Piazza put aside his glasses: it was an exasperated gesture. “Francisco, we’ve already got one of those.” He stared meaningfully at Grantville’s resident spymaster.
“For now, yes. But Mike anticipates that when his time as prime minister is over, he is likely to relocate, and my own interests might take me in the same direction.”
“Oh, so we’re back to the imminent Prague exodus again…”
“Ed, I understand you don’t welcome the thought of it, much less the actuality, but I have a duty there-not just to the USE, but to my people. Sooner or later, I must-” He sent a desultory wave toward the east. Toward Prague.
Piazza made a sound that resembled “Umhh-grumpff” and looked at the reports on Miro’s airship project again. “So you think he could do your job?”
Francisco shrugged. Was it his merchant’s instinct not to “hard sell” Miro-or a sense of pride-that kept him from simply answering “yes”? Instead he said, “His mind is nimble, highly adaptive, but also capable of sustained focus. He speaks and writes six languages. He is a trained observer of nuances, including social ones-such as those required to construct and to live an assumed identity for almost ten years. He has extraordinary knowledge of one of our most urgent intelligence areas, having unparalleled familiarity with waters, ports, and markets of the Mediterranean. And he learns very, very quickly.”
“So you’ve been watching him? And he’s reliable?”
“Yes, to both.”
“Do you think he knows you’re watching him?”
“Of course he knows. As I said, he’s very good at what he does.”
January 1635
Marlon Pridmore walked around the large barn that Miro had rented, staring at the neatly arranged airship components at its center.
“You know, I would have been happy to do this without the extra-”
“Mr. Pridmore, please. It is the least I could offer. Your presence here is of immense help to us.”
Pridmore snorted out a laugh. “Really? Hell, I wish my shop looked so good-or I was so far along.” He started walking again, eyeing the rows of empty fuel tanks professionally. “Giving yourself a lot of operating range, eh?”
“Or more payload over shorter distances-and at higher speeds.”
Pridmore stopped. “How high a speed?”
“It is our objective to be able to operate at thirty-five mph.”
Pridmore started, then glanced back at the envelope. “Thirty-five mph? Then you’re building it wrong.”
Miro felt a stab of panic deep in his bowels, but gave no sign of it. “Wrong in what way?”
“Well, you need a keel and a nose-frame; you can’t just have an unsupported bag.”
Miro’s response was the most routine sentence he used when discussing balloons with Marlon Pridmore. “I don’t understand: what do you mean?”
“I mean, if you try to get an unsupported hot air envelope up to 35 mph, it’s going to deform on you.”
Miro felt an incipient frown and kept it off his face. “Can you explain that to me…erm, visually?”
“Oh, sure. You’ve seen soap bubbles, right?”
“Yes.”
“And they stay round as they float through the air, right?”
“Yes.”
“But what happens if you blow too hard on them-either with the wind or against it?”
Miro thought for a second, then nodded. “Their shape begins to stretch, to warp. They can’t really be pushed very hard without, without-”
“We would call it ‘being deformed by atmospheric drag.’ It’s the same with a loose-bag blimp; there’s only so fast you can go before the ‘nose’ of the bag starts dimpling and buckling: the air inside can’t hold the shape against the pressure generated by the air friction on the outside.”
“So you need a…an ‘internal skeleton’ to help it keep its shape.”
“Right. In this case, you don’t need more than a keel and a nose-cone-sort of like a spine with an underslung umbrella at the front.”
“I see. And you would know how to make this?”
“Why, sure. And Kelly will have some good tips for you, too. Better, maybe.”
“This is most helpfuclass="underline" please, let me compensate you for your advice.”
“You already do compensate me for my advice. Damn, your money is helping me far more than my advice is helping you.”
Miro smiled as he opened his purse. “Trust me when I insist that you are quite mistaken in that assumption, Mr. Pridmore; quite mistaken, indeed.”
March 1635
Despite the bitter wind that drove the cold rain sideways into every pedestrian’s face, Francisco Nasi waved broadly at Miro and crossed the street toward him.
Miro waved back and smiled. He had not seen much of Nasi over the last five months. Mike Stearns’-and Ed Piazza’s-spymaster extraordinaire was usually in Magdeburg, often closeted for marathon meetings, and sometimes “traveling on business” to places about which only one thing was known: they were far away from Grantville. In consequence, Miro had had few opportunities to converse with Nasi again-and whenever he did so, Miro sensed-what? A shadow of guilt? A hint of regret?
Miro took Francisco’s extended hand, noted the same slightly melancholy smile. “How are you, Don Francisco?”
“I’m freezing, so my senses still function. And you, Don Estuban?” Nasi’s use of his full, correct title was code, but its message was quite clear: Nasi had learned that Miro’s Venetian funds had finally arrived, were more considerable than even he had guessed, and-most importantly-were the proof positive that the xueta was exactly who he had claimed to be almost eight months earlier.
“I am well enough, Don Francisco. And my project is nearing completion.” As if you didn’t already know that.
“Excellent. But it must be very absorbing. We don’t see much of you in town.”
“But how would you know if I’m in town, Don Francisco? Your presence here seems much rarer than mine.”
“ Touche. But I have much family here, and they are my eyes and ears. On the streets, in the restaurants, elsewhere-”
Elsewhere. By which you mean, “the synagogue.”
Nasi looked up the street at nothing in particular. “I have regretted that the circumstances of your arrival made it impossible to-to welcome you, as was proper. As is traditional.”
Miro proferred a small bow. “You had no choice, Don Francisco. Your official responsibilities must trump all other considerations.”
“Yes. But only for as long as they must.” Nasi put out his hand to say farewell, opened his mouth, waited a long moment before speaking. “You have no family here. And a seder alone is no seder at all.” Then Nasi smiled faintly, released Miro’s hand, and, hunching over, hurried off into the cold.
Miro looked after him: it had not been, strictly speaking, an invitation. But that would no doubt change when Estuban Miro made his appearance in the almost-repaired synagogue this coming Shabbat.
He trusted that the spitting rain hid any other moisture that might have made his eyes blink so quickly. To sit and pray in a synagogue once again. To share a seder once again. To hear and speak Hebrew. To be a Jew in something other than name and memory only. To reclaim his life after nine long years.
Estuban stared up into the cold rain and felt suddenly warm, felt his soul rise with the promise of his almost-ready airship.
April 1635
Franchetti angled the props upward a bit, driving the blimp toward the ground. Then he cut the engines, and pulled hard on the lead ground line.
The forward bow of the gondola pushed into the soft loam, and the night-time noises hushed; the moon stared down, bright and indifferent.
As the rest of the Venetians swarmed the craft-affixing new lines, tossing in some ballast, opening flaps-Franchetti hopped out, followed by Bolzano, his beefy assistant in all things. “I am an aviator!” Franchetti cried. “I have flown like the birds!”
Miro smiled. “Excellent work, Franchetti-and you must not breathe a word of it.”
“But Don Estuban-”