At the library, yes. But that wasn't why his pulse was suddenly racing. By the time he forced the deeper memory to the surface, the man and his companion had left the cafe, and disappeared out of sight.
He called over the waitress. "The man that just left-the swarthy one with the odd hat. I think he dropped this." Egilsson held up the book that he had been reading. "Do you know his name? I should bring it to him."
The waitress stood in contemplation for a moment. "No . . . Oh, yes, I do know him. That is Cornelis Jansen of Amsterdam. Do you want to leave the book with me, to give him the next time he comes?"
"No, I am sure I have seen him at the library. I will give the book to him there, I'd like to talk to him about it."
Not from Amsterdam, he thought. From the vestibule of Hell . . . the Corsair Republic of Sale. Cornelis Janszoon van Sallee was the son of the Dutch renegade Jan Janszoon, Admiral Murad Reis. As Olafur knew from slave gossip, Murad's ships had raided Reykjavik even while the Algierian corsairs had ransacked Olafur's Westmanneyjar. Olafur had seen Cornelis in Algiers, which he had visited as his father's agent.
Olafur mentally reviewed how much money he had left. It was, he thought, sufficient to buy an up-time pistol.
****
Christine hated being asked a question and not knowing the answer. It was like a tooth ache. You could try to ignore it, but sooner or later you had to do something about it. Christine headed back to the library to look up the prehistory of refrigeration. That led her to fish out the copy of Walden Pond she had to read for school.
On the weekend, she visited the nursing homes, figuring that some of the residents were old enough to remember the days before refrigerators were common. Then she quizzed the senior researchers at the GRC, many of whom were retirees, although not quite as old.
Gradually, she put together a new plan . . . "Third's the charm . . ." she said to herself.
****
Cornelis and Sergio left the Grantville Public Library shortly after sunset.
A voice spoke from the shadows. "Janszoon."
Cornelis turned, and froze when he saw the gun pointed at him. A gun held by Olafur Egilsson.
"Cornelis Janszoon van Sallee, the Pirate Prince. Glory be to the Almighty, that he would deliver you to me. At last I will have vengeance for the people of the Westman Islands, and the East Fjords, that were carried off as slaves to Algiers. Including myself and my family."
"You said, 'van Sallee,' so you know I am from there, not Algiers."
"Does it matter whether you are from Sodom, or from Gomorrah? Evil is evil. Your father led the devils of Sallee against the poor fishermen of Grindavik. For all I know, you were there yourself. But even if you weren't, you surely prospered from their misery.
Cornelis' companion cleared his throat.
"I have no quarrel with you," said Egilsson, "provided you do not interfere."
"I beg of you, listen to me," the companion pleaded. "My name is Sergio Antonelli and I am a Venetian merchant. Like you, I was a prisoner of the corsairs. I was given my liberty to guide Cornelis Janszoon safely to Grantville, and back. My son remains as hostage in the palace of Murad Reis, and if Cornelis does not return on time . . . things will go very ill for him."
Egilsson put his free hand over his heart. "I will pray for you and your son. But why would a lord of Sallee come to Grantville, but to learn their arts of destruction? How many more good Christians would die, or labor in servitude and degradation, if this servant of Satan is allowed to return to Sallee?"
That was when Christine arrived on the scene. She turned the corner, and spotted Egilsson. "Hello, Reverend Egilsson, I have good-What are you doing with that gun? Are those men threatening you? Should I call the police?"
Egilsson shook his head. "Do you Americans not say, 'God helps those who help themselves?' This man, this van Sallee, is a corsair spy, here to tell the pirates how to build your steamships and exploding shells and who knows what else. If I let him live, what will happen to poor Iceland? And if I cannot raise the ransom, then his death will be some modicum of vengeance for my countrymen."
Antonelli shook his head slowly. "Have you forgotten the words, 'Vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord'?"
"Even the Devil . . . or a Papist . . . can quote Scripture."
"Please, hear me out," said Cornelis. "If you have lived in Algiers, then you know that it lives or dies by the slave trade. And Sale is the same. If there is any chance that this will change, it will be because I bring new arts home from Grantville."
Olafur made a noise that was almost a chuckle. "You expect me to believe that your father, the admiral, sent you to Grantville to learn how to beat your swords into ploughshares and your spears into pruning hooks?"
"It's true that he's interested in the up-timers' art of war. Their muskets, their cannon, and especially their flying machines. But what I have learned is that all the great powers of Europe also have their spies here, and are learning to copy up-time weapons. Some of them, at least. Sale is smaller even than Magdeburg, so how can it compete?
"If I can find a practical alternative to the slave trade . . . And I admit it's a big "if" . . . then perhaps we will consider peaceful trade. At least with some of the European states, I doubt that we will be quick to forgive Spain for the way it treated the people of Islam."
Olafur twitched slightly, but the gun barrel remained steady. "A nice speech. Antonelli, how much of that is true?"
"Sir, we have discovered that in the Atlas Mountains, Morocco has much mineral wealth. Minerals that might find a market-"
"And who would mine those minerals?" Olafur demanded. "I'll tell you, the poor slaves. The corsairs would redouble their efforts."
"Only if the European navies let them," said Antonelli. "And the USE has declared strongly against slavery. A black woman, Sharon Nichols, is now the USE Envoy in Rome. It is a message that all the diplomats and merchants of Europe can easily read.
"We would, of course, have to find goods that the people of Sale would want to buy, so they would welcome European trading ships. Based on the encyclopedias, we are thinking about cotton, tea, flour, and manufactured goods."
Christine spoke. "Reverend Egilsson, please. I think I found a way for Icelanders to pay the ransom. With goods that would be in demand in Algiers, if not in cash. Your family can be recovered. But not if you put yourself in jail for murder."
She tried to smile. "And you know, the library will revoke your borrowing privileges if you kill a fellow patron."
Ever so slowly, Olafur lowered the gun. "Can't have that," he said with an answering smile, albeit a fleeting one.
"Thank you, Reverend Egilsson. And if you wouldn't mind, please safety and holster it, too." He did so.
Antonelli put his hand on Janszoon's shoulder. "We'd best leave."
He shook the hand off. "Not just yet. Milady, what are the goods you speak of?
"Ice. Which Iceland has in abundance, you'll concede? Ice cream. Meats, fruits and vegetables preserved by being packed with ice. Mr. van Sallee, wouldn't those be wonderful luxuries for your people? And if not for them, they could be sold in Spain, or Italy, or Turkey. Or perhaps in Brazil, or Spanish America. Or even India."
"The ice will melt along the way."
"There's a solution. There was once a big natural ice trade in America, in the nineteenth century. They cut ice at places like Walden Pond, and shipped it out to Charleston, and Havana, and even Calcutta, packed in sawdust. Or other insulation, but sawdust was the best."
"Sawdust?" asked Egilsson. "I met a woman engineer at St. Martin's who told me about her work at the steam sawmill."
"Sara Lynn," said Christine. "Perhaps you could have her ask them to donate the sawdust. It might be good publicity for the sawmill. And a good marketing gimmick, too, as it demonstrates how sawdust can be used."