good reason to celebrate.
"Because it's valuable and it's going to get even more valuable," Gabrielle insisted pointing at the bottle with the kitchen knife she had just been using to cut vegetables. "That's up-time wine, Mama."
"They can make wine down-time," Angela explained, quite reasonably she thought.
"But it won't be up-time wine! Judy's mom says that Cokes and Kool Aid will be valuable and . . ." Gabrielle ran down out of arguments but still insistent.
"All right." Angela agreed mostly to keep peace in the family. "We'll save it for now."
* * *
Angela Ugolini dialed the Wendell house and waited for an answer. When Judy Wendell answered she said, "This is Angela Ugolini, Gabrielle's mother. I'm sorry to bother you, but Gabrielle had a fit when I started to open a bottle of wine. She said that you had said something about them becoming valuable."
"Well, it sounds like something I'd say." There was a short pause then Judy the Elder Wendell added, "Oh, now I remember. And I think that Gabrielle may be right. The girls were inventorying their Barbie dolls."
"Inventorying their Barbies? What on earth for?"
"I don't know if you have been to the nicer houses in Badenburg or the count's residence in Rudolstadt, but they have what I would call knickknack cabinets. Or in the case of the count, a knickknack room. Full of the most ridiculous stuff. There is a major collectibles market in this time."
"You're saying I should pull out my Elvis plate collection?" Angela asked with a laugh.
"If you've got one, yes. Did you hear about Delia Higgins selling some of her dolls to a Viennese merchant?"
"I heard she sold some, but I didn't get any of the details." Delia Higgins was a character. Not as much as Buster, who owned the other storage lot, but a character nonetheless. The rumor Angela heard was that Delia had sold the dolls to finance her fourteen-year-old grandson—or maybe the ten-year-old—in some sort of a business. Making coat hangers or something. On the other hand, from Angela's experience, the woman was pretty sharp. So maybe it would turn out to be okay, if she kept the kids reined in.
"She got something like a hundred dollars a doll," Judy Wendell told Angela, "and they weren't her best dolls. Anyway, I had told little Judy that she should take care of her dolls before that. Then she and your daughter and the rest of the middle school cheerleaders put together the Barbie Club, or something. I figured it was better that they concentrate on that, rather than the fact that we're four hundred years in the past with armies rampaging all around us."
"Sure, but that's dolls. What about the wine? What possible interest would a down-timer have in a bottle of Frog's Seat."
"Frog's Seat?"
"It's a red table wine from a small winery in Texas. A family friend brought us some on her last visit. It was our last bottle of that label and I was going to open it rather than one of our better wines."
"In that case, it's entirely possible that what you have is the only bottle of that brand of wine on Earth. That would make it very valuable. I'm not saying you could trade it for the Hope Diamond or anything, but it might pay to store it in a dark cool place for a few months or a few years. You might want to do the same thing with any other up-time wines you have."
"Okay. But about the dolls? If they are that valuable, don't you think it would be wiser if we were to collect them?"
"It's your daughter, but if you want my opinion, I'd say let them handle it. The dolls belong to the girls, after all. And from what I saw they are being responsible enough. Putting them away safely, inventorying them and keeping good records of who owns what."
"But if the dolls are that valuable . . ."
"They still belong to the girls. If we want them to grow up with a respect for private property, we have to show respect for their private property. Besides, I'll keep track of what they're doing."
Grantville was a small town in West Virginia where everyone knew everyone else and, perhaps more importantly, where everyone knew everyone else's business. If Angela took Gabrielle's dolls, everyone in town would know that Angela didn't trust her daughter. That would be embarrassing for both Gabrielle and for Angela. The same was true of the parents of the other members of last year's middle school cheerleaders. For example, everyone in Grantville knew about Velma Hardesty, so no one told Velma about Susan's Barbies.
In this at least, Judy the Elder Wendell was an acknowledged expert to be listened to. After all, her husband had been chosen for the Finance Subcommittee. And once Angela Ugolini—who was raising a bunch of kids, "Catholics, you know,"—and who seemed to be doing a good job of it, signed on, the social pressure to let the girls play was moderately strong.
* * *
"I wish you hadn't said that," Fletcher Wendell told his wife while they were chatting in bed.
"Why not?" Judy said surprised. "You think we should take the girls' dolls?"
"No, not that part. I'm concerned about a conflict of interest."
"Conflict of interest? Fletch, the power is going to your head. We're talking a few dolls. And you're not Alan Greenspan."
"No. That would be Coleman Walker," Fletcher said, snuggling a little.
"Do not snuggle up to me with the words 'Coleman Walker' on your lips. Not if you expect a happy outcome." She elbowed him in the ribs and he uffed.
"Now get back on your side of the bed and tell me why you think Judy's Barbies represent a conflict of interest."
Fletcher scooted back a little, but not very far, then said, "I'm not that sure, love. It was more a social reflex. So you tell me why will it be a problem."
Judy stopped. Fletcher was much better at the social side of things than she was and she knew it. If his reflexes were pinging there was a reason for it. And suddenly she knew the reason. "It's what they do with the money after they sell the dolls."
"That's it! You know Judy always tries to horn in on Sarah. And Sarah's in this deal with Delia Higgins and the gang of budding entrepreneurs. So Judy is going to want to be an entrepreneur. By preference, get in on the sewing machine deal. But if not that, she'll try to top her big sister. They'll lose their shirts. Well, they'll lose their Barbie money."
"No, they won't!"
"They won't?"
"They won't. We've been over this, Fletch. What causes businesses to fail?" If Fletcher was better at the social, she was better at the theory. And every day since the Ring of Fire, she had been studying this situation, trying to come up with an effective analysis of their impact on the down-time economy. A part of that, a big part of it, was an analysis of the causes and probabilities of new business failures in this circumstance. To do that, she had had to look in detail at the reasons businesses failed. The most common cause of business failure was poor management, but that was a misleading statistic—a bit like the most common cause of auto accidents was driver error. Also quite true, but it ignored the fact that driver error was a lot easier if you were in the middle of the pack racing at Le Mans than if you were on a moped all alone on the salt flats.
About eighty percent of business failures were because of failure to properly read the market. Starting your restaurant where people couldn't afford to eat out much, or where there were too many established restaurants, or something analogous to one of those. For new products, a good third of the reason for failure was the product not working or not working well, and another third or more the product not finding a market, with the rest caused by legal problems or poor cost estimation. All those problems were made worse by a saturated market, in much the same way that driver error was made worse by being in the middle of the pack traveling at 210 mph around a hairpin turn at Le Mans. Down-time was a lot more like the moped on the salt flats. There were a host of new products that there was a good potential market for, and enough cost savings in the industrialization they had to make them competitive even if they weren't well managed. Unless someone was just stupid, the failure rate was going to be low. Very low.
"Right. So the odds are good that whatever they invest in, assuming it isn't fancy clothes and candy, will be a success. If we are advising them, it's going to look like it was from tips we gave them that made them successful. When some idiot invests in a semiconductor factory and gets people to lose a fortune, well, it will look bad."
"Maybe. But they're twelve years old. They need adult guidance. Sarah and her friends have Delia. Judy and the middle school cheerleaders need someone."
August 10, 1631: Badenburg
Karl Schmidt was a substantial fellow, like his father before him. He was fifty-two and had been recently widowed. He owned a foundry in Badenburg. It was a smallish foundry, with a smithy attached, where they made door hinges, wagon parts, and other things of iron, mostly for local use. He had four surviving children: his son Adolph, a twenty-two year old journeyman blacksmith, and three teenage daughters, Gertrude, Hilda and Marie.
He had known of the Ring of Fire almost from the beginning. At first, it had been a strange and frightening thing, surrounded by dark stories of magic and witchcraft; then miracles, as the stories of who they actually were got around. A whole town full of people from the future, surely God’s handiwork. Yet they didn’t claim to be angels or saints. Why would God go to the trouble of sending a town from the future if it was filled with normal people? There had been several sermons around then, about the angels that visited Lot in Sodom without announcing their angelic status. Some of the priests had pointed out, that if an angel didn’t have to tell you that he was an angel, then certainly a demon or devil didn’t have to tell you he was a devil.
It was an enigma. Karl did not like enigmas. They troubled his sleep. His solution at first, was to keep his distance. Then stories about what Tilly’s men were doing at a farm outside of Rudolstadt, and more significantly, what happened to them, got around. The ease with which the out-of-timers killed was terrifying. Rumor had it that it had only taken a few of them, half a dozen at most, to kill dozens of soldiers. Yet the same rumor said that they had done it to save the farmer and that they had, in spite of the fact that he had been nailed to a barn door and was the next best thing to dead when they got there. Some stories said he was dead. Karl didn’t believe that, but how much could be believed? Some people visited Grantville, but Karl was not one of them. A few people from Grantville visited Badenburg. Karl didn’t meet them, though he could have.
Karl was a slow fellow. Not in the sense of slow witted, he was really quite bright, but he liked to take his time and think things through. Meanwhile he had business to see to.
Adolph, Karl’s son, was not quite so substantial a fellow as his father. From what Adolph could tell, his father thought him quite flighty. In fact Adolph was fairly substantial and becoming more so every year. He was a journeyman smith, and ran the smithy part of the business.
Adolph’s latest worry had to do with Grantville, and it wasn’t the least bit spiritual. Several merchants and more farmers who had been expected to spend their money in Badenburg had instead spent it in Grantville. A number of potential customers from Grantville had taken the attitude that “Grantville dollars are as good as anyone else’s money and probably better.” In short, business was bad.
Upon receiving his son’s complaints, Karl had sought out what contacts might be made with people either from Grantville or people that knew Grantville. He was directed to Uriel Abrabanel, a wealthy Jew he had done business with before. Uriel was, it turned out, surprisingly, no, shockingly well connected with the Grantville elite. His niece was engaged to be married to the leader of Grantville. Karl considered himself a worldly man, and not a bit prejudiced. He, like everyone, knew that Jews cared for money above all else. That most of them were usurers. Karl was an educated man. He knew that those stories about them eating babies, poisoning towns, or bringing on plague were probably nonsense. The Abrabanels were known to be of a good family as Jews counted such things. But still, the leader of what was now perhaps the most powerful town in the area was engaged to a Jew.
* * *
Uriel Abrabanel greeted Karl on the ground floor of his two-story home. It was a fairly pleasant room, with a large casement window for light. There were several bookcases along the walls, and comfortable seats for guests.
His guest was apparently not comfortable, but Uriel doubted that it was because of the chair. In Uriel’s estimation, Karl Schmidt was a fairly standard local man of business. His prejudice against Jews was about the standard: enough to keep him from socializing, but not enough to keep him from doing business. Nor did he significantly overcharge, which had to be taken in his favor. Still, it cannot be said that Uriel was overly concerned over any shock to the fellow’s system that might occur upon learning of Rebecca’s upcoming marriage, and all that it implied.
On the other hand, there was no reason to end a generally good working relationship by rubbing Karl’s nose in it. Perhaps a more general explanation was needed.
“From what I understand, the future nation from which Grantville comes has some markedly different customs. Religious tolerance is expected. Their attitudes on that and a number of other issues have come as something of a shock to any number of people. For instance, their women dress in what we would consider an immodest manner. This should not be taken as license to show them any lack of respect. That mistake could be very dangerous. They are somewhat casual in their mode of address. They apparently mean no offense by this, it is just their way. I suspect that it is an outgrowth of their attitude toward rank. They are the most aggressively democratic people I have ever encountered.”
* * *
Master Schmidt was not stupid, and if he liked to think things through, it did not mean that he could not see the writing on the wall if it were writ large enough. To Karl Schmidt this was writing in letters ten feet tall. Uriel Abrabanel’s social and political situation was now significantly above his. For all intents and purposes, the man’s niece was about to marry into royalty. This United States looked to be something that might grow.
Yet here he was talking to Karl Schmidt just as he had when, as a good Christian, Karl’s social position had been the higher. Karl quietly congratulated himself on his temperate and unbiased attitude toward Jews. He really did.
The discussion of the Americans continued. Their technology, and their money. Master Abrabanel expressed solid confidence in both. Occasionally in the course of the conversation, Karl noticed that his attitude toward Master Abrabanel bordered on the deferential. Well that was only proper, considering the change in circumstances.
They talked of business within the Ring of Fire. Karl mentioned that a child, apprentice age, accompanied by a man who was apparently a family retainer, had approached his son with a proposal to make certain parts for something called sewing machines. The deal had fallen through because they preferred to deal in American dollars. They hadn’t actually insisted, but had explained that using local coinage meant they had to go to the bank and get it. They expected a reduction in cost to cover the trouble.
Master Abrabanel could not be of much help in terms of the specific business. He had seen sewing machines in Grantville, but he was unaware of any company making them. On the matter of the money, he had had several conversations with members of the Grantville finance committee on the subject of how they intended to maintain consistency in the value of American dollars. Their arguments were clear and persuasive.
Master Abrabanel then expressed a willingness to accept American dollars, just as he would several other currencies, in payment of debts or for goods. Even to exchange them for other currencies. For a reasonable fee.
Karl left Master Abrabanel in a thoughtful mood. His prejudice said that a Jew would not risk money on the basis of an emotional connection. Which, given Master Abrabanel’s expressed confidence, made the American dollars seem more sound.
August 12, 1631: Delia Higgins’ Place
It had been an unpleasant roundabout trip to the Higgins estate. It was an unusually hot day, and Karl Schmidt was not a good rider. He didn’t like to ride. He also didn’t like going around in circles, and the Ring of Fire had produced a ring of cliffs facing in or facing out all around itself, with only a few places where it was easy to pass. All this was bad enough, but the things he had seen en route were worse. It was one thing to talk about people from the future, even to consider what powers they might have gained. But to see a road that wide and that flat, and put it together with what they called the “APCs” . . .
These people were rich almost beyond measure. The civilian APCs parked along the way really brought it home. The civilian APCs weren’t a special case, they were the norm for these people. Their money worked, that was easy enough to see. The question this left Karl Schmidt with was whether his money was good anymore. Karl was not the first to ask that question.
The Higgins estate itself was divided into two parts. One was fenced with a kind of heavy gauge wire fence held up with what appeared to be metal bars. Along the top were strands of a different wire with spikes on it. There was a gate made in a similar manner that was open, and a smallish boxlike building next to the gate that looked like it might be made of painted metal, or perhaps the plastic he had heard about. Farther back, he could see rows of really small buildings: flat topped boxes set side by side, each no larger than a largish outhouse. They too might be made of metal, or perhaps plastic.
The other section had a more familiar, but still somewhat strange house on it. They appeared to have built out, rather than up. It was a single story, with an attic that he wouldn’t put a servant in. The roof was flatter than it should have been. From the extension of road that led to the large door, and the APC parked in front of it, one section of the house was for storing APCs. Why wasn’t the APC in the room that was clearly designed for it? Was there another APC in it, or was it being used for something else?
There were too many windows and those windows were too large. The more he looked, the stranger it got. The place was short, no more than ten feet from the ground to the eaves. On a day like today, with no airspace, it must be stifling in there. They seemed no more concerned with winter than summer. He could see no chimney, just a little pipe sticking out of the roof.
He sat his horse for a little while, mopped his brow, and thought it out. He finally decided that, since this was a matter of business, he should go to what appeared to be the business part of the estate.
* * *
Ramona Higgins had, after her initial start, let the whole Ring of Fire mess sort of slide by. She was fairly good at that, having had quite a bit of practice. Her way of dealing with a world full of complexities that she couldn’t quite manage had always been to let them slide by while concentrating on those matters she could handle. Her self-image had never been all that strong, and it was primarily based on what others wanted from her. She wasn’t lazy, just easily confused. If what people wanted from her was something Ramona could readily supply, she felt good about herself and liked the person. If not, she felt bad about herself and didn’t. The exceptions to that unconscious rule were few and far between: her mother and her sons were about all. But Mom and the boys went to some trouble not to ask things of her she could not readily provide.
From her mid-teens, in addition to a willingness to work hard at anything that didn’t confuse her, the other thing that Ramona could provide was sex. She had a tendency to like guys better than girls. She was a moderately attractive woman in her late thirties. There were some lines, but not all that many, nor all that deep. Her figure, by modern standards, floated between lush and overweight. She fully filled her bra, her hair was sandy brown or dirty blond depending on who you asked, and the lighting at the moment. She had good teeth, no pockmarks, and clear light blue eyes.
In short, by the standards of the sixteen-thirties, she was stunningly attractive.
Karl was stunned, not just by her, but also by the environment. When he entered the mobile home that served as an office, it was cool. Karl had never experienced air-conditioning. What was actually Ramona’s nervousness at dealing with a down-timer, seemed to him the very epitome of feminine modesty and deferential courtesy. Everything seemed almost magical in nature. He had wandered into a fairy tale, complete with fairy princess. With some difficulty, because he spoke only limited English and she spoke virtually no German, it was determined that the Higgins Sewing Machine Company was handled by her mother; assisted, so Ramona chose to see it, by her son. The place he needed was the main house.
Karl did something then that the solid staid man hadn’t done since he was in his twenties. He kissed a lady’s hand. She blushed quite prettily.
Karl was not a particularly handsome man, but he was big and strong, and had a certain presence. At least it seemed that way to Ramona. Perhaps it was the unlikely combination of the big, almost ugly man, the polite formality, and the kissing of her hand, but he seemed quite charming.
August 12, 1631: Delia Higgins’ House
Karl didn’t seem all that charming to Delia. Since the Ring of Fire, strange large men on horseback were not calculated to make her comfortable. Still, when it was made clear that this had to do with the sewing machines, she called Johan. David and Donny were with Brent and Trent, at Dave Marcantonio’s shop, while Sarah was watching her little sister at home. So it was left to Delia, with the help of Johan, to deal with Karl.
Her attitude remained reserved. Partly it was because Karl Schmidt seemed wrong to her: shifty and hard at the same time. She didn’t realize it, but in a number of important ways he seemed, and was, much like Quentin Underwood, and more than a little like Delia Higgins. They talked about the sewing machine factory. Karl picked up on the whats and the whys of it all more readily than she had. Not the mechanics, since he got to see the sewing machine working but not disassembled; still, he got the part about machines to make machines quite readily.
* * *
What he didn’t get, was why they had to wait for the kids. It seemed to Karl that it was an excuse, a tool to manipulate him, probably to lower his prices.
It was some days later before a deal was made. The deal was made because the Schmidt family had the best shop for what the kids wanted. Not the only one, but the best. By the time the deal was made Karl was less sure that the kids were a ruse. They actually seemed to know what they were talking about.