That wouldn't stop the questions, though. Willem Krause's room had been cleared out the day he died, before anyone had thought to look. No one knew who was financing him. For all Darius knew, it was the Masons or the Illuminati, though they weren't even supposed to have started till next century.
It didn't matter. Willem Krause had built an airplane. He had flown it, if only for a few seconds and had died providing a bit more understanding of what conquering the skies cost and how it was done. His wasn't the first name on the wall of the Grantville airport tower and it wouldn't be the last. But this was the first time that Darius or Gemma had known the person behind the name on the wall.
Darius held Gemma's hand and thought about flying. About how the Arrow might be modified and made to fly. It should be possible.
****
Mitzi the Kid
Southeastern Poland
Summer, 1634
The sun rose toward high noon. A buzzard circled slowly over his head as the gunfighter stepped from the saloon. Red dust puffed up from each step, and the sneer on his face was even more twisted than before.
Mitzi the Kid stood up from the chair in front of the Marshall's office. "Black Bart, what are you doing in town? Didn't I throw you out yesterday?"
Black Bart spit into the street. "You're nothing but a sniveling little mouse, and I never listen to mice."
Mitzi stepped into the middle of the street. Women grabbed their children and hid inside shops. Black Bart's eyes were like flat river rocks. "Draw, you lily-livered coward." Mitzi stood and watched him for a movement.
There, Black Bart's finger twitched. Mitzi's gun cleared leather and started firing before Black Bart could get his gun out. The man in black fell to the ground, and there was silence . . .
Broken by whistling.
Mitzi sat up, suddenly aware that he had fallen asleep with his precious book on his face. He definitely didn't want to be caught with the book again, not when he should be picking rocks. He hid the book under a couple of rocks on the sledge, and hurried over to the first furrow from last fall. He would have to get the rocks out before they could plow and plant this spring. He found a rock, and tossed it to the pile at the edge of the field before the whistler could top the hill behind him.
Mitzi bent over, grabbed another chunk of rock, and with a quick twist of his shoulders threw the rock to the pile. At least he was still close enough to the edge of the field that he didn't have to use the sledge. Dragging a sledge full of rocks was one of Mitzi's least favorite activities. He bent, threw another rock, bent, threw rock, then more of the same.
He kept working as the whistling stopped. Then he heard a familiar voice. "Mstislav, I see you're picking rocks."
Mitzi looked over, and it was Aleksy! "I'm Mitzi. I'm fourteen, great-grandfather was Mstislav. And shouldn't you be at your duties? Were you dismissed? Are you back for good?"
Aleksy laughed as he gave his little brother a hug, and pounded him on the back. "No. The count declared a break. I think it is a new mistress. And while most of my workmates could only talk about having parties and entertainment, I'm here to see what you've been neglecting."
Mitzi grinned as well. "And you walked the whole eighty miles?"
Aleksy shook his head. "No, I was able to ride part of the way. Otherwise, I'd still be on the road."
Mitzi and Aleksy sat down on the sledge and pulled grass stems to chew on. Mitzi leaned back on his elbows. "I was sad to see you go. How long will you be home? Now that you're gone, it's been my job to pick the rocks before the first plowing. I was hoping you were back for good."
Aleksy laughed and leaned on his elbows as well. "Wishful thinking, brother. Even if I were back for good, I'd get a different job than picking rocks. That's yours!"
"I've been reading that book you brought. I've read it through twice already. Who is this man, the author? He sounds like some Frenchman, with a name like L'Amour."
Aleksy tousled Mitzi's hair. "From what I could find out, he was an American, but he doesn't live here in Europe. He was from before the miracle." Aleksy pulled a little booklet from his shirt. "But I learned about something even better than L'Amour. I brought it home to show the village elders. They probably will want to have a meeting tonight, so I don't think anyone else will have time to come out here and catch you sleeping again."
Mitzi blushed, but his discomfiture was quickly forgotten. "What is it? Is it a story as well?"
"No, it's in good German. It's just a couple of pamphlets. They're about something called the grange."
****
Mitzi arrived at the village meeting early, so he could get a good seat. He was perched on a barrel very close to the front. As always, the gathering was in the open area between all the houses.
With only seven extended families, and nine houses, this wasn't the largest village in the district. There wasn't a shop of any kind, so nobody sold spices. That meant that they were not a town. They had their own small scriptorium, but it wasn't really large enough for the meeting, so they met in the courtyard.
In the old days, when Uncle Olek was a young man, the village had been the direct support of the manor. But when the manor house had burned down twenty years ago, the Olbermann family moved off to the town and left the village elders in charge of making sure that the fields were planted and rents were paid. Even the manor was twenty minutes walk from the village. And so the village became sleepier and less exciting week by week and month by month.
He smiled as he saw Frau Walczak, bustling around in the cobble-stoned space between the houses. She always called it a courtyard, saying that even castles did not have so fine a space for their activities. It was not quite like a plaza or courtyard in a town. It really was just a wide space, with houses on all sides.
Herr Piotroski supervised the setting of planks on top of barrels to make the head table. The preparations were finished, and Old Uncle Olek came out of his house, and sat down at his seat. That was the signal, and the rest of the village council, all the heads of households, gathered around the table.
The meeting started. Mitzi let his mind wander as Herr Piotroski gave the same old announcements. Finally it was Aleksy's turn. Aleksy took out the pamphlets and put them on the council table. "Here are the basics for organizing our village into a grange. The grange will protect our farms and families by making us part of a larger coalition. More, it will get us access to The Grange Proceedings, which are newssheets about the advances in agriculture, and broadsheets on how to make improved tools that will work for us."
After he sat down, there was a moment of silence, then the talk began. In the tradition of the village, all the adults seemed to be talking at the same time, and as loudly as possible. Everyone, at one time or another, pointed at the pamphlets laying on the table and waved their hands in the air to emphasize some point or other. As it grew darker, lanterns and torches lit up the area, food and drink were brought out from the houses, but the discussion never stopped.
Uncle Olek waved his cane at Herr Piotroski. "But it's not new! This sounds just exactly like what we've been doing all along."
Herr Piotroski ducked, and nodded. "Yes, I agree. But if we form an organization, one that is bigger than just our village, we can get better prices and what money we do get will go farther."
Mitzi's father, Hans, picked up the pamphlet, and looked at it as the others shouted. Then he stood up, and raised his hand for silence. "It says here, if we set up this organization, we can have a voice in politics. And I like what it says about cutting out the middleman. It means that we could get more money, and even the people we sell to would get more."