“Alright.” He turned back to the cooker: a healthy red glow rippled beneath the coals that the adiabatic heater had goosed into combustion. “Today, the market. Maybe this evening we can think about when to—”
There was a pounding at the front door.
“What is it?” Martin shouted. Leaving the stove, he shambled through into the cold, dark shop: paused at the door. Opened the letterbox. “Who’s there?”
“Telegram!” piped a breathless voice. ”Telegram for Master Springburg!” With a rattle of bolts, Martin slid the door ajar. Blinding white snow, and a red-uniformed post office runner boy who stood staring up at him. “Telegram? For the toolsmith?”
“That’d be me,” he said. The boy waited: Martin fumbled for a tip, a few kopecks, then closed the door and leaned against it, heart pounding. A telegram!
“Open it!” Rachel loomed over him, eyes anxious with hope and surprise. “Who is it from?”
“It’s from Herman—” he opened the envelope and, mouth dry, began to read aloud:
TO: MARTIN SPRINGFIELD AND RACHEL MANSOUR,
CONGRATULATIONS ON YOUR BABY.
I UNDERSTAND THE CHILD WAS BORN IN ORBIT AROUND ROCHARD’S
WORLD, AND SHORTLY DEPARTED IN VARIOUS DIRECTIONS. WHILE I
APPRECIATE THAT YOU ARE BOTH TIRED, YOU MIGHT BE INTERESTED TO
KNOW THAT I HAVE AN IMPORTANT BUSINESS VENTURE OPENING BACK
HOME. IF YOU’D LIKE TO BE INVOLVED, TWO TICKETS ARE WAITING FOR
YOU AT THE CENTRAL POST OFFICE IN NOVY PETROGRAD.
PS: I GATHER SPRING IS AN UNHEALTHY SEASON IN PLOTSK. PLEASE
DON’T TARRY.
Later that day, the old Wolff hardware store caught fire and burned down to the ground — the victim, local rumor had it, of neglect by its feckless owner. He had last been seen leaving town in a hired sleigh, accompanied by his fancy woman and a small carpetbag. They were never seen again in Plotsk, but vanished into the capital city like a drop of ink in the blue ocean: lost in the turbulence and excitement surrounding the arrival of the first civilian starship since the Festival departed, a tramp freighter from Old Calais.
They weren’t really lost: but that, as they say, is another story. And before I recount it, I have some wishes I would like you to grant me …