Chapter 4
Matthias and Germund's room, Magdeburg
An evening in November
Matthias rocked back on the wooden chair and rested his shoulder against the wall next to the window. He sat tapping a pencil against his teeth. The chair wasn't especially comfortable no matter how he sat in it, but maybe he could find a cushion in one of the shops.
He'd buttoned up his doublet a little while ago. The day's warmth was pretty well gone, and the chimney going up through the housemaid's closet on the far side of the wall wasn't giving off enough heat to make a difference. The chimney was the reason Germund had chosen this particular room in the first place.
The numbers weren't working. He rubbed his temples for a few seconds, trying to think.
The lock rattled, and Germund came in. The lamp flame danced in the sudden draft until he closed the door.
"Ho, Matthias, you look like somebody who's just tasted lutefisk for the first time! You're not going to devour that pencil, lead paint and all, are you? What has got you scowling like you're getting a visit from a tax collector?"
Matthias pulled his eyes back in focus and his mind back on his surroundings. "Uhh? Oh, hello, Germund. Math homework. It feels like I'm beating my fists against a brick wall. I'm supposed to compute a square root by three methods. The slide rule and the logarithm table, I understand. Or at least the squared answers check. But this digit-by-digit way of going at it on paper―it looks almost like long division, but I can't figure out what I'm doing wrong. The book isn't helping, either. I thought it would be easier to take the algebra course in German, but this book is such a muddled mess of words and bad grammar! Mr. Washaw apologized for the translation. He did it his first year in our century. I don't suppose you've done the square roots yet?"
"No, our Latin section will get to it next week. Maybe you need to put it down for a while and then look at it again. I was just thinking, we could go get dinner at the Green Horse tonight. There's a Scottish couple singing—they're supposed to be pretty good."
"Don't tempt me. The Green Horse is halfway to the Altstadt. I don't want to end up having to leave this until tomorrow. Go ahead if you want, but I need to stay on this."
Germund gave him a sidewise look, then scooted his bag out from under the bed and pulled out a book. "I tell you what. Try this one. I'll go down to one of the cookshops at the corner and bring us back something to eat. Kiefer's, maybe. They're cheap, and they won't poison us. Meanwhile, you can see if my Latin algebra book is any better, and tell me what you think. After that, maybe we can go hear some music. What should I bring you?"
Matthias took the book. "Thanks. Thanks. I'll give it a try. Bring me? Whatever they have that's filling, you know I'm not fussy." He pulled a couple of bills out of his pocket and flipped the book open to the index.
A quarter of an hour later Germund came clumping up the stairs carrying a covered pail wrapped in a towel. Matthias knew his footsteps by this time.
Kiefer's didn't cook to order. You took what they were serving or you went somewhere else. That was why they were cheap. He was already sweeping his books and papers off the table and onto his bunk by the time Germund flung open the door and declared, "Food!"
"Would you care to be more specific?"
"I'm unable to be more specific." Germund set it down and uncovered the pail.
Matthias looked. Clearly, there were vegetables boiled into a state of abject submission, though he couldn't have said what they'd originally been. The liquid they were swimming in was almost certainly the water they'd been boiled in, so the vitamins should still be there. There might have been some kind of meat in it. Maybe liverwurst, from the faint aroma. There were noodles on top. Two apples came out of Germund's pockets. There was nothing wrong with the apples. He set down their two cheap bowls and a couple of spoons on the table, and added forks because of the noodles.
Germund sat down and began dishing out the supper. "Well?"
"Well, what?"
"Did you figure it out?"
"Um, yes, finally. That Latin algebra book is an even worse muddle than the German one, if that's possible. I'd have expected a competent translation from a Cambridge graduate. But I got one clue out of it all. After that it worked, and I got the same answers as with the slide rule. Well, more accurate answers than you can get with a slide rule, which is the point. But, you have to multiply the digits you have so far by 20, and then add the next one you're going to try, and see if it subtracts? Why does that work? I don't see where it comes from."
Germund had to swallow before he could answer. "Don't look to me for the answer to that. That's Washaw's job, right? That's why we have professors, and not just books, isn't that what they said?" He wound a mouthful of noodles around his fork. "This isn't bad."
"You said the same thing about lutefisk."
"You don't know what's good! Anyway, you got what you wanted. Let's go hear some music after we take the dishes down to the washroom and clean everything up."
"Yes, yes, I can't go any further tonight. All right, that sounds good. I will ask him tomorrow in class, though. Just pushing numbers around without understanding what's going on is asking for trouble. I don't like it."
Germund looked thoughtful. It occurred to Matthias that maybe he'd just taught a small lesson.
∞ ∞ ∞
By the time they came down to the street and turned east, the moon was up. It was a pleasant enough evening for a walk, considering the time of year. Just the same, they wore their winter coats and Germund carried an unlit lantern. You could never tell about the weather in the Germanies.
It actually wasn't all that long a walk. Within a quarter-hour they came in sight of the lights shining through the windows and the wooden "Green Horse" hanging above the door. A scattering of people were passing by, though the wheeled traffic was mostly gone from the streets by this hour. As they approached, one man standing near a lamp post a few yards from the door glanced in their direction and then seemed to pay them no further attention. CoC keeping an eye on a favorite hangout, probably.
Once inside, Matthias looked around for a place to sit. The chairs clustered around the tables were pretty well filled by this time. Germund spotted an unoccupied bench in the corner near the far end of the bar, and went for it. For a plain wooden bench, it turned out to be surprisingly comfortable. Good craftsmanship. Like the bench, the room was plain but comfortable. Germund had no sooner tucked the lantern underneath, when a potboy hustled over to ask for their orders.
Matthias looked at the offerings on the chalkboard, and considered for a moment. "A mug of small beer, I think."
Germund turned to look him in the face. "Good heavens, Matthias, this is the Green Horse! You ought to try the Klingenschmidt. It's fabulous."
"I don't know, it's expensive."
The serving boy broke in. "Well, yes, I suppose it would have to be. It's the best beer we have, the best in town, they say. It costs more to make, because the brewer takes his time with it. But we sell a lot of it."
"Go ahead, Matthias, it would be a shame to miss." He raised his finger. "One for me." The boy nodded and made a note.
Matthias thought about it. "Um, well, I can afford one glass. All right, I'll try it. One glass of Klingenschmidt. Then I drink small beer."
The boy marked his pad again. Three well-dressed young women came in happily chattering away in some northwestern dialect, and he moved on to take their orders.
It seemed they'd arrived just in time. A stout man with a handlebar mustache took a step up onto the little stage at the far end of the room. He turned around and reached up with a Gribbleflotz Lightning Wand to ignite a pair of gas lamps. As soon as they settled into burning steadily with a strong white light, he began tapping a spoon on a glass mug. The buzz of conversation died away.
"Meine Damen und Herren, are you all ready for an evening of song and story?"
The crowd answered with a few shouts of "Ja!" "Ja!" and mugs rapping on the tables.
Matthias and Germund's drinks arrived. It wasn't the same boy.
The man on the stage waved his arms for quiet again. "All right, here's who you've been waiting for! Welcome James McNally and Mary Jean Cameron!" He waved his hand toward an inside door and stepped down. A tall, brown-haired woman swept in carrying a violin and bow, followed by a man holding a couple of wooden whistles. He was shorter, with a receding hairline, but he looked solid, a man who'd known hard work. There was a spatter of applause, cut short when the woman tapped her foot on the floor four times and swung into a lively dance tune with an unusual-sounding rhythm. Her partner came in when the theme came around for the second time. It drew Matthias in; it was a bit of a jolt when it ended.
When the applause stopped, McNally waved his whistle in acknowledgment. "Thankee, thankee. That was 'Braes of Mar.' Now, a song by a countryman of ours we won't be meetin' in this world, a poet with a grand imagination, name of Robert Burns. 'Beware o' Bonny Ann.' Ready, Jeanie?" She smiled sideways, and started off with a slow, stately air. He came in as the verse began, in a pleasant baritone.
Ye gallants bright, I rede ye right,
Beware o’ bonny Ann;
Her comely face sae fu’ o’ grace,
Your heart she will trepan.
Her een sae bright, like stars by night,
Her skin is like the swan;
Sae jimply laced her genty waist,
That sweetly ye might span.
He raised the whistle and played a bridge, while the violin paused. Then the violin came in again and they sang together until the last two lines.
Youth, grace, and love attendant move,
And pleasure leads the van:
In a’ their charms, and conquering arms,
They wait on bonny Ann.
The captive bands may chain the hands,
But love enslaves the man;
Ye Gallants braw, I rede ye a’,
Beware o' bonny Ann!
Whistle and violin together repeated the last line as an instrumental, and faded away. It was quite beautiful.
"Thankee again. Weel, that was Burns bein' altogether civilized. He must have had some high times, though, to write some of the things he did. There's this next one, 'Nine Inch Will Please a Lady.' "
Cameron stuck out her tongue at him. "High times, hah, Jemmy! Wishful thinkin's what Rabbie Burns was a master of, if y' ask me." She faced the audience again and raised her bow. There was a glint in McNally's eye and a quirky smile on his face as he began to sing.
Come rede me, dame, come tell me, dame, my dame come tell me truly,
What length o' graith, when weel ca'd hame, will sairve a woman duly? . . .
∞ ∞ ∞
During the break after the first set, Matthias and Germund worked their way up front to pay their share to the performers. Jean Cameron was answering a question from someone in the knot of bystanders when they came within hearing over the murmur of the crowd.
"No, like as not if we ever can get back home again and still hang onto our haids, we'll na find whoever ought t' be paid back. Mad times, mad. Ye've heard what the French Revolution was like? When cowards in power get a terror going, they oft care nothing for who's enemy or friend. Whatever viper whispered poison in somebody's ear is likely ta'en up theirsel's by now. But at least we got awa'. My brother in the navy has this outlandish notion that it's better to be owed for favors than for black deeds. So he knows people, a lot o' people. And here we are, singin' for our suppers 'til we find something that pays better, and thankful for the chance."
She gave them a quick smile when they dropped a little silver in her violin case. What she'd been saying brought Matthias's thoughts crashing down once again on his own country's troubles over the last sixteen years, and the hopes for better times that rested so heavily on him and his fellow engineering students. He gave Germund a raised eyebrow. Germund nodded. The evening's entertainment was only half over, but they had classes to attend in the morning. It was time to get some sleep.
Bischleben
It had been a busy month for Karl Reichert and the Fritsche brothers. Karl took a moment to look with satisfaction at what they'd accomplished, a little machine shop in what had been a store room upstairs. The smithy below, with its cinders and grit, was no place for precision machine tools.
He'd gotten his employers an especially good price for the used four-inch lathe. It wasn't a common size, and it would never be toolroom grade, but the first thing he'd done was two years worth of routine maintenance and overdue wear adjustments. It was now capable of very accurate work in patient and knowledgable hands. The milling machine had been more of a challenge, but no machine shop would be complete without one. He'd gotten that second-hand too, a small one that wouldn't require reinforcing the floor. Even so, it was fortunate that the upper story had a door that opened to the outside, with a projecting beam for a hoist. Just as important were his own tool chests, with the hand tools and cutting bits needed to put the machines to work. And most precious of all, his Kudzu Instruments micrometer set, calibrated from the Reardon machine shop's master gauge blocks.
He still didn't have an answer to what to put on the bare plank floor, for easy cleaning and good footing.
If it had been only the army supply depot, Friedrich and Georg Fritsche wouldn't have risked the investment. But change was in the air all around Erfurt now, and even in the town itself. Then Swartz Motors showed up with a stream of prototype work, and other craft shops awoke to the cost savings and customer satisfaction of interchangeable parts . . .
Karl momentarily remembered the letter he still hadn't written to his old friend Fritz Wedemann from his early Grantville days, who'd just landed a good position with the postal service in Sömmerda. Later. It was time to go to work.
Waiting for daylight was a thing of the past, not that there would be much of that coming through the one small window. Karl pumped up one of the new pressure lamps he'd stumbled across at a hardware store in Grantville, lit it, and hung it on a hook overhead. It was the next best thing to electric light.
He sipped a cup of broth while he studied Swartz's drawing for the the cylinder head. The rough casting rested beside it on the bench. It was really too bad the designer hadn't talked to him first, but that happened a lot. The piece didn't offer any place on the top side to make a reference surface. It wasn't going to be easy to mount it securely on the milling machine.
He could see only one possibility. It would have to be the bolt points, and they were all recessed. He began sketching ideas for a fixture. Something simple, that wouldn't take too long to make, because the design was almost sure to change before Swartz ordered the next one. Could the part itself serve as the frame of the fixture? Thread the bolt holes temporarily so he could screw in machined standoffs, and then bore them to final size after they served their purpose? But how to secure it, even for that operation, without twisting it under the force of the clamps?
Suddenly, Karl was acutely aware that for the first time in his career he had nobody to go to for advice. At the age of twenty-two he was now the resident expert on precision machining. Never mind that his employers were easily twice his age and veteran masters of their craft, it was up to him to solve the problems and deliver. He shook off the attack of nervousness and forced his mind back onto the problem.
Lead. He could temporarily embed it in lead.
The piece of scratch paper filled up as he sketched out possible approaches.