He was immensely relieved. All his deepest fears vanished. And began to be replaced with the first calculations for the future.
No witchcraft. Mackay was right. As for the rest-
Gustav swiveled in his chair and glanced at the two men standing toward the rear of the farmhouse. They had remained there at his request. Gustav had wanted to make a private assessment of the Americans, before pursuing anything else. But the matter had taken much less time than he expected, and he was satisfied that he could press onward. What he had thought would be a mystery, had proven otherwise. Or, rather, had proven to be the familiar mystery of divine providence.
With a little wave of the hand, he summoned the two men forward. As for the rest-
Who are we to question God's will? And who else could create such a Ring of Fire?
Which was quite as it should be. Gustav felt a rush of warmth for the Americans sitting across the table from him. They too-even this most outlandish folk he had ever heard of-were God's creatures, after all. Able to marvel at His handiwork, but not to understand it.
"As it should be…" he murmured.
The two men arrived at the table. "Sit," he commanded. With a pointing finger, he introduced them. "Wilhelm of Saxe-Weimar, the eldest duke. And Lennart Torstensson, my artillery commander."
Torstensson was obviously on the verge of bursting into speech, but Gustav restrained him with a sharp glance. First things first.
"You have created a difficult situation for me in Thuringia," the king said abruptly, speaking to the Americans. "Wilhelm here is one of my few reliable German allies, and you seem to have expropriated his duchy out from under him. This is-very awkward."
The Jewess cast a quick glance at Saxe-Weimar. Then, squaring her shoulders, she began to speak. But Wilhelm interrupted her before she was able to utter more than a few words.
"Please! I do not wish to add to the king of Sweden's problems." Wilhelm gestured with his head toward the door of the farmhouse. "Tilly's army is encamped less than two miles away, on the opposite bank of the Lech. The king intends to force the crossing tomorrow. This is not the time for political wrangling among his allies."
The last sentence produced a sudden stillness. Silence. Then, within seconds, it brought a pronounced easing of tensions at the table. The duke of Saxe-Weimar had now stated openly what had heretofore not been addressed. The fact that no one-not the king, not the Americans-had challenged the statement proved its truth. The new American regime was now accepted-in word as well as in deed-as an ally of Gustav Adolf. The nature of that alliance, of course, had yet to be determined.
Wilhelm continued. "May I suggest that we therefore leave aside, for the time being, any discussion of the future status of the province." He squared his own slender shoulders and looked directly at Rebecca. "I ask two things only. The first-"
He stumbled to a halt. For an instant, his features seemed to twist slightly. Chagrin? No-shame.
"I have been told that there was no starvation in the province, during the past winter. This is true?"
After Rebecca translated, the middle-aged American male cleared his throat. He began to speak, in halting German. The Jewess aided him past the rough spots. "No one has starved. Actually-by our best estimate, which is admittedly very crude-we think the population of southern Thuringia has quadrupled. Since we arrived a year ago."
The statement was met by blank, wide-eyed stares from Wilhelm and the two Swedes at the table. Quadrupled? In central Germany? During this war?
Hastily, almost apologetically, Piazza added: "Not natural increase, of course! Well, some. But there were so many refugees from elsewhere."
Wilhelm's shoulders slumped. He wiped his lowered face. "Thank God," he whispered. "That much is not on my soul, at least."
He raised his head. "That is my first request, then. Please do your best to continue providing that shelter and comfort. As for the second-"
He managed a smile. A thin smile, true, but a genuine one nonetheless. "I would appreciate it if you would do nothing-take no public stance-which forces me to make public defense of my rights. As the king says, that would be-awkward."
The Americans exchanged glances. It was obvious to Gustav that they were groping for a response. And equally obvious-this took not more than five seconds-to whom they turned for leadership. Soon enough, they were all staring at Rebecca, waiting for her to speak.
Gustav found a certain satisfaction in seeing, once again, that his keen political eye had not failed him. But he found a much greater satisfaction-a reassurance, in truth-in the fact that it was a person in their delegation who was not born an American to whom they turned. Mechanical wizards, yes. Wizards, no.
Rebecca spoke softly. "I cannot say anything specific, Duke. Not here, and not now. I do not have the authority. But this much I can say: the legal documents which guide the United States-we call them the Constitution and the Bill of Rights-are not…" She hesitated; then: "Let me put it this way. They are concerned with the positive, not the negative. They establish rights and responsibilities, rather than take them away. If you see what I mean."
Simultaneously, Wilhelm and Gustav smiled.
"How diplomatic," murmured the king happily. "Such a nice turn of phrase."
He cocked his head at Saxe-Weimar. "Wilhelm?"
The duke made a little gesture with his hand, wriggling fingers, to accompany the wry twist of his lips. The combination was subtly comical. "As you say, Your Majesty. A nice turn of phrase, indeed. I imagine we can spend quite a bit of time parsing that phrase."
He glanced at the door. "More than long enough, I should think, to see Tilly and Wallenstein done for." He brought his eyes back to Rebecca. "Afterward…"
"Is afterward," said the king firmly. "Good enough!"
He turned now to Torstensson. "All right, Lennart," he growled. "Spit it out."
Lennart was speaking before the king even finished. Unlike Gustav, he was fluent in English.
"How did you manage it?" he demanded. "Those bores are perfectly identical!" Scowling: "It's impossible! Absurd, even-I don't have cannonballs to match that precision."
Piazza smiled and leaned over. Rummaging in a bag at his feet, he brought out some sort of peculiar instrument.
"Ollie thought you might ask." He extended the instrument to Torstensson. The thing, for all the evident precision of its manufacture, vaguely resembled a sort of clamp. Hesitantly, the artillery general took it in his hand.
"It's called a micrometer," said Rebecca. Quickly, drawing on her own briefing from Ollie, she explained the basic workings of the gadget. "Precision screw-each turn of the barrel records precisely one-fortieth of an inch-point-oh-two-five inches, as machinists prefer to say-each little mark-see here? how it matches against this other?-measures exactly one-thousandth of an inch-"
"One thousandth?" choked Torstensson. He rotated the barrel back and forth, staring at the matching lines. "How can you make something this precise?"
"We can't," replied Rebecca. "Not easily, at least-although our experts think we could, over time, make something equivalent."
Now it was her turn to grope for words. "To do so would require machines which we do not have. And machines to make those machines-which we also do not have. The Ring of Fire brought only what was available in the town of Grantville. Sooner or later, many of our machines and instruments will wear out. They cannot be replaced, not directly. The computers, for instance, presuppose an entire electronics industry-"