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First Sergeant Robert John Matowski, United States of Europe Air Force, base chief and temporary commander of Wismar Air Force base, mad-stalked into his office, threatening harm to all. On his head, a Fairmont State University baseball cap with its 'Fierce Falcon' logo added severity. In one hand he strongly gripped a paper-and-string-wrapped package, large stencil letters on it announcing

Wismar AFB Urgent

Behind Matowski, racing to catch up yet stay outside Matowski's reach, came Major Dag Rödvinge, Army of Sweden, assigned temporarily to Wismar on detached duties in its province of Mecklenburg for its duke and emperor, Gustav II Adolf of Sweden.

Matowski placed the package on his desk, slapping Rödvinge's hands away, snatching the parcel back, clutching it to his chest. Growling, savagery etching his face, Matowski told him, "Oh, hell, no, Major, not until you sign for it! With witnesses! And a guard! Dankwort!" he yelled to his clerk, ignoring Rödvinge's look.

Airman First Class Carl Dankwort appearing in the office doorway, Matowski said, "Dankwort, get Frings here. I'm assigning him to the major for security!"

Dankwort hurrying off, Rödvinge for diplomacy changed to an open smile, quick eyes. "Chief, I walk, talk, and chew spruce gum all at the same time, I don't need a guard." He concluded his appeal with the same bright look, vivid charm his six-year-old self used on his mother to keep a stray ginger cat soon named Tiger.

Alas, either the glamour worked only when accompanied by a plaintively meowing cat, or else as the father of two teen boys Chief Matowski was immune.

Unpacking the bundle, Matowski snapped out, "No, you need a keeper, Major! Anyway, Fring's not for you," he explained. "He's coming along to make sure this"—he held the package up—"isn't lost."

Glaring, arms across his chest, in full base chief and father, Matowski detailed Rödvinge's ongoing offense against the USE Air Force. "You had us deliver books again, Rödvinge, all right, only two"—he conceded to Dag's upraised left thumb and index finger—"so what? This is the Air Force, not a, a . . . " He sputtered, irate.

"Mobile library?" diffidently suggested Rödvinge. It was a comparison made months earlier with equal ire by USEAF commander Colonel Jesse Woods on air-lifting paperback copies of the Narnia novels to the village of Nutschel, now Narnia. Done so that Thorsten Engler would be Count of Narnia as decreed by Princess Kristina and this is a piss-poor time to mention I still need someplace for her governess Caroline Platzer to be Countess Oz! Emerald City, here we come, bearing yellow bricks and books! thought Rödvinge.

"Yes, exactly!" Matowski was fortunately unaware of the other's thoughts, focusing his flame-blue eyes straight into Rödvinge's amethyst-colored ones, to perhaps burn those through as punishment for Rödvinge's accursed gift of having the Air Force do and do again that horribly cack-handed unmilitary task, deliver books! "You-you stand there looking innocent, oh-I'm-all-upset-too-Chief, like you aren't loving this! You planned this major, you planned this! Admit it!"

Matowski, spleen nearly empty, grudged Rödvinge possible credit. "I guess maybe not really, but! We're the Air Force, Major! The Air Force! We're not the Keystone Cops like you think, and this isn't a comedy, Major! It isn't! Learn that!"

"Oh, sometimes it is, Chief," countered Rödvinge, curious about the reference but piss-poor time, Dag, piss-poor time! "But no, you're right, it isn't, not this time." He pointed to the package. "But I had to get those books, Chief. Had to."

"Yeah, I guess," admitted Matowski, handing one over, flipping through the sleek pages of the other, text and photographs visible, pausing at an image. "It's just that—but okay, yeah, God knows, if anything'll persuade the council, hell, Wismar, these'll do it."

Ignoring as usual up-timer blasphemy—clearly He allowed them or they wouldn't be here—Rödvinge politely held out a hand.

Matowski, spleen vented, closed the book, handing it over face-up, showing its title, The Auschwitz Album.

Shuddering, Rödvinge placed it inside his briefcase, next to its brother book, The Apparatus of Death.

That done, he placed the case on the floor, saying, "I hope so, Chief. I really hope so. If not"—he tightened his mouth—"I'll make it happen!"

The harsh, iron tone of those last four words quirked Matowski into raising an eyebrow. He'd developed a liking for the major in the weeks Rödvinge flew in and out of the base, on orders of Emperor Gus.

Capable, yes, yet also somehow—odd, wayward. Explains how he has us deliver books, plus work for an emperor and a princess who make real the phrase "larger than life," but still— odd, wayward! Now this, his fervor over—

Matowski filled two sienna-brown thick earthenware mugs with a crimson liquid, handing one to Rödvinge. "Rose-hip juice, Major. Got addicted the first winter here." He sat at his desk. Above him hung on the wall a framed poster, showing Gustav fighter planes flying above the bay of Wismar in the old-new classic Missing Man formation.

Settled, he asked, "Major, there's something I don't get, so—mind if I ask a question?"

Rödvinge assenting, Matowski explained, "Major—Dag—I've been to the Holocaust Museum, in Washington, the capital, back ho—up-time. Chaperoning my son Joe, his class, another."

He looked away, reminiscing. "I've stood in one of those cattle-cars. Seen wh- where people tried cl—clawing through. Seen their sh-shoes, piles of 'em. Piles."

A long intake of breath, quickly expelled. "It's the silence I remember most. Like, like it's—the Lincoln Memorial, I shushed a few. There, not one. None."

He looked away, then back, to Rödvinge.

"Major, I'm an up-timer. I grew up hearing all about the Holocaust, hell, Tom Stearns, Larry Roth, they were there, in Buchenwald, an' I don't care nothing's happened, Fuck Buchenwald!"

Matowski leaned forward, placing his mug on his desk.

"But that's me, Major. Like I said, I heard all about it, growing up. So my question is, how come that—" he quick-pointed once, twice, to Rödvinge's briefcase—"bothers you so much? You, the emperor, others. You don't like it, sure, I get that, good for you, but it's not like you were there, or knew folks who were, so—?"

Rödvinge slowly sipped his rose-hip extract as he considered the question, remembering what, how he'd felt on learning of the Holocaust, as ordered by Gustav II Adolf. As all officers who toured Grantville were ordered. First in the public and state library compendiums, then in the private collection of the up-time Jews, Morris and Judith Roth. Of seeing, holding camp artifacts, those memento mori gathered by Lawrence Roth after his liberation from Buchenwald. A dreadful inheritance for his son, Morris Roth.

Draining his mug, Rödvinge placed it on the desk, and bit his lower lip as he thought, considered.

Matowski, bless him, stayed quiet.

"I—suppose for me much, possibly all, is—guilt, Chief. Guilt, and—shame."

Matowski, eyes wide, brows raised, stared questions to Rödvinge.

Who answered, "Back in Sweden there's no Catholics, Chief. No open ones, anyway."

Rödvinge smiled. Gleeful, that smile.

Cold.

"They converted, they left, or they died. Killed. As they deserved."

Matowski swallowed. I forget, I shouldn't, shouldn't ever, us landing in the wars of religion . . .

Rödvinge thinned his smile, incising hard, harsh.

"The Scarlet Woman. The Whore of Babylon. The Popish Religion. You up-timers, you call Rome that and you laugh, because to you it is! A laugh, a joke, a hoot, hoo hoo."

Rödvinge stood, leaning forward, looming over—

Then leaning back, away, standing straight, silent, fists clenched, teeth bared.

"It's not a joke to us, Matowski! Never! Rome needed killing, Chief! Needed! Look at the Spanish, the Inquisition, the Duke of Alba!"

A sharp inhale of breath, a long, low exhale.

Rödvinge sat. Stared at Matowski. Six, ten, twelve seconds. Staring.

"You, your freedom of religion, you built it on our backs, Chief. Ours. On all the killing, war and hate it took us to teach the Papist whoremongersons enough, don't tread on me."

Rödvinge stared again, silent, the ticking of a down-time longcase clock the one sound.

"I don't apologize, Chief. I. Don't. Rome needed fighting, Ma—Robert. Needed."

He looked away, towards a sideboard, a blue plastic carafe on it, source of the Chief's addiction.

Rödvinge sighed. "Then you came. All you up-timers. And we saw the future. A future."

Back to Matowski.

"King Gustav, he saw what cruel, evil men did. Cried. Wept. Me, I saw—saw what I, I might have— done, become, as the Nazis—"

He swallowed, keeping his sight on, into, Matowski.

"—as I, I think, I maybe, may-be, understand them, Chief. Their, their hate, yes, I do, how it made them, make me—"

He looked away, back. "I haven't, Chief. My oath to God, never. Even after Magdeburg, never."

An abrupt smile marred his face. "Tempting, though—it was, Matowski. It was. After Magdeburg . . . tempting. Without Gustav Adolf . . ."

Rödvinge exhaled long, slow, placing his hands on Matowski's desk, spreading the palms, fingers. Gazed at those. At his nearby mug. His left hand clasped it, hard-squeezing as he looked to Matowski.

"I try not to think of that other me, Robert. The one without Gustav Adolf. Who saw Magdeburg, who didn't see Auschwitz. I tell myself it doesn't matter, I'd never—"

He released the mug. "Bottom line, I'm luckier than him, Chief. I get a chance to stop Auschwitz. Help others stop it. I'm taking that chance. It's that simple."

He smiled, with grace and humor. "Plus, you say I'm the local peacekeeper, so I should at least try, right?"

"Yeah, but you don't have any black helicopters," muttered Matowski. Thank God for that, he'd play 'Ride of the Valkyries'!

"Pardon?"

"Up-time thing, never mind. Huh," said Matowski, as a large shard slow-separated itself from Rödvinge's mug. "That's different."

The fragment slid off its parent, onto the desk. "Sorry about that, Chief."

Matowski waved away the apology. "Forget it, kinda impressive, actually. Ah, Frings,"—he directed that to a large, bulky airman standing in the doorway, Dankwort beside him—"this is Major Rödvinge, Army of Sweden, going to Wismar. He's got two up-time books. Guard him, but! Majors we can replace, the books you bring back or die trying, understood?"

"Ja, understood, First Sergeant." Frings saluted.

His slab-sided face, brown from exposure to the airfield's near-constant wind and the summer sun, showed no misgivings at the atypical orders. As with many down-timers, he'd months ago concluded up-timers were all crazy, but mostly not nasty or stupid with it.

Rödvinge stood, briefcase in a hand, the other casually picking up, dropping the broken mug and cantle into a wastebasket. "Right, welcome aboard, Frings. We're to meet my lawyer, then the council. Ah—are you armed?" Frings head-shaking no, Rödvinge added, "We'll go to the armory then, with your permission, Chief?"

Matowski, agreeing, shook hands with Rödvinge. "See me when you get back, Major. Say hi to Lang for me. And ah, yes, I know I joked about you being the local peacekeeper, but please, try."

Rödvinge smiled, Tiger-style. Winked. "I always try, Chief!"

****

As Rödvinge and Frings marched towards Wismar, Rödvinge detailed the day's plans. "We're going first to Meister Lang's, then the council." He patted his attaché. "The books here show why the Committees kill Jew-haters, witch-burners."

The Swedish major seeming reasonable, Frings hazarded a comment. "We're wondering about that, out at the base." His voice fit his body, a low, basso rumble, explaining his "Foghorn" nickname.

Surprised, Rödvinge asked, "Matowski didn't explain?"

Alarmed, Frings backpedaled. Maybe the major was okay, but you don't want officers thinking you're slamming your boss! "Um—yes, but—it was a li'l confusing. Up-timers, sometimes they leave off stuff 'cause they all know it, an' they think down-timers do, too!" That's all right to say, right? Aw, man, why'd I open my mouth?

"Yes, they do. Annoying, but they don't mean it. Rather human, actually."

A solemn look at Frings, then—"As it is, I'll be explaining why over and over, so if you're willing to wait—"

A hearty nod from Frings sufficing, they approached where last night Rödvinge with one punch knocked out a drunk stumblebum seeking revenge for yesterday's purge of Wismar Jew-haters by the local Committee of Correspondence, part of the USE-wide CoC Operation Krystalnacht. "Also, Frings, if we meet a raving idiot, throw him away as far as possible. I'm sick of him!"

"Yes, Major," replied Frings. He silently swore to stay quiet, as proper, correct conduct towards officers and their orders.

Particularly the odd ones, orders and officers!

****

Rödvinge and Frings arrived at Meister Karl Lang's home, a red brick building in the Gothic style of northern Germany, painted bright sun-yellow with lustrous white trim, kin-colors to those of the Duchy of Mecklenburg.

As Wismar's top lawyer, yesterday Lang had aided Rödvinge's purchase of the Fürstenhaus (Prince's house) and twelve hundred acres of beachfront property on the northwest coast of Wismar Bay. All for USE Emperor Gustav II Adolf to grant to Imperial Count of Wismar Edward 'Eddie' Cantrell for his kamikaze destruction of the Danish warship Johannes Ingvardt during the Baltic War.

(Probably not entirely by choice. Never mind, Eddie'd still sailed—motored against the Danish fleet in an up-time powerboat as flimsy as it was fast. Besides, the Danes themselves admired Cantrell's courage; to the point his marrying their king's daughter Anne Cathrine somehow made them proud of the attack on the Ingvardt!)

Today, Lang's task was to again help Rödvinge, now the liaison among the Air Force, Wismar, the Army of Sweden, and for luck their overlord, Gustav II Adolf. To peacekeep that hodgepodge required allies; thus both entrepreneur and land-seller Georg Roeders and his lawyer Werner Hartenstein were soon expected at Lang's.

Lifting a heavy iron anchor-shaped door knocker, Rödvinge knocked three times on the front door, a massive construction of black oak and cast-iron rivets.

The door opened, showing Karl Lang, a middling-tall, sparse man, with bright hazel eyes and receding brown and grey hair, slightly sallow face crinkled with a smile.

"Dag, come in! And who's this?"

"Airman Frings, from the base, Karl. He's here to keep this—" Rödvinge lifted his briefcase—"from going astray."

"Ah? Another up-time item, I hope?" asked Lang, eyes shining interest. Yesterday, he, Georg, and Werner were delighted by Rödvinge's up-time pen, used for signing property and money transfers.

"Yes, two books. On what I talked about yesterday."

"Oh" noted Lang, dispirited. Rödvinge's pen with its pink ink was incredible, his Holocaust stories, not. Rather the pen, or more up-time mysteries. Old Night, from even a bedamned Papist like Chesterton or Greeley!

****

As Lang stepped aside for them to enter, Lang's wife Eleonore Terwielin came by, saying, "Karl, I've sent—oh Dag, good morning! And also to you, Airman—?"

As Frings introduced himself, Rödvinge explained, "He's guarding two up-time books of mine and is also"—he smiled—"my keeper, says Chief Matowski. Who says hello to you and Karl."

"Oh?" quizzed Eleonore. "Robert objected to your, hmmm, market square contention of yesterday, did he?"

"Somewhat," grinned Rödvinge, remembering the satisfying crunch of his fist on a bully's face.

Eleonore, elfin face and blue eyes of humor and intelligence creating gamine charm, lilted sympathy for, "Poor Rob, I agree with him. Rolf saw your punch and won't stop showing it to his friends!" (The Langs' youngest, nine this year.) "They like it, but their mothers!"

She gave an exaggerated sigh. "The complaints! Really, Dag, they warn their daughters about you!" Shaking her head, she looked him up, down, assessing, horse-trading. "Yet here you are, an officer, fair enough looks, and working for the emperor! You do make it difficult, Dag, you really do!"

Lang, feeling superfluous, spoke. "Eleonore, the major is here for duty, not daughters. His books—"

"Marvelous!" exclaimed Eleonore, taking Karl's arm in hers, ignoring his perturbed look. "Good, after yesterday I want to know more of what's happening!"

Karl for form's sake protested his wife's piracy. "Eleonore, Dag, Major Rödvinge—it's me, Georg, Werner he wants to see—-"

"Hush, dear," said she, placing a finger light upon her husband's lips, gazing straight into his eyes. Karl, trained to the saddle, stilled.

"Karl, I've sent Maria"—her maid, Maria Lötter, a verdant-eyed brunette of twelve—"to hire her brother Johannes as your guard."

She further pressed his lips. He looked about to bolt. "Karl, the Committee missed that pustule Sumka and thank you for hitting him, Dag. Such a swine, but he's disappeared and—" she stilled her voice, calm and care within— "I will not be made a widow because of him, it."

Her finger leaving his mouth, arms pressing his chest, Eleonore firmly stated her next words. "Johannes is a stevedore, young, fit. He'll guard you. You will be safe!"

Sliding an arm around Karl's waist, she turned. "Dag, you do understand, I am worried!"

Rödvinge bowed. "Completely, Meisterin. Frings." He pointed to Lang.

Frings nodded, accepting his new charge. Chief Matowski'll be fine. He likes Lang. Who else can he lose to at chess and cribbage?

Eleonore nodded, satisfied. "Good. Now, please, Dag, let us see those fearsome books of yours! And your pen," she teased. Her smile dimpled at her guest and his guard, exactly as when years before it forever captivated a young lawyer new to Wismar. "Karl says you received it for important business. I wonder, from whom?" She led them upstairs, Karl at her side. "The prince, Michael Stearns himself? No, doesn't feel right, possibly . . . his wife?"

Rödvinge and Frings followed, each feeling they did so as the meisterin's retinue—no, as 'm'lady' Eleonore's attendants.

****

Georg Roeders closed The Auschwitz Album, its scuffed brown-paper jacket with embossed title and clear protective plastic benign cover to its contents. He held the book, staring at it. Then, handed it to Rödvinge, who without commentary slid it into his briefcase, next to The Apparatus of Death. Zip-shutting those away.

Eleonore Terwielin spoke. Seated, sighting the floor, she quietly uttered, "I like Magda's husband. I do!"

(Magda being her sister Magdalena, married to a pastor of Luböw town with now-impolitic, ill-natured views and sermons on Jews, witches, beggars, blasphemers, heretics . . .)

She looked to Rödvinge. "Paul's good to her, their children, and, and—and it's not like I haven't said things, myself," she admitted. "J-Jewing someone down, loves money like a Jew, hook-nose, it's-it's-it's normal, nobody means any—" She gazed at his briefcase. "Maybe—if he reads those, sees those, maybe—"

Karl stepped close, placing a hand upon a shoulder. "Yes, maybe."

Soft looks passed between them. "If he will listen, then yes, maybe."

"Yes, maybe," echoed Werner Hartenstein. He stood next to a buffet, painted light blue and cream, with an earthenware pitcher, and steins of small beer upon it. Hartenstein, tall, lean, loomed over the furnishment like a secretary-bird, a resemblance amplified by his black garments. "Maybe—but some would demand the 'Final Solution.' Scum."

"Yes, there are!" Georg slammed a fist into a thigh. "That's what the Committees are for! And the council!"

Frings, standing by the door, raised a hand, ingrained dirt and oil showing solidarity with engine innards. "Major, may I say something?"

Rödvinge nodded.

Frings said, "Thanks for letting me look at the books too, sir. I know some English, mostly tech stuff, pistons, cams, so the books, the photographs, they really show why Chief Matowski, the other up-timers, why they're doing what they are."

He stiffened to attention. "I'm not saying what, sirs, lady, only—I thought they were just being bossy, Amerikanisch."

A crisp salute, a topaz-sharp heel-strike to the floor. "Now, I also am Amerikanisch! Very!"

"Aren't we all," dryly concurred Lang. He wondered if the airman left a dent. His size, probably. Ah well, can't fault his motive. "Time to go." He'd heard the bells of St. Nikolai church pealing a half-hour.

Releasing Eleonore's shoulder, he suggested she might choose to join them. She demurred.

"No, Karl, no other wives will be there, and I have my own matters to attend to. For which I need Maria. Send her here."

A minute or so later, Maria softly knocked on the open door, her mistress alone in the room, the men already crossing the market square to the Rathaus.

"Ah, Maria, was Johannes available?" asked Eleonore.

"Yes, he met the meister downstairs, Meisterin."

"Good, in fact, excellent," stated Eleonore. "Maria, after lunch today—no", she amended. "Now, we will call upon Anna Margretha." She named the Mayor's wife. "There are . . . interests, concerns she must know, understand. Appreciate."

Eleonore gazed pensively to her maid. "As we must ourselves, Maria. We."

Outwardly, Maria stood still, obeisant.

Inwardly, she wailed.

First the Meister breaks all the crockery, pots, and pitchers because of some Amerikanisch about lead, now the Meisterin too has ideas! God, help meeee!!!

****

As Maria entreated heaven, the Meisterin, his friends, client, and guard arrived at Wismar city hall. The Gothic architecture showed fraternity with the churches of Wismar in being predominantly built of red brick (painted light blue and white), with pillars of grey stone and tall, thin lancet windows, leadlights of diamond-shaped glass both enlightening the interior and luminescing gold shimmer towards the square.

Inside, officialdom first denied Frings and Lötter entrance as not on the list. The matter was kicked upstairs, with the mayor's written permission clearing clouds for all six to be escorted upstairs to the council chamber.

A large room, nearly palatial, the walls mirrored the outside blue and white, with decorative shields blazoning the intricate heraldic arms of the Duchy of Mecklenburg. The ceiling was squares of yellow and white, the floor wax-smooth planks of white oak, similar to the large elongated chamber table, with chairs of sturdy ash around it. Light from the lancet windows radiated throughout, random panes of stained glass sometimes limning councilors and townsfolk in pastel tones. Over time the harlequinade, begun by a miserly council cheaply using left-over glass from a church renovation became a Wismar boast—sure it's odd, but it's ours!

****

As Lang, Roeders, and Hartenstein introduced Major Rödvinge, Army of Sweden, in Wismar on the emperor's affairs, Rödvinge studied the mayor and the councilors. Han Kirchbein, mayor of Wismar, matched Lang's description of a tall, stout man, with fading mouse-brown hair, eyes, and bushy eyebrows. Next to him was Heinrich Gonterman, treasurer, with red hair, blue eyes, and pale skin. Then Julius Seebass, secretary; hair and eyes fish-black, skin fish-pale. Then Adolph Eschwege, the council Grand Old Man, mayor four times, semi-retired owner of Wismar's largest chandlery, a tall, slightly rotund, aged cherub. After them, the garden-variety councilors, each matching Lang and Hartenstein's descriptions. Must be their training, figured Rödvinge. Experience.

Stepping to the table, he lifted his briefcase to lay it on the table, ready to present—

"Major, what're the Committees up to?" "Yes, exactly, why's the duke not here?" "Why's the Citadel quiet?" "Hey, you punched a civilian! You oughta be in jail!" "What's happening at the airfield?" "Matowski should be here!" "My son's gone! Get him back!" "So's mine! Get him back!" "My daughter too! Get her back first!" "What's happening, Major? What?"

Rödvinge noticed Mayor Kirchbein about to stand, ready to knock more dents into the chamber table. A quick, small hand-wave, and Kirchbein left intervention to Rödvinge.

Who, placing fingers alongside his tongue, blared out the ear-knifing whistle taught him and his siblings years ago by their grandma Frida, against their mother's wishes. Something about an old promise to herself, was gran's claim . . .

The blast assigned all attention to the rude, noisy, Swedish interloper.

Also shock, puzzlement, and irritation.

Unaffected, Rödvinge opened his briefcase, extracting Auschwitz and Apparatus.

Councilors stilled, recognizing up-time artifacts, for many their first sight of such.

"These books, these up-time books, show why Krystalnacht, the extinction of all Judenhasser, all Hexenbrenner, happens. Show why the Committees march, march with the prince's approval—yes, approval!—with up-timer support, and yes, why the emperor, the princess, the Army, I, we Don't Care!"

Hands and arms up, all in shrug.

"We really don't. We . . .Don't . . .Care! Short of attacking us, We-Don't-Care!"

Arms, hands down, leaning forward on the table, head slightly quirked.

"Councilors, please, raise your hands if that isn't what you want to hear."

Councilors, the mayor, all looked to him, most puzzled, some tense, faces taut.

Around the table Lang, Hartenstein, Roeders urged their neighbors, go ahead, it's all right, like we said he's, he's . . . look just raise your hands.

Kirchbein, Eschwege, the council bellwethers, raised theirs. Kirchbein said, "No, Major, that really isn't. We're hoping for"—he licked his lips—"information. Help. Advice."

Rödvinge, smiling cool, answered, "That's why I'm here, Mayor Kirchbein. But!"

This to the councilors, all with a raised hand, some straight-arming the ceiling, others with elbows in crook, supported by the table.

All stared at the curious, irritating, possibly injudicious Major Rödvinge.

Who, scolding himself against grinning—the council, Lang and friends resembling fish in a market, eyes wide, inert, glassy—advised, "I have no smooth assurances, no lulling complacencies, none! Instead, I have these!" He held the books up for inspection, one to a hand.

"These books, The Auschwitz Album, The Apparatus of Death, these are among the thousands, yes thousands, of books, films, detailing the Holocaust, when God and His angels slept, what up-timers call, rightly call Evil! Evil malignant, malefic, Evil surpassing Pharoah, Herod, Alba!"

Low murmurs from the council, some aghast, others against, that any evil could eclipse—

Pharoah, whose heart God hardened.

Herod the Great, who ordered the Massacre of the Innocents.

Fernando Alvarez, third Duke of Alba, who drowned the Netherlands in blood.

"Ridiculous!" scoffed a councilor, Franz Schallermair by name.

"Impossible!" cried another, a Max Daluege, seated next to Schallermair.

"Oh, no," retorted Rödvinge, calm, placid, serene. "Not ridiculous, councilors, and not, alas, impossible. Listen, listen to—" he asked, opening Auschwitz to a bookmarked page—

"I will not! Karl, what—"

Whirling, Rödvinge grabbed, hefted, struck a chair fast and hard, back posts and top snapping off in his hands, seat and legs on the table, vibrating from impact.

"—words of the future, of judgement, of the Holocaust," finished Rödvinge. He tossed the top and posts to Schallermair, then casually placed seat and legs on the floor and opened anew Auschwitz. In the silence he read aloud.

". . . the imagination of the people could not possibly envisage that the smoke clouding the sun, the huge fire raging from behind the screen and the sickly smell polluting the air came from the burning of hundreds of thousands of murdered human beings who, only a few hours earlier, had suffered the fate now awaiting them . . . .

"This pre-programmed suffering was deliberately aimed at paralyzing the ability to notice things and the will to resist in order to allow the giant machinery of murder to run smoothly and at full speed."

Rödvinge closed Auschwitz, leveling a grim gaze upon the mayor, councilors.

"The giant machinery of murder. Think of that. A-giant-machinery. Murder as grain milled beneath stone. When Germany, a Germany slave to Judenhasser, sickened the Earth. With evil so atrocious, so obscene, evil itself says, A thousand years will pass and the guilt of Germany will not be erased! The guilt! Of Germany!"

Silence.

Rödvinge looked down, away, mouth shut, inhaling, exhaling, again, again.

Then up, to the chamber, to the councilors.

"A Germany. Not this Germany. In this Germany, this United States of Europe, this Union, Empire, there is no place for Judenhasser, no place for Hexenbrenner."

Dry, austere, he added, "No place but the grave!"

With that, he slid one book to Kirchbein, the other, to Schallermair. "Men, read those. Read, share, study, learn. When you have, call me. Ask questions, I'll answer. But understand, it's over!"

Leaning forward, Rödvinge explained "it." "Hating Jews for being Jews, same for gypsies, calling old women witches, calling anybody a witch, supporting, ignoring Judenhasser, Hexenbrenner, it's over, it's done. I'm not sane about the Holocaust, neither's the emperor, and up-timers, this Krystalnacht of the Committees, they want it! Want!" Even that Protocols jackal must, just to protect himself!

Rödvinge preempted still-unformed questions and comments by rising from the table, snagging a mug of small beer, slowly sipping it, standing by a window, watching the market square activities below.

****

A half-hour passed. Mayor Han Kirchbein and Karl Lang walked over, Kirchbein as they approached saying, "Major, we've—"

"Shhhh." Rödvinge intently watched a street scene, pointing across the square, to a—cat?

"I'm watching her move her kittens. See? She goes in there, comes out, carries them somewhere, comes back." He sipped his drink. "I think I like her, and with Grantville, the vets there, I'm thinking why not, somebody should be nice to her."

He turned to Kirchbein and Lang, eyes bright, smiling charm. "Can you get them for me? Get someone to get them for me, I mean."

As Lang smiled, agreeing yes, somebody should, Kirchbein closed his eyes. We're worried, my daughter's off who knows where, I'm scared sick, and he's watching a—?

Kirchbein opened his eyes, looking to Rödvinge. "Yes, all right." Because, maybe, this is—is good? "But now, Major, we've read the books, we have, so, will you—?" he asked, a hand, an arm invitingly out towards the other men.

"Of course, Mayor, Meister Lang." Rödvinge sobered. "That's why I'm here. Despite contrary conduct."

With that, they walked to the table. Lang excused himself to talk with Lötter (standing next to Frings) at the chamber doors. Lötter departed; Lang returned.

Across the square, the brindled cat emerged from under a stoop, carrying a piebald kitten.

****

Lang seated, Mayor Kirchbein stood, thanking Rödvinge for his forceful presentation, for the equally informative, appalling, up-time Holocaust books.

"You were right, Major. Are. Yes, if half of what the books show is right, then yes, worse than Pharoah, worse than, well, worse!"

Pursing his lips, folding arms across, Kirchbein added, "Yes, worse, only, why now, Major? Why now?"

"Exactly," interrupted Max Daluege, partner with Franz Schallermair.

An odd pairing, theirs; Schallermair, formerly a clerk in Wismar's largest chandlery, married to a daughter of the owner, wanting free of his father-in-law and to show his talent for business; Daluege, once a dock laborer, brawler, sea-changed by love of a beggar girl into prize-fighting for money enough to marry her and partner with Schallermair. Since then, clerk and brawler built a chandlery struggling from small quarters and the frailty of its elderly owner into Wismar's second-largest.

"Yes, the Holocaust was horrible, Major, but that's centuries away, in another world! You said it yourself, a Germany! Not this one!"

"Hear, hear, Max," agreed Schallermair, emphatically knuckle-tapping the table. "Doesn't explain this Krystalnacht thing of the Committees! Or why the emperor's standing by! If he is!"

Some councilors winced, anticipating smashed chairs.

Rödvinge instead patiently replied, "If, Herr—Schallermair, yes? If?"

"Yes, it is, Rödvinge! Franz Schallermair, and yes, if!" glared Schallermair, pugged against intimidation.

Lang, seated several chairs away, gritted teeth. Franz, we get it, you hate coercion! And Dag, stroke fur—don't shave it!

"Very well, Herr Schallermair, if—"

"Councilor Schallermair!"

Daluege, sight unseen, kicked his partner's nearest foot. Forest and trees, Franz, forest and trees!

That and (possibly) Kirchbein's glare caused Schallermair to subside. Rödvinge said, "—if Grantville wasn't here, King Gustav would be dead! The Germanies still at war! Millions to die! If Grantville wasn't here!"

"Yes, but—"

Ignoring Schallermair, Rödvinge spoke to the room. "Except Grantville is here, Gustav lives, and his first night in Grantville, he saw the Holocaust! Saw showers of poison gas, saw Arbeit Macht Frei, mass graves twenty feet deep, a hundred long! Saw walking skeletons, their eyes, souls dead, staring from behind barbed wire! Gustav saw Auschwitz, saw the Giant Machinery of Murder!"

A fist-pound emphasizing murder, Rödvinge stared down the others, forcing that word on them.

"Gustav Adolf, Vasa King of Sweden, he wept. He cried, on his knees, unable to withstand the sight! Gustav Adolf, the victor of Breitenfeld, Lion of the North, he cried as a child, a child about to die!"

Pausing, Rödvinge poured himself a small beer, holding his gaze on the councilors, holding them still.

A small, slow sip, then—

"And cried again, tears running down his face, when the up-timers told him Sweden, his realm of Sweden, saved lives. From Judenhasser, Hexenbrenner, from Hell on Earth, Sweden saved thousands, tens of thousands!" Lord, forgive my words, thought Rödvinge. If I transgress, if I blaspheme, thou knowest my heart, I cannot bear that what was, may again be!

Disciplined, showing no worry, Rödvinge tapped a book once, twice.

"The king commands all officers who visit Grantville, all see what he saw. Sees Auschwitz, sees the giant machinery of murder."

Abruptly, he doffed his jacket, unbuttoning, pulling up a shirt-sleeve, thrusting the arm in front of the mayor.

"Mayor Kirchbein. My arm. What do you see?"

I see a foo—no Han, odd question but, play along! decided Kirchbein, squinting at the forelimb, wondering if what he'd heard about up-time spectacles and bifocuses—no, bifocals—was true.

Eyes narrowing, peering close, Kirchbein noticed, "Ah—scars? Scratches?"

"Yes." Rödvinge rolled the sleeve down, donning his jacket.

"Gustav Adolf, he cried. Wept. My commanding officer, Colonel Ekstrom, after he saw, he walked hours, at night, around Grantville. Myself, I tore my arms, over and over. I didn't know. Not until Frau Roth, the Jewess Frau Roth, she stopped me. Bandaged my arm." And stars, does iodine hurt!

"There's no 'if,' Schallermair. No 'if,' mayor, councilors. King Gustav does not care. Not for Judenhasser, not for Hexenbrenner. His officers, his army, we don't care. We saw Auschwitz, we saw the giant machinery of murder, and we . . . don't . . . care!"

Quiet, those last words. Whisper-soft.

Frigid.

Kirchbein let out a breath he'd not known he was holding.

"Quite, um, forceful, Major. So, the Army, the army here, will—do nothing?"

Rödvinge twisted an eyebrow. Odd tone there, seemed almost—hopeful? Couldn't be.

"Yes, that's right." Pressing on, he added, "Nothing unless attacked, that is. Otherwise, we're looking away. Leaving Krystalnacht to the Committees."

"That doesn't make sense!" cried some councilors, others head-bobbing agreement. "Leaving the Committees alone? That's insane! They're killing people! Okay, maybe only Judenhasser. But they're killing people! That they—they're another army! Emperor Gustav allows that? Major, why? Why?"

"Yes, Major, why? I'd like to know that myself, I would." Adolph Eschwege used his deep voice to full effect, not missing the momentary scowl of his son-in-law Franz at the "grand old man" again taking the lead. I really shouldn't tease him so much, thought Eschwege. He's actually all right enough, when he gets out of his own way!

"Because he isn't stupid, Councilor Eschwege," Rödvinge stated.

The seeming non sequitur widened eyes, raised eyebrows, opened mouths all around the table.

"Gustav Adolf isn't his idiot Catholic cousin Wladyslaw," explained Rödvinge. "That fool who ruins Poland! That stupid, stupid bastard! Who can't see past his prick!"

Those words Rödvinge yelled, delivering upon the chamber his view of the Vasa kings of Poland.

His next remarks came grim.

"Yes, Gustav Adolf could order his Army to attack the Committees." Which's what I'm sure Chancellor Oxenstierna's screaming for, but no explaining those politics here, Dag! he thought.

He shrugged his shoulders. "Only, why would he? For what purpose?"

"What the—protect people, that's why!" answered Schallermair. Daluege and others agreed.

"Ah, yes, protect people." Rödvinge displayed Apparatus. "The same people who did this! And this, and this, and this!" he reiterated, flipping, displaying photographs.

Daluege interrupted.

"Rödvinge, that was centuries away! It can't happen now, not with Grantville!"

"Yes, the Butterfly Effect!" added Schallermair. "The up-timers say it themselves! That'll never happen!" He prophesied, gesturing to the books.

As before, councilors voiced support, some saying, "Exactly," others, "Good point, Franz! Max!" A few studied Rödvinge for his reaction.

He smiled, beaming his perfect little-boy grin, exactly as when told Tiger could stay.

"Absolutely, councilors, mayor, men. The Holocaust, it'll never happen. Never." I hope. I pray!

"No, it'll never happen"—his smile vanished, as smoke in a storm—"because Grantville shows what Judenhasser are, because Gustav Adolf despises Judenhasser, because the Committees kill Judenhasser!"

"But—" Daluege began.

Lang interrupted, with Roeders and Hartenstein glaring warning to recalcitrants.

"Ah, Dag, we believe you; however, you say Emperor Gustav supports Krystalnacht, the Committees? Seems odd"—he raised his voice over the top of the usual suspects—"them and the emperor having anything in common."

Mayor Kirchbein, hooding sight on Daluege and Schallermair, agreed. "Yes, how'd that come about?"

"How could it not?" Rödvinge was honestly perplexed. "Emperor Gustav knows the Committees, and they know him! Princess Kristina bakes bread in the Magdeburg Freedom Arches! They like her, she likes them! Stärnljus, Gretchen Richter is basically Kristina's big sister!"

Some real truth there . . . no, Dag, forget how funny his face would go, never tell the Chancellor that!

Rödvinge surged on, as councilors considered that unlikely pairing.

"The Vasas of Sweden are not the pigs of Poland! Gustav Adolf Vasa knows he rules not by divine right, but by divine gift! Rules by the grace of God, rules for his people! Fail them, as the Polish pig has, and God withdraws His Glory! 'Begone, ye workers of iniquity; I never knew thee!' "

Some councilors weighed those words of Matthew, the meaning, the application.

Others (predictably) did not.

"Rules for his people, Major? His? Nothing while some of his people kill some others? That's failing them, Major! Failing!" argued Daluege.

Schallermair chipped in. "What you say, Max! Failing!"

Around the table some winced, others face-palmed. Guys, is this really the best time to say that?

Rödvinge first silently reproved the two. Then, he held up Apparatus.

"His people, Max? His, Franz?"

He tapped Apparatus, his gaze encompassing all.

"Max. Franz. Everybody! Those who did this are not his people! God, Gustav Adolf, Not! His! People!"

Book back on the table, folding his arms, stern, resolute.

"And not yours! Not ours! After sixty, six-ty, million dead, Not Ours!"

"Sixty million?" cried Mayor Kirchbein, shocked. "That's how many Judenhasser there are? Can't be!"

Others mirrored Kirchbein's disbelief, eyes open, mouths wide.

Rödvinge shook his head.

"No, Mayor, councilors, men. That's not how many Judenhasser there are."

Kirchbein freed breath, relieved.

"Oh good, it didn't seem—"

"That's how many the Judenhasser murdered."

Silence.

****

Eruption.

"Sixty million?" shouted councilors, standing, slumping, bewildered.

"Couldn't be!" cried one. "Impossible!" yelled another. "You're making that up! Nobody would—"

Kirchbein hard-hit a sounding block with the mayoral maul. (Maul, not gavel; no Wismar mayor had used one since 1553; handles break, heads fly back, skulls bust . . .)

Mayor and maul struck until hubbub quieted, seats regained. Jurisdiction set, Kirchbein declared,

"Enough! Major Rödvinge's explaining. He can't with us talking!"

After a short tap quelling possible disgruntlement, Kirchbein asked, "Major, sixty million? Is that true? All in—?"

Rödvinge, head dipping down, up, said, "Yes, Mayor Kirchbein. Up-time, sixty millions—likely more—dead, in the Second World War."

"Second?" whispered councilors. "Yes, second!" whispered Lang, Roeders and Hartenstein back, as Rödvinge finger-tapped Auschwitz, privately knifing an impulse urging a lie.

"And no, mayor, not all in the death camps, not all in the giant machinery of murder. But yes, sixty millions murdered. By Judenhasser!"

He eyed the other men, a grimace contorting his face.

"Frau Roth—remember her? Judith Roth?—after I saw—anyway, she told me how to imagine, to see all that . . . murder."

Rödvinge realized he was unconsciously stroking his forearms in somatic distress. He stilled his movements, readying his presentation.

"Walk from Ireland to Poland, alone. A-lone. Nobody else, nobody! Spain, England, France, USE, alone. Netherlands, alone. Sweden, Denmark, Italy, Austria, alone. Nobody. 'A wilderness, a parched land and a desert.' "

Rödvinge, measuring the silence brought by the words of Jeremiah, broke it saying, "That wilderness, that is what Judenhasser, Hexenbrenner, that is what they do. All they do. What they did, will do again, if not ended. Exterminated. They—"

Schallermair interrupted.

"Oh come on, Major! All right, yes, the Hol-hol— That's horrible, but! It's centuries away, in another universe! Grantville, it's-it's—they've butterflied it away! It can't happen!" He flapped fingers in poor imitation of Lepidoptera wings.

Daluege restrained himself from edging away, figuring his partner would soon need support. A great guy in his way, Franz, but his people instinct, yipes!

Rödvinge placidly replied, "Yes, you'd think, Herr Schallermair. Grantville's here, up-timers are here, we know"—he pressed a finger on Apparatus—"about the Holocaust, so yes, you'd think the Holocaust wouldn't happen, now."

Then again, God's ways are unfathomable, mused Daluege.

Rödvinge chilled.

Ah. Much bett—um, more expected!

"You'd think." He turned from Schallermair to the group. "Except we still have Judenhasser, plus Hexenbrenner. We're getting trains, barbed wire, we can build crematoriums, and these"—another tap on the books— "aren't warnings to them! These are workbooks! Guides! Instructions!"

Oh scheisse! realized Daluege. The major's right! Those are!

A shared revelation, per Schallermair's widening eyes. A common reaction, per the others.

Rödvinge rushed on "Already Judenhasser stir, already they print pamphlets, call the Prince of Germany Michael Stearns traitor, his wife Rebecca Stearns Jezebel! Skit, they've already murdered Reverend Wiley, Mayor Dreeson! Already! The Holocaust is here, now, if we don't stop it! Stop it now!"

Into the babel created by Rödvinge's exhortation, came a slow, constant table-rap by councilor Adolph Eschwege, chasing attention from Rödvinge to him, now in full Grand Old Man.

"Beautiful words, Major." Eschwege wore an enigmatic smile, his comportment entirely that of a (tall) leprechaun. "Very beautiful. When I was mayor, I also had beautiful words."

His words caused puzzlement in Rödvinge, tension in Schallermair and Kirchbein.

"Words making people rush here, rush there, words fuddling them till they agreed with me. Words, Major. Words move mountains, build cities, and yes, commit Holocausts."

Pausing, as grand old men (and women) do after weighty pronouncements, his following words flashed amusement, touched with alertness.

"I rather feel you're rushing us here, Major. Probably right, probably from good motives, but do stop rushing us, Major!"

"Quite" Kirchbein stood, reclaiming authority. Yes, overall having Eschwege around helps, Mayor four times, learn from him, but . . . overall and over all, not the same!

"That said, Major Rödvinge is from Magdeburg, has provided those troubling Holocaust books—nightmares tonight, most likely!—from Grantville, explained Krystalnacht, all on a day's notice, I propose the council thank the major for his strong, informative presentation. I call for a show of hands."

Rödvinge opened, closed his mouth. No, no joggling elbows . . .

Some hands raised, while others elbowed recalcitrant neighbors into unanimity.

Kirchbein directed, "Seebass, record the motion unanimously passed. Now, as there's no more matters—"

"Actually, there is, Mayor," interrupted Rödvinge.

Lang and Hartenstein winced. Rödvinge! Quiet! Clients—so many talk themselves out of a win!

Kirchbein seemed to share that opinion. His woolly eyebrows rose. "Really, Major? Very well, proceed."

"Thank you, and, Herr Eschwege, Mayor, councilors, yes, I suppose I am rushing you." Rödvinge was mildly apologetic. "Understand, everything I say is true. The emperor, army, committees, we all despise Judenhasser. We all despise Hexenbrenner. All of us. We do!"

He shrugged, suddenly indifferent. "Thing is, that almost doesn't matter at all!"

****

As the double-takes subsided, Rödvinge explained.

"Because really, the up-timers would do it all! We only need to let them!"

Some, Mayor Kirchbein included, nodded.

Others sputtered.

Schallermair (reliably) scoffed. "Ridiculous, Major! Yes, maybe you're around them more, but we're not bumpkins here! Up-timers aren't behemoths. They're so soft it's unnatural! Matowski, he bird-watches! He actually watches birds! That's what you're warning us about? Impossible!"

Eschwege. readying himself to again school his son-in-law, halted as Kirchbein short-waved him down.

Rödvinge answered in a casual tone. "Schallermair, that's how up-timers fool everybody. Yes, up-timers are soft. Yes, it's unnatural." He favored the man with a dry smile. "They're also the same people who cremated a tercio in the Wartburg. Herded them there, burned them. Alive."

Leaving Schallermair, Rödvinge shifted his smile to the assembly. "They joke about it, y'know. What's not a Spanish holy day? Ash Wednesday. How many Spaniards does it take to light a fire? Oh, two or three . . . thousand."

Some laughed, then, remembering, quieted.

Rödvinge continued. "Ask the Spanish how soft up-timers are. Ask the Croats how soft the Queen of Hearts is." He laughed, a short, sharp cackle, and grinned like a wolf. "Oh, right, can't be done, they're dead!"

He turned serious. "Up-timers didn't kill those fleeing the Wartburg. They healed the suffering—still are, for the worst burned, in their Leahy Medical."

Back to Schallermair. "Yes, up-timers really are soft. They are. Eventually."

Hint made, Rödvinge carried on. "Then there's how they feel about Judenhasser, about Hexenbrenner."

Whispering, forcing all to listen, he explained, "Up-timers hate Judenhasser from birth! As soon as they can read they're taught the Holocaust! They had museums about that! Matowski the bird-watcher, he's been to one, took children there! The Prince, his grandfather killed Judenhasser! Freed Jews! He's proud of that! He's not alone, up-timers, they boast of it! They're glad Judenhasser died!"

Not all true, some pig-skit brought along a Protocols, never mind! I'm here to convince, not reason!

Raising his voice throughout, the last word just short of a scream, Rödvinge chilled, going glacial, arctic. Executioner. "Now, today, Enoch Wiley and Henry Dreeson, are dead, murdered. By Judenhasser. Men up-timers cherished, up-timers loved, murdered. By Judenhasser."

Rödvinge grinned to—at—the group, his eyes gleaming battle-mad. Theatre, Dag. All theatre!

"Up-timers already hate Judenhasser. Now . . . today . . . they need . . . Judenhasser . . . dead. Not want, desire, wish, need. As a knife to cut, a sword to cleave, up-timers need Judenhasser dead. Stand in their way, they might regret your deaths. Might."

He expelled breath, madness fading away. "Of course, as they're soft, they'll adopt your children, after. Raise them to hate Judenhasser. Hate you, for standing with Judenhasser. That's kindness, to them."

Calm now, temperate, pacific, Rödvinge finished. "Mayor Kirchbein. Councilors. Men of Wismar. It's time. Time to choose. Krystalnacht or Auschwitz. Wismar or Judenhasser. Christ or Satan. Those truly are the choices. Your choices. Please, choose as I, as Gustav Adolf, as up-timers have. Choose."

He sat, reaching for a nearby mug and pitcher, pouring out small beer, his throat needing liquid.

Around the table, some followed his movements, others staring across, some whispering comments to neighbors.

Across the square, inside the Lang home, the cat softly meowed. Her kittens huddling close, as maid Maria placed near a bowl of water, a plate of meat. More ideas, she sighed. At least they're clean! She laughed lightly, thinking of her brother's face when the Meisterin ordered him to scrub, wash, and dry the animals. My big, strong, tough brother, begging cats please, stay still! Please!

****

Mayor Kirchbein stood, in silence extending a hand to Rödvinge.

Equally silent, Rödvinge shook the mayor's hand.

By ones, twos, everybody stood, some from conviction, others by instinct, some for safety.

"Major Rödvinge, thank you. Powerful speech, that, most powerful." Disturbing, too! thought Kirchbein, concealing wariness. I'd forgotten the Wartburg, and that's before they had planes! Now, they're almost next door!

Handclasp done, Rödvinge sat. Kirchbein remained standing.

"Men, we've thanked Major Rödvinge. I move we affirm Wismar's wholehearted support for our duke and emperor, Gustav II Adolf! Yea or nay, vote!"

Kirchbein shook his head. "Won't do, won't do! Whispers won't do! Now, all for, Yea!"

Dust drifted down from overhead, shaken loose by yells.

"All against?"

Council secretary Seebass, the vote matching his forecast, readied for more by dipping a quill pen into an ink-bottle, wistfully thought of the marvelous instrument reportedly held by Major Rödvinge. Wasn't this important business too? Ah well, one day . . . soon, please!

"Right, formalities said, done—Julius, don't record that—the floor is open. Make it quick!"

Aurelius Arkenau raised a hand. Seated across the table halfway down from Kirchbein, his long face, narrowing chin, large eyes, salt-peppered beard and hair pegged him as the council's replacement Grand Old Man for when Eschwege's lumbago flared.

At a nod from Kirchbein, he spoke.

"First, my thanks to the major for coming here, showing us the Holocaust. Explains this Krystalnacht thing of the Committees, explains why the duke's ignoring it. He is, right?"

Rödvinge nodded.

Arkenau said, "Thing is, Major, everybody, that's us. The council, not the town. Apologies, Major, but I don't see you out in the square talking, telling about the Holocaust. You could, but"—his face sorrowed—"won't work! Too many people, and you hand those around"—he pointed to the books, shaking his head—"you won't get 'em back! Sorry, but you won't! We need something, something else!" His intonation was almost but not quite as lofty as Eschwege's.

Kirchbein mentally shook his head. Sometimes, that line between grand old man and boring old fart was thin, very, but—

"Aurelius, you—all right, I'll play. Yes. you're right. Now, what's your idea?"

"Thank you." Arkenau was pleased at his son-in-law maintaining their standard relations. Smile Han, one day it'll be your turn! I hope, he prayed, thinking of Hannalore, his eldest granddaughter. As neither he nor Han could do much about their common worry, Arkenau steepled his fingers. "I move the council pay for posters about Krystalnacht."

Another finger-point to Auschwitz, Apparatus. "Use some photographs. Kon got a Vignelli last month, remember?" he asked, naming Wismar's premier printshop, Plagge and Sons. "Fast and easy, he says. He could have it all done by tonight. Well, tomorrow," he amended, thinking of Konrad Plagge's favorite saying. Quick, cheap, good; choose two! Eh, Kon never shorted the third . . . smart man!

The councilors considered.

Kirchbein asked, "Major, would that work for you?"

"As long as Frings and I stay with the books."

"Councilor Arkenau has made a proposal."

"Is this necessary?" Treasurer Heinrich Gonterman asked. "By distributing explanations of Krystalnacht, the council would support the Committees of Correspondence. With all respect to the emperor, the prince, the CoCs are at best radicals. Is this really our best choice?

"That may be," Arkenau replied. "But Krystalnacht is happening, happening for good reasons. Think of the posters as necessary precautions. After all, when a house burns you wake up the neighbors. You don't worry about disturbing their sleep! Really, the posters are a civic obligation!"

Schallermair chimed in. "At best that's legal fiction. It's us scrambling to cover ourselves and forget it. That's not what I'm here for!"

Eschwege seized his son-in-law's argument. "Well, Franz, we've the two best lawyers in town right here. Karl, Werner, your thoughts? Legal fiction or not? Straight talk, please, no lawyering!"

"Sorry, Adolph," Lang replied. "I am the major's attorney. It's a conflict of interest!"

Hartenstein answered, "Yes, interesting question there, Adolph, Franz. I'd say there'd be claims, counter-claims, appeals, months in court, expensive fees, before it all went to Gustav II Adolf in his capacity as duke of Mecklenburg to decide. Interesting!"

"Really, the duke's a busy man," Kirchbein chimed in. "Let's not bother him. I move we vote on Arkenau's posters. Eschwege, thanks for seconding. Yes or no?"

The resolution passed (Schallermair insisted his reservations be recorded), with the council preferring to not ask Rödvinge more questions.

"More comments?"

"No, no, Major, we're fine. You answered everything, a highly commendable presentation!"

With that, the meeting officially ended.

As councilors coalesced into groups, Arkenau volunteered to escort Major Rödvinge and the airman to Plagge's, also to haggle Kon on payment.

Kirchbein, temporarily sidelined by signing payment vouchers, buttonholed Rödvinge. "Major, tell the duke Wismar supports him on Krystalnacht. We really do."

He let out a deep breath. "There's been a lot to deal with, the past few years. Up-timers, they really jolt matters. Sometimes, I wonder where it'll all end."

He pointed to Rödvinge's attaché, the books within. "But sometimes, it's really not a problem."

Sighting discussion steaming up, Kirchbein hurried off, saying, "Remember, tell the Duke!"

****

Outside the council chamber, Rödvinge smiled, thinking of the bedlam confronting Kirchbein. "You know, councilor, I feel tossed out the back, here. Odd."

Arkenau dryly told him, "Yes, how surprising. Lang said you'd be memorable, but you didn't have to prove him that right!"

Rödvinge lifted his attaché. "Yes. I did."

Arkenau quirked his mouth, a wry smile. "Guess you did, at that." He extended a hand. "Aurelius Arkenau, Major. Call me Aurie, everybody does."

Rödvinge replied, "Major Dag Rödvinge, Aurie. Call me Dag."

Introductions done, they set off to Plagge and Sons, Aurie asking what'd Dag meant by "Louis, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship" and chuckling at the answer.

****

Inside the council chamber friendship wasn't evident.

Major Rödvinge, his beautiful words and memorable conduct absent, councilors objected to Krystalnacht, the Committees, the major, up-timers, arguing the duke can't possibly approve, and if he does Wismar should go its own way, like Nuremberg! Or Essen!

Others countered, yes, Rödvinge was emotional, but with good reason. As for Krystalnacht, the duke approves or we'd hear so on the radio, yes, we would, and quit talking independence. We've a Swedish army garrison right in town—you want us all dead?

Mayor Kirchbein entered the tourney.

"Right, what are the sour looks about?" He shook clear a mental image of growling tomcats and not thanking Rödvinge for the thought.

"It's about some people not figuring out reality!" Roeders glared at Schallermair.

Who hissed back, "Exactly my point, Han!"

"All right, Franz, you first," called Kirchbein.

Schallermair, face ruddy with umbrage, returned a glower at Roeders. "Han, suddenly the Committees are good?! Okay? The only reason you let Hannalore go to their stupid meetings is you thought she'd do worse if you didn't! Well, she has! All of 'em! All!"

"She has not! Han, she—" Roeders broke off, recognizing that Han Kirchbein worried for his errant child, his first-born.

Schallermair joined in with, "I mean, for them, worse . . ."

Sympathies expressed, the catfight resumed.

"All I'm saying is, I don't care about Judenhasser, I don't, but where's it stop? This Krystalnacht thing, who's to say it won't get worse? The—"

Kirchbein interrupted. "Hannalore wouldn't ever—I mean, I'm her father! You're my friends! She'd never—!"

"Exactly! Franz, that's what I'm saying, they—" cried Roeders.

"Great! Wonderful! Only, it's not just here, is it? Yes, Hannalore wouldn't, but who says others won't? That Richter woman—yes, Han's a hero, doesn't make her one! 'Big sister' my backside! She—"

Adolph Eschwege spoke from behind, his sonorous voice worn from years of shouting into the wind, announcing, "There are concerns, Franz, but not as immediate as you think. No, nor as threatening as you think."

Since Eschwege couldn't see, Schallermair rolled his eyes. Oh joy, Moses is down from the mountain! Again!

Behind him, Eschwege smiled. Your shoulders, Franz; so expressive! "Which isn't to say your worries aren't valid, because you're right. We should be cautious."

Daluege, standing beside Eschwege, didn't hide his eye rolls. "Herr Eschwege, first it's fine, then it isn't! You're falling between two stools here!"

Eschwege, first eyeing Daluege as a cat does a pup, tartly answered, "Max, Franz, yesterday, the Committee acted. Now, I admit, I've said things about Jews myself, things not too good, now."

Carelessly knocking dottle out from his pipe on a boot sole, inducing attention, he added, "Still, I wipe my arse with the lies about the prince, his wife, and I'm not the only one, no, not the only one, I'm sure!"

Nods, chuckles joined Eschwege's smile and winking eyes. Heinrich Gonterman joked, "Braver than me Adolph, too scratchy! Fit only for fires!"

Once laughter subsided, Eschwege pointed his pipe at Daluege, Schallermair, and Roeders. "Aye, the Committees can be threatening, but right now, they're not! Let's not borrow trouble, let's not! As for that Rödvinge fellow of the emperor's, sure he's quarrelsome, as Max and Franz'll admit"—more smiles, chuckles, eye-rolls—"but thanks to him, now we know what to do about this Krystalnacht thing of the Committees'!"

He shook his head, sad, bereft, an oracle of gloom, despair. "Shame it's so hard, so very, very hard!"

He's setting us up, I know he is, so why—"What, Father? What's the task?"—don't I resist? Why? Schallermair asked himself, answering, Because he'll stumble, won't he? One day? One? Soon?

Perhaps—but not today. Eschwege answered, face up, smile on, twinkle in his eye. "The hardest task, Franz my lad, is—Do nothing! Watch, and Do Nothing!"

Smiles, chuckles, laughs, another Grand Old Man triumph!

And more chagrin for the son-in-law, who in fighting retreat stated, "All right, Father, as you say. All the same, the Committees are dangerous!"

Untroubled, Eschwege, puffing smoke from his pipe, replied, "Never said they weren't, Franz. Only, they're no danger to us, so don't go making 'em one!"

Walter Rozenkrantz, militia head, used some of his daily quota of words. "Same, up-timers."

"Yes," agreed Hartenstein. "As Dag says, up-timers are doing—something."

"Exactly, something," agreed Roeders. "Airman Frings told us so! Sounds pretty major—ha, didn't plan that!—too, from what he said!"

"He did?" asked Kirchbein, distracted from noting Eschwege's tactics. "Huh. I didn't hear a word."

"It was earlier, at my house, Han," explained Lang. "First, he thought the up-timers were all just Amerikanisch, then after the books, he said he also is Amerikanisch!"

"Very Amerikanisch," stated Roeders. "Didn't say what, didn't have to. Up-timers've got planes, bombs, rockets—"

"That's another thing," growled Schallermair, upset at Eschwege again sailing past issues, with his help! "Up-timers! I'm sick of them! Sick sick sick! They come in, say do this, do that, and we let them! Every time! Up-timers! They always know better!"

Voice rising, drawing the council near, Schallermair, lips trembling from emotion, admitted, "Look, yes, we're lucky they're here. I don't deny it! I don't! Look!" he ranted, a forefinger puncturing his face, his scarred cratered face—"I sure could've done with the smallpox cure, back when! Yes, lucky they're here! But, Enough Already! Two, count 'em, two of 'em die, suddenly it's 'Kill All Judenhasser'? Isn't that a holocaust right there? Now! A holocaust right now!"

Eschwege, alarmed for his son-in-law, stepped close.

Kirchbein, fearing another 'Franz my lad,' stepped closer.

"Franz. Franz. Yes, you're right, yes up-timers're arrogant. They don't even realize it! Yes, sometimes, sometimes, enough."

Slowly, patiently, Kirchbein's eyes bore into Schallermair's. "Yes, they upset everything. Yes, and sometimes that's bad. Yes, and sometimes it's good. Sometimes, it's good, it is!"

Despite what some thought—chiefly his wife Dorothea, often his father-in-law, occasionally his partner—Franz Schallermair when feeling driven could be sidetracked. Sullen as he was, he jerked his head up, down.

Relieved, Kirchbein stepped away.

Schallermair stood, forcing himself calm. "I just—up-timers, they just—the Committees—"

He inhaled, deep, diaphragm breaths. "All I say is, I don't think this Krystalnacht thing is good! Sooner or later something'll happen, something bad! Something the up-timers want, tell us to do, it'll crash! I don't want it on Wismar! I don't! That Swede says relax, it's all good, the emperor knows what he's doing, that isn't good enough! It isn't!"

Daluege supported his partner, other councilors agreeing. "Franz's right, it isn't! Krystalnacht, it's dangerous! It's—it's war, is what it is! War!"

Kirchbein hefted a sigh. "Yes, so? What d'you suggest we do about it?"

"Stop it!"

Kirchbein eyed Daluege, Schallermair, others. "Stop it? Fine! How?"

"The militia, that's how!"

Kirchbein considered, discarded, decided tactics. All while keeping a level stare on the young idiots of the council. Who returned the stare.

"Daluege. Schallermair. My daughter's out there. So's her friends. They're all idiots!"

He hardened, case steel. Stepped close. "But, they're our idiots. Ours. Idiots I prayed wouldn't return, or they'd be arrested. For murder. Hanged."

Stepped closer. "Now, we hear the Duke doesn't care."

Closer. Forcing them back, also their supporters, most edging off. "I love the Swede, both of 'em. Duke, major, I love them since now, I don't have to hang my daughter!"

Pressing both hands onto Daluege's cheeks, Kirchbein whispered softly, "I don't have to hang my daughter. Hang any of them. I love that."

Daluege swallowed.

Kirchbein stepped back. Looked from Daluege to Schallermair, to those around them. To everybody.

"We all heard the major. We all saw his books. We all heard up-timers hate Judenhasser." Hard again, cold. Arctic. "They fried the Wartburg before they had planes. They're planning something, they hate, hate, hate Judenhasser. Is anybody here dumb enough, stupid enough, John George of Saxony enough to think we could fight them off? Fight them off for scummy, stinking JUDENHASSER?!"

Some shook their heads no, others just shook, all agreeing with the mad mayor.

Roeders spoke, standing unfazed, adamant. "And Hexenbrenner, Mayor. Also, Hexenbrenner."

Kirchbein, Gonterman, others stared in disbelief, appalled by his staggering misread of the room.

Don't care, I owe her this! This and more! Roeders swore, thinking of an old woman burned as a witch, whose agonies he as a boy witnessed. He'd stoned her, hard as he could, right at her head, hoping to end her pain faster than the flames.

He'd failed. Confessed that failure yesterday to his friends.

Lang whispered to Kirchbein. "Oh," voiced the mayor, sympathetic. "Quite. Good point. Yes, Hexenbrenner also, Georg. Thank you."

Ignoring curious looks—What'd Karl say? Why's Han all fine with Georg now?—Kirchbein asked, "Ah, Julius. Where are you in your notes?"

Leafing through his Falken-brand notebook, Seebass tonelessly read aloud how, "Mayor Kirchbein spoke of up-timer activity at the Wartburg, council agreeing to prudence, Herr Roeders mentioned up-timer dislike of witch-hunters, was thanked by all, Mayor Kirchbein requested information from secretary Seebass, who complied."

Kirchbein pretended amazement, shock and wonder. "One day, Julius, I'll ask for your original notes, not the official ones!"

"Can't, Mayor. Sixty-year rule!" That having been mentioned in one of Voice of America's Robin of the CoCs radio adventure serials for children, Robin in the Paris catacombs . . . interesting, how every adult there knew that rule . . .

Kirchbein resolved he would ask, ask and get. "Very well then, anything else? Anybody?"

Schallermair raised a hand.

Oh, not now! thought everybody.

"Yes, councilor?" Kirchbein hoped Schallermair would get the subtext.

"There's—there's been a lot of changes, lately. Sometimes, for some, it's too fast. Too often. People feel crowded, pushed, so they do, they say things they don't really mean. Not, not really."

Arms across his chest, looking at the ceiling, he finished with, "There. That's all I wanted to say." That better be enough, I hate this!

Eschwege, feeling he perhaps earlier teased overmuch, waved an olive branch. "True, Franz, true. Other people, they forget that, sometimes. Push too hard, too soon." Really, he's better than most think, makes an effort when others wouldn't. Franz my lad, you'll enter Heaven, you will—dragged in by St. Peter!

Head down, scribbling notes, Seebass noted, "Councilor Schallermair advised many feel pressured by events, causing distress. Councilor Eschwege agreed, cautioning against losing by harsh words what is gained by patience, understanding. Council agreeing, Schallermair and Eschwege were thanked for their sensible contributions."

All nodded, uh-huhing, of course we do!

Forget reading, I'll publish his notes, original, official, side by side! swore Kirchbein. "Record my asking councilor Rozenkrantz call out the militia to man the walls until we say otherwise. Walt, anything you want to say?"

Walter Rozenkrantz shrugged, laconically answering, "Nothing, Han. Smart."

Sorry, Walt, no false economies, today you talk! decided Kirchbein.

"How are we for powder and shot, Walt?"

"Good."

Which made everybody stare at him—Walt, really?

Another shrug. "Not saying for a long siege, but for now, fine. Weekly drills, live firings, men ready, we're good, Mayor. Council."

"Right, seconder to call out the militia—Max, thanks—vote?" called Kirchbein.

"Passed by all," noted Seebass.

"Good, because truthfully—" Kirchbein hardened again into the almost mad mayor—"there will be blood. Fighting, killing, dying. Not the Committee I hope, no up-timers, and by St. Nikolai not Wismar! Our Adel, that's who!"

Roeders spoke. "Christ, yes!" The blasphemy passed, the subject excusing him. "With the Committee out there—they'll attack."

Hartenstein rolled his eyes, appealing to heaven. "Stars, of course they will. Blame us for those idiots, say it's to maintain order —"

"And never leave if they get in," agreed Daluege. "We'd be another Poland! We are, in the country!"

"Quite," stated Kirchbein. "As we agree the nobility here start as carrion then get worse"—all heads fervently up, down, up—"while Walt readies the guards, I want us all waiting at the Porler Thor."

Resolute, firm, Heimdall at the gates of Asgard, Kirchbein directed, "Men, today the council not only needs to work, it needs be seen working! Heinrich, you're in charge, I'm heading to Plagge's, to speak with Major Rödvinge about the Citadel."

Heinrich Gonterman raised an eyebrow. "You sure about that, Han? Before, with Holtzmüller, fine, but now—?"

"Can't be helped, Heini." Kirchbein's countenance was rueful. "It's like the dog that doesn't bite. I know it doesn't, you know it doesn't—"

"—but does the dog know? Good luck muzzling, Valtti, Han!"

"Well, I wouldn't do it if it wasn't fun, Heini," caustically replied Kirchbein. "But it should be fine, Rödvinge's the same rank, works direct for the emperor—"

"And this time he's first in the line of fire," mused Eschwege.

"And this time he's first in the line of fire, yes," agreed Kirchbein.

Then harsh, ruthless. "That said, no excuses, the Citadel, the troops, they're to defend Wismar. They Will! Men, To The Walls!" His fist and arm punched straight up, out.

"To The Walls!" All shouted back, stomped their feet, punched air, followed Kirchbein out the council chamber, startling nearby clerks.

"What's that all about?" asked one, after the exodus.

"No idea," admitted another. "But watch out, first the committee, now the council, whatever it is, it's catching!"

****

As the council debated, Aurelius Arkenau guided Major Rödvinge and Airman Frings to Grube Street, named after the river-canal running parallel with it. The Grube connected Wismar harbor to the waterways of Mecklenburg, with a bright yellow, red, and green narrowboat passing underneath a bridge as the three men arrived at a shop. Above them hung a large sign proclaiming

Plagge & Sons
Printers

Beneath that was a man's image (painted with enthusiasm more than skill) using a 'devil's tail' lever to operate a massive printing press.

The print-shop exterior was painted bright yellow, shiny white, bull's eye glass windows open onto the street, sharp smells of ink and paper evanescing into the street.

Also open was a Dutch door top half, inside the shop a small girl seated on a chair, its legs longer than herself. She looked about seven years young, her thin nose, narrow chin, brown hair, large hazel-colored eyes giving her the appearance of a sweet, loveable ferret. On the shop counter dozed a large orange-white cat.

Arkenau opened the half-door, a bell jangling as he did. "Hello, Kata!"

Kata looked up, her face lighting with joy. "Meister Aurie!"

She dropped her pamphlet onto the shop counter, a slab of white pine smoothed, stained by decades of use and ink. The cat lazily opened an eye, twitched its tail, then returned to the habitual state of felis domesticus, somnolence.

The pamphlet's upside-down title olliɿᗺ showed it as another fantastical tale about the notorious ram Brillo. Rumor had Brillo animated cartoons appearing soon, without his usual antagonist, his supposed "owner" up-timer Florence Richards. Since she spurned cinematic immortality with a pitchfork, her husband J. D. Richards took over, oddly insisting his character oft say, 'oooo, dat wascawwy wam!'

Anyway, from the sackbut olliɿᗺ held, with a donkey, dog, cat, and rooster playing piano, drums, guitar, and violin, all atop battered humans, Brillo had joined the fabled Musicians of Bremen. Not a Brillo he—errr, Princess Kristina!—had yet read. Resolving to do so later, Rödvinge opened his satchel as Arkenau asked Kata (Katarina?) Plagge, "Kata-kat, could you please call your Papa in?"

He leaned close, tapping his nose, conspiratorially stage-whispering, "We've Big Business for him, Very Very Big Business!"

Kata Plagge's reaction exceeded cute. Her mouth in an O of awe, she jumped to the floor, racing to the back. "I'll get him, Meister Aurie! Papa! Papa!"

Leaving behind an inert cat and two men grinning at "Meister" Aurie.

"Ach, I know." Arkenau smiled back. "Her and my little granddaughters are thick as thieves, all the time they're together, cute as kittens!"

Kata-kitten on cue returned, pulling in a large, heavyset man, hair brown, eyes the same, nose slightly askew, possibly from some long-ago fight, a scar from possibly the same running up from his mouth to just under his left ear. A thick leather apron partially guarded his rough linsey-woolsey clothes from ink.

"Kittie-kat, slow down!" He feigned exhaustion. Seeing the others, he held up his free hand, mutely requesting a moment more, please. The hand was as stained as his outfit, as the shop counter. Lifting Kata onto her chair, he groaned histrionics at her weight, her giggles proving this a familiar routine.

That done, Plagge greeted the men, his smile lighting his face, his scar lopsiding it. "Ah, Herr Arkenau! How may the best printshop in Wismar help you today?"

"Konrad, you old pirate." Arkenau smiled. "You're Wismar's one printer. Not hard to be the best, is it?"

"Oh, it takes more, Aurie, much more," confided Plagge. "But, enough chat, I see we've the base calling on us—oh, only the airman. My apologies, sir, you're new!"

"Major Dag Rödvinge, Army of Sweden, here on behalf of Gustav II Adolf, as Duke of Mecklenburg." Rödvinge stepped next to Arkenau.

Konrad Plagge lifted an eyebrow, conveying 'And the duke wants what with my shop?'

"Herr Plagge, Miss Kata, Katarina, is that right?" asked Rödvinge.

Katarina Plagge, eyes wide at the major speaking to her, nodded.

The cat yawned.

"Herr Plagge, Miss Katarina, I'm here for this." Rödvinge removed Auschwitz from his case.

Herr Plagge stared in astonishment at the book, his eyes and mouth outsize, scar quivering. Katarina echoed her father. Only the shop cat remained still.

Placing Auschwitz on the counter, Rödvinge—

Herr Plagge grabbed Auschwitz.

"Kata, LOOK!" In cautious haste he flipped pages, exclaiming at details. Beside him Katarina gently touched the book as she would butterfly wings, marveling at it. "The printing, so fine!"

"The pages, so sleek!" whispered her father. "Feel those. Is this really paper?"

"It must be, Papa, but how?" asked Katarina. "Perhaps it's that plasteek stuff we hear about—OH!" she cried, pointing to a photograph of two boys in embellished, courtly jackets, one adorned with a star of David. "The engraving! I think—that's wool, what they're wearing!"

"Yes, I think so too, Kata, look behind them, the grain of the wood, fine, fine work! Amazing! Incredible! Astounding! "

"It really is, Papa, really! Oh, Gabe and Theo, they have to see this! They do!"

"Yes, yes, fetch your brothers." Plagge was busy turning pages, too distracted to say 'Slow down!' as she rushed off.

Reverently closing Auschwitz, he examined the cover and spine. "Wonder how it's bound, looks like leather, but—not" He decided, after several sniffs. "Ah, fabric over—over something, dunno what."

He placed it on the counter, a hand on it, pushing aside the cat which in the fashion of its tribe attempted curling atop the book.

Plagge stared at Auschwitz, disregarding the feline's reproachful look.

"You want it copied, Aurie, Major, I'll tell you this. The text, yeah, sure, absolutely. We can do that. Do great. The rest, though—"

Plagge shook his head. "That paper, those illustrations, no. Sorry, but no. That slick, that detailed . . . no. Hate that, but—no."

He bit his lip. "Maybe, in a few years, maybe . . . "

Rödvinge, Tiger-kitty having trained him well, gently lifted the cat, setting it on olliɿᗺ, knowing the affinity the tribe of Tiger had for paper. Not that anybody, up-timers included, knew why.

"I must say, Herr Plagge, yours is an, ah, unexpected reaction. Most people look at the book, not the-the construction. The contents, not the book." Makes sense though, in his, their case.

"Well, yes," concurred Plagge.

An irked Katarina appeared, followed by two boys of about ten and fourteen, the younger protesting, "Father, tell Kata she can't—" The older shushed him on seeing they weren't alone.

Ignoring his children, Plagge said, "Sure, but—this's the first up-time anything we've seen, and it's a book, and we're printers. It's amazing, it is!" He gestured to his waiting children. "A little late I admit, but, with your permission, Major?"

Kata stared up, entirely kitten-curious. Gabe and Theo, cognizant of status, restrained their interest and affected disdain for their baby sister's enthusiasm.

Their pretenses disappeared as Rödvinge placed Apparatus next to Auschwitz. All three plus their father hushed before the second, yes, second up-time book!

You'd think I'm giving them a present, thought Rödvinge. I suppose I am, but I don't feel like Father Christmas! More like Knecht Ruprecht or Krampus. He felt a transient regret at showing children the Holocaust, but prevent printers from reading the shop products? Impossible.

"Certainly, though Airman Frings must always be with these." A determined look at Gabe and Theo, a smile to Katarina. "Trust me, you don't want the Grantville librarians mad at you! Remember, these books make gold as dirt!"

Katarina nodded as one boy blurted out, "Don't worry, Herr Major! We'll treat those like like—"

As he struggled for a comparison, his features near-twin to Katarina's, those and an ink-smear granted him the appearance of a young, energetic, inquisitive raccoon.

"Like the first time Da had us print, Major!" said the elder. His red hair and green eyes were likely from his mother, his face a younger version of Herr Plagge's, fortunately without the tilt nose, scar.

"Yes, that!" cried his brother, plucking Auschwitz off the counter, ignoring Katarina's calls of "Theo, hand me the other book, the new one!"

Frings, as vulnerable to kitten-cute as Arkenau and Rödvinge, handed her Apparatus, causing Gabe to force Theo into sharing.

The young ones distracted, Rödvinge, Arkenau, and Plagge discussed matters.

"Herr Plagge, we don't want the books copied, only some of what's in them," explained Rödvinge. "I'm sure we will, one day, but right now—"

"—-all we want is some of the contents," seconded Arkenau. "I was thinking you could copy a picture or two. That'd be great!"

"We want it explained, why the CoCs hung, are hanging, Judenhasser and Hexenbrenner," added Rödvinge.

Plagge stared, unsure, confused. "Major Rödvinge, Aurie, you—you sound like that's okay!"

Both shrugged. "Ah—you tell him, Dag."

"Sure, Aurie. Simply put, Herr Plagge, you saw those photographs—"

"Those are photographs? I thought—I mean, those look like something from Black Cat, I figured!"

Rödvinge, Arkenau, winced. "No!" cried Arkenau, disturbing the cat, making it consider hairballs.

"If only," sighed Rödvinge. He regretted the tales of Black Cat Magazine weren't real. More horror, but less death! Far less! "We wouldn't be here for just stories, Herr Plagge!"

"Shame," admitted Plagge. "Those photographs—must have been a war, stuff like that, you only see in war—or famine, plague, all three, really. Horrible."

He shrugged, now all business. "All right then, what do you want?"

"Posters," said Arkenau. "Broadsheets," said Rödvinge. They looked to each other.

"Both, really," corrected Rödvinge. "Posters, with scenes from the books—"

"I figure with your Vignelli, you can make stencils," interrupted Arkenau.

"—and broadsheets telling about that war, the Second World War—"

"Second world war?" croaked Plagge.

"Yes, Second. It's why the Committees kill Judenhasser and Hexenbrenner—" affirmed Rödvinge-

"—the council approves, er, accepts, um, ignores—" stumbled Arkenau—

"Done by tonight, Herr Plagge!" stated Rödvinge, Arkenau supporting.

"Tonight?" garbled Plagge, his scar seeming to pucker in shared panic. "That—we can't, Major, Aurie, we can't!"

"Why not?" asked Arkenau. Konrad refuse business? Money? Quick, check the sea, the salt's gone! "We'll pay. You know we're good—"

"I can probably get authorization. Count Cantrell won't mind, the Abrabanels sure won't!" offered Rödvinge. Stärnljus, Chief Matowski'd force money on him at gunpoint!

"No, no, it's not the money!" cried Plagge. Stopping in horror at his words, scar cringing small. "All right, it's not exactly about money, but it is, a bit! Look, come see what I mean!"

Arkenau and Rödvinge glanced at each other—He's your friend, Aurie; This is new to me too, Dag—and followed Plagge into the back.

The cat, piqued at its slaves abandoning it, that being its right not theirs, padded quickly along the counter, meowing for attention.

Airman Frings saw Rödvinge stroke the feline, this after hearing from Johannes Lötter of the major's adopting cats. A few days later, Kittyhawke joined Fledge and Las Vegas Belle as named USE Air Force planes. (Kittyhawke, not Kittyhawk, the added e considered better style.) When apprised of Kittyhawke and its spelling, Colonel Jesse Woods darkly muttered, "It's Rödvinge. I don't know how, I don't know why, but it's him. Somehow, some way, it's him! Always him!"

Unaware of again counting coup upon the USE Air Force, Rödvinge stood next to Arkenau on the work floor of Plagge and Sons, Printers.

Two immense wood printing presses, darkened from decades of use and ink, stood idle awaiting their operators' return. To a side stood a late-model Vignelli, dainty and delicate next to its hulking cousins.

Plagge carefully unpinned an octavo sheet from one of several dozen lines running width-wise across the shop. All held sheets drying in the redolent air and heat of the shop.

"Look." Plagge held the sheet up for inspection, 26-point elegant print announcing:

Rock of Ages

"We're printing new hymnals, with hymns from Grantville. The presses are all set up, we can't stop now!" He was almost in tears, scar drooping. "We can't!"

Arkenau smiled.

Rödvinge laughed.

"That's the problem? That?" he asked, walking to Plagge, taking the sheet from him, pinning it back on the lines.

Plagge stared at him, then to Arkenau. Aurie, help!

Finished, Rödvinge stepped next to Plagge. "Herr Plagge—Konrad—let me explain. See these?" He pointed to his epaulets. At Plagge's nod, he said, "Those mean I am duty-bound to Gustav II Adolf, Duke of Mecklenburg! King of Sweden! Emperor of the USE! On His Majesty's Sworn Service!"

Stärnljus, Dag, not now! Not here! He cursed, irritated at himself; yes, the adjusted film title fit, but this wasn't the moment.

Plagge involuntarily swallowed. The major for a moment seemed . . . pagan.

Konrad, stop being a fool! This man gets books from Grantville, that's power, that is! Pay attention!

Unaware of his self-criticism's useful effect, Rödvinge stated, "Thus, you print, you post however many posters, broadsheets, pamphlets, whatever it takes to tell Wismar when Judenhasser, Hexenbrenner, worse! brought Hell to Earth, yes Herr Plagge, HELL!" Lord, forgive my words, thou knowest my heart, thou knowest it is because I cannot bear that what was may again be! prayed he.

Plagge again swallowed. Again, Rödvinge misread it. Yes, I'd swallow too, dry in here, and that ink's strong!

Arkenau, placing a hand amiably on one of Plagge's shoulders, stepped close. "It's why the Committees hanged people, Kon. Why we need posters about Krystalnacht—that's the name—telling why Judenhasser and Hexenbrenner are all being hanged."

Plagge swallowed once more, throat now too dry to absorb moisture. "All of them, Aurie? All?"

Arkenau nodded. "All of them, Kon. Wherever they are."

He looked to Rödvinge. "And up-timers are helping, from what you said, Dag."

Rödvinge nodded, missing Plagge's scar whitening past the pallor of a corpse.

"The up-timers loathe Judenhasser, Konrad. Up-time, they fought a war, the Second World War, against Judenhasser, a whole country of Judenhasser."

Konrad Plagge, master printer of Wismar, looked once, twice, three times in succession between his friend Arkenau and the disturbing, disconcerting Army of Sweden officer here.

"The duke, the king, Gustav Adolf, he—he's not stopping this Krys-Krys-Krystalnacht? He isn't?"

Gravely, Arkenau and Rödvinge shook their heads no.

"The photographs, the books, that really happened? Really?"

Gravely, Arkenau and Rödvinge shook their heads yes.

"God in Heaven!" Plagge crossed himself, motions accented by the crackling of octavo sheets waving like flags in a strong, sudden breeze. "I thought—I thought—How? Scheisse," he swore. "Why?"

"Hatred," explained Rödvinge. "Unreasoning, unrelenting, hatred. Hatred, fear, malice. Hatred without end, malice unconscionable. That is why, Konrad. As for how"—he pointed to the shop front, to the books—"a giant machinery of murder, Konrad. Stamping out murder as you do paper!"

Plagge regarded Rödvinge with a long look, a long, silent look, searching for—anything, really. Anything to lessen, soften all the strange things the visitor to his shop had shown, told him.

Perhaps even to make it all a lie.

Nothing.

A look to Arkenau, who nodded. Yes, Kon, everything he said, everything!

Plagge glanced to a wall, where in neat, ordered wood shelves and drawers with polished, gleaming brass front plates were all the shop's letters, numbers, blocks, stencils, some dating to Gutenberg.

Something in the sight—perhaps the weight of years, the visible proof of the Plagge heritage, birthright—decided him. He sucked in a bellow of a breath, lengthily exhaling it, another inhale, growing with it, resolute, determined.

"Right," he stated, striding firmly past Arkenau and Rödvinge, "no standing around, we've work!"

****

Back in the front, Plagge ordered, "Gabe, Theo, Kata, hand the books over!"

Placing Auschwitz and Apparatus on the counter, he asked, "Okay, Aurie, Major, you want posters, you want broadsheets, how d'you want 'em?"

"Big," said Rödvinge. "Eye-catching."

"We're hoping for a stencil or two from the photographs," explained Arkenau.

"Hmmmm." Plagge opened Auschwitz. "Let me see—thing is, woodcuts, stencils, we can, do make, but—Gabe, Theo, come here, help decide!"

Katarina, refusing to be left out, clambered up her tall chair, using the counter for stability. Once seated, she petted Blackie (curious kitten, ink bucket, shock baptism) lying flopped atop olliɿᗺ.

With six heads clustered more or less around Auschwitz, pages were turned, images studied.

"This works." Rödvinge suggested a photograph of women in shapeless garments, heads shorn, their eyes showing dignity, defiance.

"Mm, yes," opined Arkenau. "But—we do that for lice, this—I'm sorry, Dag, it's, it's really not that bad—"

More pages turned, Gabe pointing to men, in striped pajamas, hair shaved to scalp. "Maybe this?" he dubiously suggested.

"No, for the same reason Uncle said," argued Theo.

"Maybe the one with the two boys?" said Katarina, thumbing to the image.

"No, that doesn't work." Rödvinge's live eyes looked into those of the dead. "It's horrible, but—you have to know it's horrible . . ."

More pages, photographs, more rejections. At the end pages it was agreed the images were horrific not in themselves but in knowing those pictured would soon be dead, their ashes clouding the sky.

"Rotten thing to say," admitted Plagge. "But, for what you want, I mean we, what we want—"

Gabe lifted Apparatus. "Leaves us this, then."

Opening, he flipped through, stopping at four naked children, hair shorn, bodies starvation-withered. He swallowed. "This—this works."

"Yes," agreed his father. "But, can we do it?"

Reluctantly, the Plagges agreed, no.

"If we already had woodcuts, or stencils, maybe—problem is, it—it's nothing we haven't seen before," admitted Plagge. "The wars, people fleeing—things are better now—"

"It's wrong," blurted Theo. "It's all wrong!"

More pages turned.

The Plagges pointed to a map, that of death camp Treblinka. The drawing showed building locations, uses. Undressing Barracks, The Tube, Gas Chambers, Roasting Pits, Burial Pits.

"That one." Plagge stated it decisively, and his children supported him.

"We can trace it out, make it bigger," explained Gabe.

"Yeah, and translate the words, tell people what went on there," said Theo. "Um—What went on there?"

Rödvinge turned to the last page, of skeletons lying aheap, bones thinly covered by skin drum-taut.

"That."

"Excuse me!" Arkenau ran to the door. "I feel—"

He rushed to the canal, vomiting into it, vomiting again.

Plagge and Rödvinge ran over, crouching close, waiting for him to recover.

Across the canal passersby watched, whispered, and walked on.

Poor Aurie, thought Plagge. Give it an hour, it'll be him tumbling drunk into the canal, likely. Tongues, most troublesome organ in the body!

Arkenau soon stood up, wiping clean his mouth, tears marking his cheeks. "Thanks, Kon, Dag, I'm sorry. I don't know why, all of a sudden I couldn't—" His face paled. "I couldn't—hold—"

"I threw up after my first battle," confided Rödvinge. "Happens all the time. Men cry, some sit, stare at nothing."

Back inside Plagge's, the children crowded them, seeking, providing comfort.

"Meister Aurie, are you okay? Please, are you?" asked Katarina, eyes wide, shimmering with tears, afraid, worried for her friend.

"I'm fine, Kittie-Kat," Arkenau told her, dabbing her tears. Finished, he lifted her onto her chair. "I'm sorry I worried you, Katarina, sorry." A look at Apparatus, he told her, "I'm sorrier you saw all that."

Katarina looked at it. "Oh, that's all right," She said it artlessly. "It's not a nice book, but it's not like it's real."

She gazed up with wide eyes to the nice man, the friendly major. "It's not, right?"

The other men, including Frings, telepathed, Tell her she's right! Tell her!

Rödvinge reached over, closing Apparatus.

"No, not real, Miss Katarina," he said. "Only a, a bad dream some people had." Dear God, make it so!

"That's all right then." Katarina confided, "Bad dreams are good. You have them, you wake up, they're gone."

Announcement made, she slid olliɿᗺ out from underneath Blackie fast enough her nighttime neck-warmer didn't stir too much. Opening the booklet, she flicked to where she'd been when Meister Aurie and the nice officer entered the shop.

As the adults talked broadsheets, posters, pamphlets, too, maybe, nattered costs and payments, hiring folk to paste and cover walls all around Wismar, Theo and Gabe interfering throughout, Katarina Plagge considered events.

Meister officer's lying, she decided. So's everybody else. But, I guess it's okay, this time.

Pleased at successfully playing the adults in her life, she sat, Blackie purring in her lap, read her Brillo, asking God, please bless those two boys, also those other children, the women too, actually, God, bless everybody! It's like Theo said, that's wrong, I don't care they're Jews, bless them!

****

Agreements made, contracts signed, receipts issued, Major Rödvinge, Councilor Arkenau, and Airman Frings left for the town hall. Konrad Plagge watched them walk away, alert for any last-minute one-more-things.

None occurring, he spoke to his children. "Kata, here," he said, handing her hastily scribbled notes. "Take these to the churches. Ask for the pastors and tell them the hymnals are on hold, can't be helped, the duke's in charge. We'll take a little off. Now go!"

Katarina, notes in one hand, Brillo in the other, stood ready to protest, lunchtime being close, then— She brightened with a smile cheery as summer.

'Yes, Papa!" She raced out before her wonderful, wonderful Papa changed his mind.

Behind her, Gabe and Theo disapprovingly watched little sister leave.

'Da, what are you doing?" asked Gabe.

'Yeah," agreed Theo. "You know she'll go see her friends!"

'Theo's right! They'll talk, go see others, she won't be back for hours, she'll forget the notes! Da, don't you know that?" cried Gabe, upset. Kata just owns him, she does!

Konrad Plagge pointed to the shop interior. "In there, now!" He commanded, as would a wolf to squalling cubs.

The cubs padding fast—you didn't argue when Da spoke like that!—Konrad Plagge closed the windows, locked the shutters and the Dutch doors, double-checking to be sure everything was locked tight.

No chances, Konrad. No Stan, no Murphy, not this time! he vowed, naming the fabled imps up-timers claimed were always around, using human inattention and complacency to wreak harm. Imaginary or not, never mind, you'd have to be a John George, Charlie Cripple-Cock, or a, a Stan Murphy to not guard against them!

Smiling at his wit, he checked again, smiling being right when those two would strike!

Satisfied, Konrad Plagge walked into the back, leaving behind and outside two fuming mad, invisible, inaudible, immaterial entities, plus on the shop counter a coldly furious, eyes-slitted, claws-out cat swearing destruction if they entered, as after the grievous incident of the ink bucket in the daytime they were Not! Welcome! Here!

****

Inside, Konrad Plagge found his imps checking octavo sheets for dryness. He walked by them, to the shop rear. There, he closed, locked windows, freight doors. That done, he called them over.

Gabe and Theo stood baffled before their father, unable to think of what they or anybody did to have Da akin to a striking viper.

Right view, wrong animal.

'Gabriel. Theobald," he snap-cracked, in full Father Wolf.

'I know Kata's gone to her friends, I know. I want her to. The notes, I don't care. She's out of the shop, she doesn't know, she won't. Now, Come Here!"

Order made, he strode to a wall, the one with the shelves and drawers. Unlocking two, he emptied those, stuffing blocks and stencils into pockets. Keeping a block in a hand, Master Printer Konrad Plagge, son, grandson, great-grandson and more of master printers, showed it to his sons.

'What's this?" he thundered, a drill sergeant before recruits. Very clumsy, vastly stupid, idiot recruits.

Gabe snorted. Catch him on something this simple? Not happening. "It's a Judensau, Da. We use it for—OH!" he blurted, realizing.

Theo wasn't as quick. Why's Gabe so shocked? Nothing special, that block. "Yeah, like you said, Gabe, it's a Judensau, we use it for—stuff we, uh, probably shouldn't anymore, huh?" He caught on, voice small.

'Correct." Father Wolf now held in both hands the wood-block with its vile, vile image of a Jew futtering a sow.

A moment's worth of muscle, and the block broke in two.

Holding the halves up, scar pulsing rage, Konrad Plagge snarled. "We never had any, we never used any, we're disgusted anybody anywhere had any. Jews just have different customs. Nothing wrong with that. Fine by us. Anybody who says different is lying rotten scum whose tongues we Rip Out, RIGHT?"

"RIGHT!" chorused Gabe and Theo.

Father Wolf, the cubs now following the Head and the Hoof of the Law, lowered his hands.

"Right. Check the shelves, drawers. Don't just open them. Go through them, check everything. Twice! Make sure there's nothing left, nothing! You find anything, bring it to me. I'll be out front!"

His sons obeying, Konrad Plagge walked back into the shop's front area.

Behind the counter nestled a Franklin stove, necessary for those days, those months when the Baltic stormed, and the skies were grey with bone-frigid rain, wet-heavy snow.

Opening the stove door, Konrad Plagge tossed in the Judensau, other blocks, stencils. Then he unlocked a deep drawer underneath the counter, pulling out badly-bound, worse-printed sheaves of paper, purposely made that way so nobody could trace them to his shop, Praise Heaven, at least he'd had that much sense!

Tear-crumpling several pages, he tossed those into the stove, then with flint and steel set all afire.

As the pages burned, charring, flaming the blocks, stencils, tossing sheets in as needed, he whispered into the flames. "Lord God, thank you for your messenger Rödvinge, for showing me my errors, for protecting my family from my stupidity, from my evil, evil acts, thank you."

Thinking of who'd nearly led him—worse, his family!—to death, he flung paper and spit into the stove. "As for him, Lord . . ." Smoke and Father Wolf tinged his eyes. ". . . he keeps quiet, fine! I will too!"

He won't, you know he won't, his now-active conscience told him. Sorry, Kon, he's a Stan Murphy, he is! Worse than you!

Puffing out resignation, Master Printer Konrad Plagge, son, grandson, great-grandson and more of Judenhasser, cast more sheets and bundles to the flames. "If not, O Lord, I beseech thee, on me, all on me alone!"

****

Major Rödvinge, Councilor Arkenau, and Airman Frings met Mayor Kirchbein a third of the way back to the town hall. Rödvinge and Arkenau assured him everything was well, the Plagges setting up for the 3,000 posters/broadsheets ordered.

Kirchbein blinked.

"Three—three thousand? That—that's one for every three, four people! We haven't enough walls! We don't need that many! We don't!"

"You do," stated Rödvinge. "Never do an enemy a small hurt, Mayor. Never." A smile. "Also, that many shows the duke Wismar supports him."

Another austere look at him, followed by forced patience. "Major, that—is what I said, yes. All right, no half-measures I guess, but a thousand would do, I'd think!"

"Probably, but I'm taking no chances here." Rödvinge tapped his left arm. "None."

More austerity, patience. "Major, as understandable as—"

"Han, Dag's paying half." Arkenau smiled at Kirchbein and Rödvinge's double-takes.

"Aurie, that's private!"

"Dag, I told Han as he should know!"

"Major, you can afford that?"

Rödvinge lifted his briefcase. "Yes. Not easily, but—call it a debt. Of honor."

Kirchbein stared at Rödvinge. Honor? The major? Had he—to Jews?

Rödvinge chuckled. "You're wondering why, aren't you, Mayor? What dark secret compels me?"

"Well—yes!"

Another lift. "Up-time, Sweden saved thousands, tens of thousands. I feel . . . kinship, with that other Sweden. Their honor compels mine."

Rödvinge glared at Arkenau, amusing the latter. "And yes, maybe Aurie's right and you should know, Mayor. That said, the Army hears about this, maybe I'll be fine. Maybe. In a few months, probably. But while the duke can play 'Captain Gars' all he likes, I can't! Right now, this is my dark secret, and I want it kept!"

Mayor Kirchbein for several seconds studied Major Rödvinge. "Major, you're either an idiot or a saint, I can't tell!"

"I'm hardly a saint, Mayor. That leaves—"

"Idiot, which I am too." A Tiger-kitty smile. "Because we'll keep quiet and pay half your debt." Another smile. "Only half, Major, we wouldn't want your honor left out."

Colonel Ekstrom, Chief Matowski, now Mayor Kirchbein—I must love those nasty smiles, I get them so often!

"Thank you, Mayor." A wry smile. "I'm not too honorable to refuse!"

"Good. Because—" Kirchbein waved to a nearby tavern—"I'm also buying us a beer, Dag."

"Ah, Mayor, that's not—"

"One, it's Han, Dag, and two, I'm not being nice. Ask Aurie!" Kirchbein muttered a word. "Valtti."

Arkenau closed, then opened his eyes. He lamented, "Ohhhh, must we, Han? The day's so nice!" Then he told Rödvinge, "Han's right, Dag. It's not nice. Maybe useful, but nice, no! Dag, no questions, beer first!"

****

The tavern rejoiced in the appellation The Bull's Head, its sign displaying exactly that, with comical notes of big eyes, wagging ears, tongue hanging out, circled by overflowing beer steins.

Inside, as Arkenau, Rödvinge, and Frings settled into an alcove, Kirchbein spoke with the barman. Soon after, beer steins and fried potato wedges were brought. Thirst and appetite sated, Kirchbein began.

"Major, Dag, the Army's standing by, only watching, right?"

Rödvinge, aware something was going on but not what, agreed. "Yes, as I said, Han, I—"

Kirchbein held up a hand. "I know, I believe you! Problem is, does the Citadel know?"

"Ah. I'm—not sure."

"Neither are we, Dag. We're worried."

Rödvinge looked to his beer. Tasty, but—no showing up at the Citadel with beer on his breath. "I'll head to the Citadel, then. Frings, you're with me."

Kirchbein grasped Rödvinge's nearest wrist. "Dag, wait!" "Yes, wait!" chorused Arkenau.

Bemused, Rödvinge sat.

Leaning forward, Kirchbein asked, "Dag, what do you know about the garrison here?"

Puzzled, Rödvinge answered, "There's two-fifty here, stationed in the Citadel. Quartered there too, thankfully. Manning thirty guns. Commanded by a Major Aku Valtti since Colonel Holtzmüller went to Magdeburg. There's problems with him? Valtti, that is."

"Well" stated Arkenau, "he hasn't been horrible, Dag. Only sometimes he forgets, Wismar isn't the Citadel!"

"Hmph," scoffed Kirchbein. "Sometimes? Dag, he wanted Rozenkrantz jailed for refusing orders!"

"You're kidding!" cried Rödvinge. "That—that's not good."

Kirchbein nodded. "That's how we see it, Dag. Fortunately, we shouted him down. Only, Valtti doesn't quit. We'd work with him, we would—Holtzmüller, he was great—but Valtti, every time we think he gets it, the militia's not the army, back he comes, every time!"

"And Krystalnacht won't help," opined Arkenau.

"Old Night, no it won't! That's why I'm here, Dag. Work with the Citadel, fine. We want to, Dag, we really do! With, Dag, with! Otherwise—"

"—-half the militia will quit —"

"—-exactly right, Aurie, and the other half I'll order home!"

Rödvinge gawked. "It's that serious? Han, Aurie—Mayor Kirchbein, this is Mecklenburg! You need your militia for your—"

"—pox-ridden Adel, yes we do, Major Rödvinge, and I'll still order them home. It's that serious!"

Thrumming the table with the fingers of one hand, Kirchbein looked away, back, thoughtful. "No, I won't, Dag, not with our Adel! You're right there! But, Dag, please, I swear, we don't need Valtti being Valtti! We don't! And, and you don't either!"

Rödvinge picked up his stein, staring into it as though answers—well, useful ones—were present. Finding none, he put it back.

"I can't say I saw that, before," he admitted. "I met him just to say hello, why I'm here, shake hands."

Deciding it insults the brewmeister not to drink, he finished his stein, placing it bottom-up on the table.

"All right, I'll speak to-o-o . . . I'll speak with him. I have to anyway, about Krystalnacht."

Leaning in, he qualified his promise. "Understand, Major Valtti commands the Citadel. My orders are, I request assistance. Request. Not order. Anything else—"

Rödvinge sighed. "Anything else, such as his, his . . . well. I am liaison with you, him, the Air Force, and when they're back, the Committee."

He laughed, a short, sharp guffaw.

"Chief Matowski says I'm the local peacekeeper. Up-time thing. Maybe it's praise, bu-u-t . . ."

Kirchbein's smile was cheery as two summers. "Peacekeeper, liaison—I like those words, Dag!"

Words making Rödvinge's return smile—autumnal. "Don't like those too much, Han. We—that's you too, Aurie—we'll see Valtti together!"

Kirchbein, smiling sunny as three, retorted, "Which is why the council's meeting us at the Porler Thor, Dag, We all want to be there!"

"Safety in numbers, Dag, safety in numbers." Arkenau finished his beer.

"The Porler Thor? Not the Citadel?" questioned Rödvinge.

"Yes," stated Kirchbein. "We figure, today we better be seen doing our jobs, politics and duty, all together."

"Quite," said Arkenau. "Also, Dag, you've never seen Wismar from the walls, have you?"

Rödvinge agreeing no, Mayor Kirchbein, Councilor Arkenau, and Airman Frings grinned.

"You're in for another treat, Dag. A good one!"

****

At the Porler Thor were about half the councilors, munching on sandwiches and subs, more Grantville influences. The councilors carried shotguns, hunting rifles, or crossbows, manifest proof of council resolve to defend Wismar. Rödvinge checked all (first removing powder and shot), admiring some, condemning others, recommending Suhl's U.S. Waffenfabrik for replacements.

His six-shot Hockenjoss & Klott revolver (unloaded) was in turn inspected by the councilors. He advised shotguns were more practical; H & Ks required constant practice.

"Also, stack your weapons in the guard quarters. No, you can't bring those into the Citadel, it's a citadel, armed civilians aren't welcome. No, not even unloaded and with me along, no. No, you can't take those home and return, that'll take at least an hour. Herr Schallermair, the weapons are locked away, under guard, thievery isn't likely"

"Exactly right, Franz my lad, listen to the major!"

Preliminaries done, Kirchbein and Arkenau informed all of the 3,000 poster/broadsheet order. Described as necessary to inform Wismar of Krystalnacht, to explain Krystalnacht, to prove Wismar stood with Grantville, with Prince Michael, and with Emperor Gustav II Adolf, long may he live!

"That's as may be, Han, but three thousand?" Eschwege sounded shocked, emotional. Had he a monocle, it would have dropped. "That-that-that-that's enough to paper the streets! We'll be eating paper!"

Schallermair was almost as emotional.

From elation.

Rödvinge, you—I hoped, but to see it!!! To actually see it! I'll probably never like you, but, live long and prosper, Major Rödvinge, live long and prosper!

"How much will that cost?" wailed treasurer Gonterman.

He blanched when told.

"Expensive? Yes it is!" stated Rödvinge, stepping quickly up onto a horse-mounting block, placing himself above, attracting attention. "And yet, men, and yet! Better gold than blood, better posters than Auschwitz! We know what shamed a Germany for a thousand years, we have seen the giant machinery of murder, and we are not those who 'seeing, see not, and hearing they hear not, nor do they understand'!"

Rödvinge let ring the eloquent words of Christ among the multitude, even the mules of a passing cart seemingly attentive, long, soft ears flicking towards the ex tempore stump-speaker.

Who, smiling bright, amethyst eyes sparking humor, advised, "For those, ask the local Adel!"

Matching grins, chuckles, comments of "Must we?" and "Dag, spare us!" came from around.

Not from Schallermair. However much he wished Dag good fortune, what Schallermair thought was, Beautiful words, Major. Truly. Only, I see Wismar doing all the work! We bury the dead, we ignore the CoCs, we call out the militia, we pay for posters! All on your words, your 'beautiful' words!

Grim, resolute, ignoring Daluege and Eschwege, Schallermair asked other questions aloud. "Gustav Adolf wept, you say. Fine, I believe you, but! How's that help us? Major, when Wismar's attacked, what good are your beautiful words?"

He appealed to the other men. "Yes, accept Krystalnacht, yes! I admit it! I do! But! Will we live, after? Mayor, councilors, this must be asked! Must!" Blast it, I'm right! he told himself. Maybe not before, but now, yes! Hang me, shoot me, don't care, I'm RIGHT!

Rödvinge stepped down.

Schallermair whirled, facing Rödvinge, daring attack.

Rödvinge walked close. Stood before Schallermair.

Schallermair stood, indurate.

Rödvinge spoke. "Franz, I swear before God, as an officer of His Majesty, I stand with Wismar. For Wismar. 'Here I stand, I can do no other.'—"

The words of Martin Luther resonated. Rödvinge implored, "Franz, I need your help. Yours! Help me help Wismar!"

Schallermair stared him straight in the eyes, unmoved, impassive. "Major, we're not on first names here!" he hissed. "And you're still using 'beautiful words,' Dag!"

He waited, Rödvinge still before him.

Schallermair extended a hand. "But yes, Major, I will."

As the two shook hands, Schallermair considering. The way you worked it, I'd be a churl to refuse. A churl. But, you asked. That's worth . . . worth something, I guess.

****

Soon after, the group stood atop the city walls, some six yards above Wismar. Standing above the Meckelburger Thor, Wismar's main gate to Mecklenburg, land of bile and venery, Mayor Kirchbein pridefully stamped once, twice upon stone and brick. As promised, an arcane alchemy of stone and sunlight made Kirchbein seemingly hover an empty one or two inches above the wall.

Rightfully pleased by Rödvinge's wonderment, Kirchbein boasted of the military aspects of Wismar's guardian walls. Yes, any attack takes the bleaching fields, there below on an islet outside the walls, linens drying on meadow-grass, with lavender, honeysuckle, and rose scent rising high into fragrant air.

A fruitless conquest, the foot-bridge connecting the islet to Wismar easily destroyed, leaving invaders the dismaying tasks of crossing the river-moat circling landward Wismar, then scaling the walls whilst serenaded (Kirchbein's satirical comment) from the walls by town and citadel defenders.

Militia head Rozenkrantz, foregoing terseness, directed Rödvinge to recent repairs, enlargements, made practical by that marvelous up-timer product, cement. Also the newish cannons, from Hamburg, sold cheaply after the USE Navy's memorable visit of 1634.

Seeing how pleased the council was, Rödvinge swore never to mention the melted-butter nature of stone walls before Admiral John Chandler Simpson's USE Navy.

Besides, on inspection, against anyone else—hmmm. Yes, solid walls, cannons maintained, on balance the council deserves its pride!

Rödvinge gazed around, enjoying the warm light, the perfumed air, Wismar "set as a jewel in gold." He said so aloud.

Kirchbein agreed. "Sometimes I'm up here only to look. Vanity, I know, but moments like this, sun and weather shining, I'm sure Solomon himself wasn't arrayed this fine!"

"True. I see why up-time, Wismar was famous the world over." This should be good . . .

Mayor, councilors, lawyers, Roeders and Lötter stared at Rödvinge, eyes wide, mouths open, fish in a market once more. Good? Great! See, Chief, Colonel, I can be nice! I can! Am!

"Really? The world over?" exclaimed Kirchbein.

"Oh yes." Nonchalant, Rödvinge explained: wide boulevards, outdoor cafés, strolling music. "Up-time, Wismar was, is, will be famous for its eighteenth-century buildings. Other places lost theirs to war or worse, architects and town planners!" Head shaking, eyes rolling, he warned, "The future, it wasn't all progress! Not all!"

Patting a crenellation, he described more of Wismar's future. "Up-time, the walls and citadel were gone. Shame, up-time people loved old, well-kept buildings. Except architects. Now, maybe you could keep those. Or not," he cautioned. "It took centuries for Old Wismar, which mostly isn't Wismar now, to be loved. Celebrated."

Smiling, exactly as when Ma said fine, the cat stays, Rödvinge made an offer. "If you want that, and why not, Wismar was, is beautiful, remember, that's the really long view!" Huh. Looks like they do want it! Hope it lasts, and it just might! Oh, now that would be—! Why not?

One of Scandinavia's Huldufólk perhaps whispering to him, possibly also his old companion Tiger, Rödvinge expansively waved arm and hand over the footbridge, small gates, bleaching fields, and waters of the river Grube and Schwerin Lake. "You could keep all that too, as parkland, set aside. After all, it's a lovely sight!" Especially the pretty maids and laundresses . . . ahem. Time and place, Dag, time and place!

Kirchbein, considering Rödvinge's proposal, asked, "How d'you know all that Dag? The encyclopedias?"

"Some," said Rödvinge. "Mostly from a 'flying visit,' rather, railway to Grantville, to see what they had. Not much, but everything there praises Wismar's Old Town. Like I said, up-time people love that."

"Except architects." Schallermair sounded acerbic.

"Except architects," agreed Rödvinge. Here we go . . .

"Old Town, Major? Meaning, there's a new one? Hope so, I'd hate thinking we hadn't grown any, or is this all there was? Is?" He waved over Wismar, imitating Rödvinge a moment before.

And here we are, Franz Schallermair, folks!

"Not at all, Franz." He gave a beatific smile, annoyingly charming. Waving over Wismar, Rödvinge stated, "Old Wismar was-is what Sweden built in the eighteenth century"—an up-time micrometer only could tell if he emphasized those words—"that was, is loved. For the new town, Lübische Street ran to the west, the rails ran around Old Town to the east. Inside, a jewel in a ring, is-was Old Wismar." He shook his head. "Was-is, is-was, time-travel mangles words!"

Some around laughed at the major's grammar. Others, Schallermair among them, stared either west or east. Schallermair stared east. "So, when we get a train station, it'll go there. Huh." Wonder who owns the land there . . . probably Roeders, so why'd the major buy land to the west?

Daluege disagreed. "Should it, Franz? Maybe in town, so it's more central?"

"No, no!" cried Arkenau. "You heard Dag. No train station in Old Wismar!"

"Yeah, but that's another Wismar. We could have two, one for passengers, the second for freight!"

Arkenau shook his head. "Sorry, Max, I can't agree. Where'd we put the lines? Plus it would cut the walls. You heard Dag—bad idea that!"

Schallermair opined, "Maybe underground? Ach, no, the ground here, too wet!"

"Yes, foundations are hard." Eschwege was in full Grand Old Man and paused for effect,

"Yes," intervened Kirchbein. "Clearly we've decisions to make!" Starting with no land piracy! Can't blame Dag, we asked, he answered, but blast, if we don't watch out that'll cost!

"Yes, Mayor." Schallermair, also helped keep his father-in-law silent. "We have to go to Grantville!"

"Yes, but when?" asked Arkenau. "We've Krystalnacht still, and who goes? All the council, or some? Then there's the wives. You know they'll come along . . ."

The council fervently discussed plans, harvests, fishing seasons, best routes. Rödvinge (thinking of the up-time analogy "herding cats") loudly, repeatedly announced "Mayor, councilors, men!," unconsciously using the T hand-signal, learned from watching of the West Virginia Mountaineers crush the Rutgers Scarlet Knights.

As a guide to American football the experience was—confusing.

As a guide to up-timers, to Grantville, and West Virginia, it was—more so.

It however fully explained that curious gesture up-timers used when saying, "Hold it! Time out!"

(Why asking his Grantville guide "What's that mean?" required watching the full video still eluded him, though. Watching included watching the cheerleaders, the supple, energetic, lithesome cheerleaders—but really, the entire video?)

"The Citadel awaits, time to go! Time to go!"

Not yet. The others requested he explain his odd gesture. From their experimentations, another up-time mannerism would now travel far from Grantville.

But forget the point spread, vowed Rödvinge. Up-timers call it math. I call it what it is, a barrel of crazy!

****

Rödvinge and Kirchbein leading, the group stopped at the bridge crossing the moat between Wismar and the Citadel. Returning salutes from the Army detachment guarding the approach, Rödvinge requested the corporal in charge send a runner for today's duty officer.

Corporal Kihlgren flickered interest, then went incurious, usually the safe attitude around officers, particularly unfamiliar ones.

Once the (literal) runner departed, Rödvinge inspected the guards. Uniforms clean, stances straight, Struve-Reardon rifles polished—good. Perhaps Kirchbein and Arkenau misjudged Valtti? Or military and civilian expertise lacked commonalities.

After a not unreasonable delay, the runner returned, behind today's duty officer.

"Lieutenant Per Myrgren, Major Rödvinge!"

Rödvinge, blandly returned the lieutenant's eager salute and disciplined himself against showing his certainty Grantville High School's JROTC was missing a recruit. Ach, be fair, Dag, he told himself. We're all puppies to start with!

Myrgren was painfully cheery, with energy enough to make Kirchbein feel old. "No need to worry, Major, Mayor, Councilors! We know what happened, we'll hang those Committee thugs higher than Haman!"

Rödvinge, Kirchbein, stared. Had they actually heard—?

"Lieutenant, we're here to meet Major Valtti" said Rödvinge, disciplined anew.

"Ah, the civilians—"

"Are Wismar's council, Lieutenant. They're with me."

Accepting that, Myrgren stepped smartly towards the Citadel. "This way then, sirs, follow me!"

Hastily signaling the others to remain quiet, Rödvinge matched Myrgren's stride. The civilians and Frings followed several steps back.

Behind them, Corporal Kihlgren and the guards intently studied Wismar, memorizing the quotidian streets and buildings, fervent devotees of "I Can't See It, It Can't See Me!"

Unlike the oblivious lieutenant, from the get-go they'd understood the major from Kristina Base (actually Christina, for the king's mother, but nobody used that) and his civilians disfavored hanging the Committee. Forget asking why—hide! Hide however you can!

****

Inside the Citadel, Myrgren led them up two flights of stairs to Major Valtti's second-floor office. The lieutenant burbled throughout, asking Rödvinge question after question about Grantville, the king, the princess, the Prince, answers prompting comments and more questions.

Rödvinge gracefully answered, outwardly an experienced officer guiding a junior. No observer could tell his surprise at heading upstairs, as his first meeting with Valtti was in a ground-floor office. Why this then? Why isolate them? Divide and conquer? Ask Myrgren? No, not yet.

Still, why? Valtti, what are you doing?

Frings and the civilians were mostly silent, some whispering amongst themselves, confused at going upstairs. Not surprised. Valtti, you know. Must teach us our place, sigh. Holtzmüller spoiled us, and Rödvinge, well yes, he's alarming, but mostly he seems sound. Mostly.

Still, not good, this. Add what Myrgren said and Old Night, Valtti, what are you doing?

****

A left turn and a long traipse down a corridor ended at an oak door. Solid, dark, medieval, its hardware of large iron rivets, thick hinges, and plates doubled as armor. A huge doorknocker of Cerberus snarling rage, ready to rip apart cannons, must also be a test of conscience.

Myrgren, either too jaded to care or too innocent to notice, knocked three times, using the lower jaw of the middle dog-head.

Sonorous peals echoed from ironmongery, a din readily absorbed (eaten?) by the door and the lath-and-plaster walls.

Myrgren then opened the door, entered, and closed it, a startlingly unexpected rudeness.

Rödvinge, philosophical, shrugged it off. Yes, Valtti should already know he had visitors, but, puppies make mistakes, or Valtti's playing games, or . . .

Speculation ended when Myrgren returned. "Come in, Major Rödvinge, Major Valtti will see you."

He held a hand up to the others. "Herren, Airman, stay here, Major Valtti orders—"

"They're with me," interrupted Rödvinge.

Myrgren stood firm. "Sir, Major Valtti orders they—"

"Lieutenant!" commanded Rödvinge. "Stand aside!"

Myrgren stood aside.

****

The inside office was a lengthy affair, some forty feet long, twenty wide, palimpsests of stone and brick showing it was originally two, possibly three rooms, now conglomerated. Chairs, or firewood disguised as chairs, lined a wall. Bull's eye windows, large, square, overlooked the drill ground. All were closed, save the nearest Valtti, open only enough for his aeration.

As Rödvinge and civilians entered, Major Aku Valtti rose from behind his desk, a massive carved monstrosity of black walnut likely derricked in through the windows (otherwise, walls were demolished and rebuilt), glaring wrath enough to geld, castrate.

Valtti stood, five, six inches taller than Rödvinge, also a foot or more wider, his black mutton-chop mustache and florid, rust-orange face inadvertently reminding Rödvinge of a Grantville Hallow's Eve.

Behind Valtti and pinned to the wall was an immense flag of Sweden, its blue and yellow a warring contrast to Valtti's black and orange.

Myrgen's entrance ended the silence.

"MYRGREN! WHAT'D I ORDER?"

Myrgen gurbled before Valtti. "Sir, Major Valtti, Sir! The major, other major, Rödvinge, he, he—"

"Countermanded your order." Rödvinge, smoothly stepped in between Myrgren and Valtti. "Reasonable though it was, matters require—"

Valtti erupted, a large, meaty finger quivering, pointing at Rödvinge.

"YOU!!! EXPLAIN YOURSELF!!!!"

Rödvinge stared at Valtti, a thought flashing of seizing and breaking that finger, of lifting an arm, forcing it down, dislocated. He instead kept staring, refusing to play Valtti's game.

Valtti hollered, "THAT'S AN ORDER, RÖDVINGE!"

"Yes, it is. To a fellow officer, Valtti. To a fellow officer of the same rank, Valtti. To a fellow officer, of the same rank, on direct orders from Gustav II Adolf Vasa, Valtti." Listen to what I'm saying, Valtti! Lis-ten!

Valtti lowered his arm, blazing poignard at Rödvinge, who stood, temperate, impassive.

Frustrated, Valtti turned. "MYRGREN!"

Myrgre tried for calm. "M-Major Rödvinge is from Kristina Base, sir. He may know—"

"Did I ask, Lieutenant? Did I?"

Myrgren saluted. "No, sir!"

"You're still officer of the day, aren't you?"

Another salute. "Yes, sir!"

"So why're you here, Lieutenant? Why?"

"N—No reason, sir!" No salute, Myrgren standing parade-still.

"Go, Myrgren!"

"Yes, sir!" Myrgren saluted and left the room in relief, not retreat.

Valtti frowned at Rödvinge. "Very well, Major. Rödvinge. Tell me about beating up a civilian. Twice, Rödvinge, twice! Explain that!"

How do you—thought Rödvinge, followed by, That's not why I'm here. Focus, Dag, focus!

"That, Valtti, is why I'm here, why the council is. For Krystalnacht. A USE-wide operation, directed at—"

"You're not answering, Rödvinge! Answer!"

Rödvinge smiled.

"I am, Valtti. I am. I hit that pustule Sumka to save him, Valtti. Save him from himself, Valtti. From what's happening all around us, called Krystalnacht, it's—"

Valtti, mollified or sighting councilors flinch at Rödvinge's smile, listened to Rödvinge's exposition.

"—why we're here, Valtti." Rödvinge pointed to Apparatus and Auschwitz, on Valtti's desk. "Those show what Judenhasser do, why the Committees act, why Gustav Adolf stands by. Why we stand by."

Gesturing towards the council, he explained, "The Wismar council requests the Citadel defend Wismar. Defend, Valtti, defend. As liaison, I formally request the Citadel do so."

Valtti, seated, said nothing, staring at Rödvinge, level, unmoved. Impassive.

Recognizing the tactic, Rödvinge smirked to himself. Go ahead, Aku. Granny Frida and Tiger trained me!

Valtti, possibly sensing the thought, thinned his lips, then reached across his desk, pulling the books close, opening one, the other, inspecting a page, checking another, examining minutely.

Rödvinge stood, patient.

Councilors, sighing, pulled out chairs, some quietly, others willfully scraping the hardwood floor. Valtti ignored them.

Rödvinge stood, patient. As did Kirchbein, Lötter, Frings.

Valtti unhurriedly turned pages.

Rödvinge stood, patient.

Church bells pealed a half-hour.

Rödvinge stood, patient. Kirchbein, Lötter, Frings stood, shifting from one foot to another.

A bird alighted on a ledge, stepped about, flew away.

Rödvinge stood, patient.

Valtti closed Auschwitz and Apparatus. His response was toneless. "Interesting."

Rödvinge, ignoring subtext, replied, "Yes, those are. Those show why the Committees act, why the council requests Citadel assistance. Why I request that."

Valtti leaned back in his chair, indifferent. "Denied."

Kirchbein stepped forward. "Major Valtti, Dag—Major Rödvinge—I request the Citadel defend Wismar! Defend, that's all. For when the Adel—"

Valtti leaned forward, warning, "Kirchbein, I don't explain to civilians!"

"Then, explain to me, Valtti. My report—"

"Don't you threaten me, Dag!" Valtti's face heated red.

"I'm not, Aku, I'm not. If anything, I'm threatening me. Colonel Ekstrom won't be happy I couldn't get the job done! Look, we're here to defend Wismar, that's all I'm asking for! Defend Wismar!" Skit, weak Dag, weak! Show him he benefits!

Valtti spoke before Rödvinge could. "We, Dag, we? You're from Kristina, you know nothing of Wismar!"

Benefits, show him benefits!

"Aku, Krystalnacht is dangerous, but it's also opportunity! King Gustav detests the local Adel. They attack Wismar, you defend, he'll be grateful! He will!" I'll beg him, it comes to that! Beg!

Valtti heated orange. "Bribes, Dag? Bribes? Maybe that's how Kay-Base promotes, here we work for it! Work!"

Skit, now what?

Before Rödvinge could answer, the council crowded in, all gesturing, talking, trying to move Valtti off his chosen hill.

"Valtti, please! We don't always get along, but—"

"Major, the militia's already on the walls, we'd like—"

"Yes, Rödvinge's a jerk, but he's a jerk who's right!"

"Yeah, the books're hard to believe, but look, Dag's been to Grantville—"

"Look, you help us, we'll tell the emperor. He'll promote you, now maybe that's a bribe, but—"

"Aku, come on, you've seen his books, you know they're from Grantville, so—"

"We're printing up posters from the books—"

"Yeah, those'll be all over Wismar, it won't look good—"

"You've read the books—"

"The books show—"

"The books—"

For solidarity with Rödvinge, with Kirchbein, impressive.

For reasoning with Valtti . . . less.

"THE BOOKS, THE BOOKS, THE DAMN LYING BOOKS!"

Blasphemy-stunned, all saw Valtti stand up, fury illuminating his face, grab the books, rip apart, throw away, pages fluttering, falling, Valtti shrieking those damn damn-devil Christ-cursed God-damned books were

"LIES! LIES LIES LIES! ALL LIES!!!"

Gut-punched, Rödvinge lifted his gaze from the floor, the pages scattered everywhere, seeing, hearing Valtti shout.

"HERE! HERE'S THE TRUTH! THE REAL TRUTH!"

Tearing open a drawer, he reached in, pulling out sheaves of badly-bound, worse-printed paper, yelling.

"THERE! THE TRUTH! WHAT'S REALLY GOING ON!!!"

Valtti slammed the pile down, scrambling pages, loudly ranting.

"JEWS! They Planned It! Planned EVERYTHING!

"Ring of Fire, JEWS! Right close, JEWS! Rich, cunning JEWS!"

"WHORING JEW-BITCH BECKY to the Prince, PLANNED! By JEWS!"

As Valtti ranted, trumpeting Jews plotting murder, killing Germans, Swedes, Danes for a Jewish homeland, all Jews evil evil evil, Rödvinge cast his eyes down, staring.

PROTOCOLS
OF THE
ELDERS OF ZION

Rödvinge blinked, forcing his eyes up, dimly hearing, seeing Valtti yawp more on Jews, Major Rödvinge,

calm Major Rödvinge—

placid Major Rödvinge—

serene Major Rödvinge—

—from his Sam Browne belt and holster drew his six-shot Hockenjoss & Klott revolver, interrupting Valtti's bombastardies.

Valtti screamed—something—as Rödvinge—

calm Major Rödvinge—

placid Major Rödvinge—

serene Major Rödvinge—

—pulled the trigger.

The heavy .44-caliber bullet almost sang, trilling through air, joyous, light, fulfilling its purpose.

It kissed, opening Valtti's throat, tearing his larynx, cycling up, emerging from his nape, specking the flag and wall behind with phlegm, blood, and flesh. Valtti bonelessly collapsed, puppet-strings severed.

Skit, swore Rödvinge, having aimed for the heart. I forget this thing bucks up when I rush my shot, idiot!

Rödvinge spun, striding quick past the others, opening the door, checking the corridor, readying for—

Nothing. No sight, no sound, nothing. Nobody.

A minute later—

Nothing. No sight, no sound, nothing. Nobody.

Oh, come on, really? Rödvinge was appalled. Stars, he'd done better his first day in the Army! And his first day, he—never mind, besides, that house was already ramshackle!

But this?

This, this nothing, because Valtti placed himself above others? Truly, above?!

I'd cry, if I wasn't disgusted! Stjärnljus, I still might, later!

****

Rödvinge closed and locked the door, holstered his H&K, and stood grim before the rest.

They were still, tethered in amber, the violence too immediate, too decisive, for them to calmly absorb. Curiously though, they were not much—not at all—surprised.

Heinrich Gonterman explained it later to his wife, Maria Hagar.

"We expected the Mad Major, so it wasn't a shock. Wasn't a relief either, more of a, a completion, really. Promise made, promise kept, like that."

Maria Hagar, as charmed by Aku Valtti as most people, asked, "Will the major be all right?"

Heinrich's answer was honest, somber. "Maria, he killed another officer. Had to, I guess, but he killed another officer! He doesn't think he'll be all right! He'll save Wismar, but after that—yes, a shame! The duke can't have that happening! He can't!"

"Hmph." Maria's opinion of dukes was clear. "I'll speak with Anna Margretha, Eleonore."

Or maybe he can, considered Heinrich. Shall I envy Dag, pity him, or enjoy the spectacle?

****

Rödvinge explained matters, smiling the whole while, iron, composed. Viking.

"Thanks to Valtti, we've time yet." His smile thinned. "I have time yet. Enough to explain."

"This"—he held up The Protocols, "is the Judenhasser grimoire, Satanic scripture, manifest Evil! Responsible, directly responsible for Auschwitz, Treblinka, 'the giant machinery of murder'!" He threw it to the corpse. "Valtti earned his death. Infected, corrupted, he no longer deserved life. No loss."

He glanced at the door. "Yes, I locked it." A shoulder twitch. "Only so we're undisturbed. However"—a glance to the windows—"you can shout, if you like. On my honor"—he unholstered his revolver, extracting the bullets—"I'll do you no harm."

Finished, he handed the H&K butt-first to Kirchbein, who with both hands cautiously took it.

"There. I'm disarmed. You're all civilians except Frings, and Frings, I order you, stand aside. Frings, what'd I order?"

Frings, stood solid, a boulder. He rumbled, "Stand aside, sir." He bit his lip. "Sir, maybe call it an accident, Valtti showing off . . . "

As Rödvinge said no, Schallermair bent and picked up pages, saying, "What a mess, what-a-mess!"

Roeders joined him, Frings following.

Kirchbein looked to the revolver in his hands. Odd—such a small thing.

He stepped beside Rödvinge.

Nobody moved, not to the door, not to the windows.

"Right, that's us settled. Now what?" asked Daluege.

"Indeed," mused Adolph Eschwege. "Now what?"

All looked to Rödvinge, Kirchbein.

"Honestly? I have no idea." admitted Kirchbein. "This is beyond anything I know, Dag. Anything."

Leaning back, twisting enough, he saw the corpse laying knees up, head propped on the wall. As he watched, its lungs cleared air, a bubble of viscous blood emerging slowly from the throat, popping soundless.

Suppressing tremors, he eyed Rödvinge. "Anything!"

Glancing at the H&K, shrugging, he handed it back, saying, "I'm hoping you have ideas, Dag. Really, really hoping!"

Rödvinge nodded, smoothly reloaded. Done, gun holstered, he spoke.

"Several, Han. First, this isn't your concern. Valtti was an officer. I still am. This is an Army base. Military, not civilian." He scowled, winter-grey. "You're all witnesses, though! Honest witnesses! Nothing less!"

He smiled, a slow, brightening mood. "That said, here's my plan. Tactics. Strategy." Leaning slightly forward, Rödvinge said, "Valtti was the senior officer. Was. I am, now. He commanded, I command." Spreading his arms out, he stated, "There. That's it. Simple."

Kirchbein whistled, a long, low sibilation. "You really think that'll work?"

Rödvinge's smile was wry, whimsical. "Yes. I only need a few hours, enough to radio Magdeburg, say what happened, and get my orders. After that"—he sighed, long, low—"after that, whatever happens, Wismar's safe."

He grinned mischief. "That said, no need to say how I'm in command, no need, not at all! Just that I am! It would only distress them downstairs!"

Kirchbein shook his head, mixing patience, exasperation. "Rödvinge . . . Dag, you'd go to your grave laughing, wouldn't you?"

Rödvinge laughed, short, sardonic. "When better, Han? When better, and really, aren't I? Now?"

Abruptly striding to the door, he unlocked, opened it. "Men, follow me. Time's a-wasting!"

****

Rödvinge pushed open a heavy, iron-bound door—a fifth the weight, a tenth the ornament of the upstairs battleship—stepping into the Citadel's administrative center, followed by Kirchbein, councilors, Lang, Lötter, Hartenstein, Frings, and Roeders.

The room, made from two or three smaller ones, and as large as Valtti's, was set some fifty or sixty feet rightwards of the Citadel bridge. Leaded bull's eye windows all opened onto the drill ground. Directly across were the stables and barracks, with a farrier attending a horse. The whitewashed walls smelled faintly of lime, pleasantly astringent. Painted on them were the flags of Sweden, the Union of Kalmar, and the United States of Europe, in company with large, black-and-white photographs of King Gustav II Adolf and Princess Kristina Vasa.

Six Franklin cast-iron stoves were spaced equidistantly throughout, each seated on a square of red bricks mortared in place. Stovepipes rose into the ceiling, presumably helping heat rooms above. Atop each stove were lanterns, copies of up-time campground equipment, necessary when the day's light receded.

Office furniture was utilitarian, befitting an Army base. Chairs at desks or neatly at the walls were copies of the ubiquitous ones of America's Old West; known now as destry rides, from up-time actor Jimmy Stewart's character in the classic Western. A truly awful pun, as everybody agreed, and few swore off.

The desks, really tables with a drawer, were also reproductions, of a Royal Canadian Air Force bureau of the Second World War found by Kudzu Werke in a Grantville shed. Battered, broken, wood wasp-eaten, iron rusting, its inherent sturdiness and construction simplicity resulted in "Royal Canadian" tables being built across the continent—right down to printing "RCAF" and village/town names on the undersides. Humorists claimed it was a miracle; the RCAF had no planes, no pilots, no country, yet was everywhere!

A clerk riding at a miracle clacked an abacus, determined something from the balls, and recorded the results in a ledger. He glanced at the newcomers, again clacked the balls, frowned, skipped the ledger back a page. A wood crate close to him contained a curled-up tip-to-tail sleeping calico cat, likely brought over from the nearby stables to chase away mice and water rats. The box was padded with rags, showing somebody, probably the clerk, indulged the office mouser with some affection.

At another desk was Lieutenant Myrgren, seated, speaking with Captain Lars Gardfjell, second-in-command of the Citadel.

Gardfjell was out of place. An inch or two shorter than Rödvinge, with a trimmed black beard, hair cut the same, cerulean eyes made for looking upon distant shores, casting agents would forever have him as a master captain and commander, sailing through howling spray, hurricane waves, and hard wind until the weary, worn-out storms departed. Instead, he was a captain in King Gustav's Army of Sweden, fortress-stationed, likely quite capable, but oh, how unromantic!

Miscast, mayhaps; however, he stood, with equanimity greeting Rödvinge and company.

"Ah, Major Rödvinge! Lieutenant Myrgren said you and your group would come by. Major Valtti isn't with you?"

Rödvinge shook Gardfjell's hand. "No, he's upstairs."

"Ah," answered Gardfjell. "That's right, we've a meeting scheduled, about drill. Uniforms. Myrgren, show them around, will you? I'll be back soon, so with your permission, Major—"

Gardfjell, covering for Valtti as seconds-in-command do, stepped aside to leave. Rödvinge stepped in, preventing him.

"Captain, your diplomacy is wasted. Admirable, but wasted. Valtti is relieved of command, for refusing to defend Wismar. Directly against the King's orders. As senior officer in Wismar, I now command."

Lieutenant Myrgren blinked.

The clerk, fervent devotee, concentrated on his ledgers.

The cat dozed.

Captain Gardfjell stood impassive, unmoved. Unconvinced.

"Relieved? Major Rödvinge, that is—Sir, this is not—I must speak with Major Valtti. I require confirmation!"

"Captain, Valtti is relieved, he has nothing to say. As for confirmation, Airman Frings!" boomed Rödvinge.

"Sir!" answered Frings, diamond-sharp salute, strike.

"Report everything to Base Chief Matowski—everything. Radio the same to Colonel Ekstrom and report back with his orders. Repeat these orders."

"Sir!" repeated Frings. "Report everything to Base Chief Matowski, everything, radio the same to Colonel Ekstrom, report back here with his orders!"

"Good. Also, get a horse, gallop there and back!"

"Sir! Get a horse, gallop there and back!" Frings saluted again, double-timed out the office and across the drill ground, figuring necessity transcended protocol. Report everything?! The chief'll go ape! And ohhhh, ride a horse? That'll be fun! He moaned, pinching his nose, already feeling a wheeze. I'm not in the Air Force just because I like the color blue, Major Rödvinge, sir!

****

Captain Gardfjell continued remonstrating.

"Major Rödvinge, whatever Frings may report, he won't return soon. I must see Major Valtti. Excuse me, sir, I said, excuse me, sir!" he cried.

Kirchbein was now in his way.

"Ah, Captain, Lars, Valtti is—indisposed. He doesn't need anybody seeing him just now." Leave it alone, Gardfjell, leave it alone!

"Very true." Eschwege cut Gardfjell off from indirect exit and spoke affably. "Being relieved hurt. He went white from the shock. Collapsed. I doubt he's recovered."

Schallermair, close by, snorted, also up-thumbed, agreeing, approving his father-in-law's semantics.

The acts and words were lost on Gardfjell.

"More reason to see him. Excuse me, Mayor, Herr Eschwege! Herr Gonterman!"

As Gardfjell spoke, Schallermair and Daluege moved in behind, preventing retreat.

Myrgren stood to go check and saw Lang, Roeders, Hartenstein and Lötter casually placing themselves in front of the door they'd entered through.

The clerk studied numbers.

Mops (the cat) woke, stretched, circled, slumped, slept.

Seebass recorded all, thinking of home. How'd the meeting go, dear? Boring as usual? Yes, just the one killing, how was your day?

Rödvinge's command or the disparity of force working, Gardfjell essayed soft answers. "Major Rödvinge, this is—Major Rödvinge, we have plans, objectives—"

"Good. Tell me."

Gardfjell first glanced to the door. "Major Rödvinge, I can't—"

"Talk in front of civilians, Captain? Is that it?"

Gardfjell opened, closed his mouth, opened, nodded.

"Captain, do those plans involve the local Committee?"

Nod.

"Detrimental, possibly?"

Gardfjell nodded, answering, "Yes. Possibly."

"Cancel those, Gardfjell. No, I will. Lieutenant Myrgren!"

"Sir!" Myrgren stood to attention, relieved somebody was doing something. Even though it was that, um, oddish major from Kristina Base. Maybe it was from hanging around up-timers? All that Amerikanisch?

"Everybody on the drill field, Lieutenant! Lined up, by the numbers, and everybody, Myrgren, means the guards, gunners, everybody!"

"Yes, sir! Nilsson, double time, on the grounds, now!"

"Yessir!" Nilsson shut his ledger, stood, and double-timed out behind Myrgren.

Mops yawned, stretched, jumped up, flopping onto the ledger, securing it as proper and correct guard-cats do.

Lang, watching, smiled. Eleonore should hire it too!

****

Gardfjell, promising himself to later school Myrgren on orders, obeying of, faced the lunatic major and the equally crazed civilians he'd somehow persuaded. Yes, civilians wouldn't know better, but this was insane!

"Major Rödvinge, what are you doing? You aren't Captain Gars! You can't relieve Major Valtti, you can't!"

"Gardfjell." Rödvinge was composed. "I have. Think. If Valtti objected, he'd be here, he isn't. Now. Think. Kay-Base's ordered nothing about the CoCs, right? The answer's yes, right?"

"Yes, but—" protested Gardfjell. "Major, they hanged people! Hanged them! Defied the King! They did! He can't have—"

Rödvinge's voice turned cool. "Captain, King Gustav cannot, cannot, have his Army act without his orders. Now, again, Gardfjell, what has King Gustav ordered about the committees?"

"Nothing, but—"

"No, Gardfjell. Nothing, that's what matters. Nothing else, nothing."

Gardfjell opened his mouth.

Rödvinge held an index finger up, for silence, for thought.

Gardfjell spoke. "Sir."

Rödvinge smiled, pleasant, spritely.

"Good. Also, Gardfjell, consider this. Whatever happens, you win."

"Sir?" asked Gardfjell, confused.

"When Kay-Base says I command, then you're superbly conducting your duties, as I and the council will say."

Nods, uh-huhs, yeses came from the council.

"If they say I'm not—they won't, but if—then you kept bad from going worse. As the council will say."

Nods, uh-huhs, etc.

Working for Major Valtti often meant watching him ride a hobby horse, tidying up when he went on to something, someone, else. Working for Major Rödvinge promised more of the same.

"As you say, sir."

"Good. We'll inspect the men soon, Captain. Right now, we'll inspect the office. Your desk is?"

So very, very much the same. "There, Major, next to Major Valtti's office."

"Yes-s-s; Captain, why the?" asked Rödvinge, pointing upstairs.

Gardfjell diplomatically explained, "Major Valtti uses upstairs to impress visitors, Major Rödvinge." Awe, impress, dominate . . .

"Idiot. Him, not you." Rödvinge checked Gardfjell's desk. Drawer, open, check, close. File cabinets, open, check, close, open, check . . .

Rödvinge held a Protocols. A third of one.

"What's this, Captain?" he asked. Uncommon, that quiet. Otherly.

Gardfjell abandoned diplomacy.

"Oh, for—! It's the Major's—Major Valtti's—latest idea, sir. A stupid one. I tried talking him out of it, but he won't listen! On this he won't listen," he amended. "He gives me those, sir. I use them in the jakes!"

Exasperation colored his voice and face. "It—they're stupid, sir! Very stupid, I tell him! Even before that Nilsdotter woman thought of work righteousness—which is right, sir, right!—they're stupid!"

Gardfjell agitatedly shook. "Why he won't—but all the same, sir, the Committees can't hang people! Not in Mecklenburg, that—that won't end well! Why they—why are you grinning, sir, this isn't funny! Nothing about this, those, this is funny!"

Rödvinge sighed, grave now, serious. "You're right. It isn't. Only, your answer was beautiful. It's perfect. Valtti's wasn't!"

He pointed to his throat. "I shot him for it. Right here, out his neck."

Gardfjell stared. "S-Sir?" It can't be!

Then he saw the civilians.

Oh dear God . . .

"Gardfjell. Captain Gardfjell. Look at me. Look. At. Me."

Gardfjell did, at the changeling before him.

"Captain. Remember what I told Frings. I told him what? What?"

Gardfjell swallowed. "To—to report to the base."

Rödvinge nodded approval. "Yes, Gardfjell. I ordered Frings to report everything. Everything. And report back, Gardfjell, report Colonel Ekstrom's orders, the King's orders. Meaning what, Captain?"

Gardfjell stared, shaking his head in small jolts side to side, unsure, uncertain.

"Meaning I command, Gardfjell. I do. Until Frings reports, Gardfjell. Maybe still, afterward." Rödvinge held Gardfjell in his sight, his resolute sight. "But until then, I command!"

Gardfjell found his voice. "No—no more. No more killing, Major. No."

"Fair," conceded Rödvinge. "Very well. No more." Yet. "But we will inspect the Citadel, Captain. We. Together. Anybody found with that, anything like that"—he pointed to the Protocols— "jailed. Instantly, no argument, Gardfjell. In-stant-ly."

"Ah," cautioned Gardfjell, "Major Valtti always has—had, copies, sir. Most—most use theirs like I do."

"Really." Rödvinge's tone was dry enough to burn, thinking of how Valtti could 'always' have copies. A talk with Plagge is called for . . . I hope only talk . . .

"Most, Gardfjell, isn't all. Most is why we check, Gardfjell. First, though . . ."

Walking over to Kirchbein, he extended a hand. "Mayor, thank you for your help." A quick eye-sweep of the room. "Everybody, thank you!" He spoke ruefully. "I swear, none of this is how I planned it! None!"

Kirchbein firmly shook Rödvinge's hand, sympathizing. "It rarely is, Major— Dag." He grinned. "It's been good, though, Dag! Really!"

"Yes." Schallermair, dry, also extended a hand. "Overall."

"Quite so." Eschwege decided to forego "Franz my lad" as indecorous. "Overall, quite a good day, really."

"Yes, not bad" Arkenau agreed. "So, we're done, then? Say yes, Dag!"

"Yes, Aurie." Rödvinge refused the straight line. Time and place, Dag! "Until Fring's back, yes. Although—Karl, Werner, could you stay longer? Not much longer, I hope!"

Hartenstein's eyebrows rose. "For what, Dag?"

Gesturing to Gardfjell, Rödvinge explained. "We'll check for Protocols. I want you as witnesses for whatever's found. Might find. Gardfjell, your view?"

"Oh, absolutely, Major. Quite smart." Not getting ideas here, no, sir!

Rödvinge smiled, a quick lift of the mouth. "Quite." It's only for now, Captain! Just for now!

The well-wishes and good-byes diminishing, he walked over to Valtti's office. "May as well start here, Gardfjell, Karl, Werner. Lötter." A call to Kirchbein. "Han, soon as I hear from Magdeburg, I'll let you know my . . . the orders."

"I look forw—well. Thanks again, Dag, and—and I doubt it'll be as bad as you think!"

No, worse, thought Rödvinge, outwardly agreeing.

Soon after, only Rödvinge, Captain Gardfjell, Lang, Hartenstein, and Lötter were in the Citadel offices.

Outside on the drill ground, the garrison assembled, at attention, many with dark, murkish thoughts about rotten, annoying "hurry up and wait" officers.

Gardfjell pointed upstairs. "Major Rödvinge, Valtti's body is only getting worse."

Rödvinge looked up, shrugged. "Seems a shame to move him. He liked it so!"

He walked into the office. Behind him Lang and Hartenstein chivvied an appalled Captain Gardfjell in.

Lang whispered, "The man's fey, Captain. Touched. Let him be!"

****

Rödvinge stood on the Citadel walls the next day, the early morning sun shining bright.

Yesterday's inspection found others with noxious, poisonous Protocols. Missing pages, smell, occasional stains proved most used theirs as wipes. One soldier with an intact copy argued, "Yes, but really no. I only got it this morning, that's why. Otherwise I use it like it deserves. Honest, Major, I do!"

Since Gardfjell, Myrgren, and his fellow soldiers agreed, that man got a pass.

Others, seeing that, claimed the same; dog-eared pages, penciled remarks, other Judenhasser material proved them liars. Inept ones.

They then blamed the Plagges. When told, Konrad Plagge asked his shop and home be searched. He wanted it known he, his family, were not, repeat not, never, Judenhasser!

The Plagges were innocent (or intelligent!), with Konrad offering free repair for Auschwitz and Apparatus. Dag accepted, as a life-line. Matowski I can face, Grantville librarians sure, but the hurt in Morris and Judith Roth's eyes, or their concern . . . . no!

As for the liars, their number increased when the Wismar council, militia, and town watch cheerfully tossed to the Citadel the still-stinking drunk, brown-trousered pustulous arse-boil Sumka (the council's actual words!) for twice attacking the Citadel commander. Oh, that all happened before he was? Eh, what's a day, really?

That evening, liars and pustule were executed by firing squad. On Gustav II Adolf's orders, by his right as Duke of Mecklenburg.

The duke's orders also confirmed Rödvinge as Wismar Citadel commander, also as its peacekeeper. Somehow learning of the concept and calling it laudable, Gustav Adolf named Rödvinge the world's first such. Congratulations, Major Rödvinge, congratulations! Chief Matowski's apology—Major, he never heard it from me!—provided a laugh. Helpful that, after the (memorable) orders from Colonel Ekstrom.

Ah well. Rödvinge scanned horizons with Valtti's spyglass. I never expected to make old bones anyway, soldiering for the King.

Motion from the streets below made him turn and look.

Plagge and Sons' latest posters and broadsheets were being pasted on walls. Townsfolk were reading, moving, talking.

Children, attracted by the novelty, larked about asking questions, pointing, clustering, separating, clustering anew. Aurelius Arkenau headed one such clutch, with Kata Plagge and three other girls, presumably her fellow thieves, Aurie's granddaughters.

As Rödvinge watched, Aurie pointed to a broadsheet, saying something.

The scene made Rödvinge smile. He twisted the spyglass to bring the group closer—one girl turned, waving, as though she saw—

A shout from the Meckelburger gate shifted Rödvinge away.

Yesterday, executions done, he'd sent Myrgren with a platoon out on horseback to find and protect the Wismar CoC. Now—

Spyglass up, out, checking there, there—

There!

Myrgren, his men, riding double with civilians, Myrgren at the rear, firing behind, at—

"SKIT!" screamed Rödvinge.

Another group, also mounted, and from the swords, muskets, blunderbusses, not friends!

Rödvinge lowered the telescope.

The militia atop the Meckelburger Thor couldn't risk shooting; from their angle they'd be firing right over Myrgren's lot. That didn't mean they wouldn't, militia being militia, plus—

Rödvinge raised the scope, checking the second group—yes, somebody there understood the same, screaming at his lot to hasten—annoying when they have brains. Rödvinge lowered the telescope, considering—

—the militia shouldn't fire, too much risk of hitting—

—but when the pursuers got close—

—but from the Citadel, from this angle—his angle—

"Corporal!" yelled Rödvinge to the nearest gun captain, a Corporal Langlet.

"Sir!" replied he.

Rödvinge pointed to the second set of riders. "They have as long to live as it takes to aim. Tell me when!"

"Yes, sir!" answered Langlet, his crew already moving, loading.

Rödvinge yelled down the line, "Load, men, load!"

A seeming eternity later, Langlet shouted, "READY!"

"FIRE!" shouted Rödvinge.

****

Various historians later claimed Major Dag Rödvinge thus began the Committee of Correspondences' Mecklenburg campaign, culminating with the Battle of Güstrow.

It was a defining moment for the Committees, for the United States of Europe.

Others, primarily Swedish, opined that while greatly significant, since Rödvinge was never a CoC member nor a USE citizen, claiming it for the Committees and for the USE was at best odd, at worst silly.

Charges of parochialism and stolen glory thus resulted, with a third group criticizing the first two for making 'Rödvinge in Wismar' into theology, not history!

Rödvinge, had anybody asked, would have answered frankly. All he'd thought of as he'd stood on the walls of Wismar directing artillery fire was,

I'm here to buy land. That's all. Just that! Buy land!

How'd it get this forest-fire CRAZY?

I mean, I know how. Still, really,

HOW?

****

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