Eric Flint: Grantville Gazette.Volume IX

Both women made sure he was comfortable and began to skim their letters. After a moment or so, the princess looked up at him. "Forgive me." She was even blushing a bit though it was hard to tell with the makeup. "I enjoy my brother's letters so much." She set them aside, reluctantly, he thought. "Tell me about this miracle from the future. The rumors would have it that they are all devils on the one hand, and all saints on the other."

Boris felt the grin breaking out. "Not devils or saints. Just people. Though they are different in culture and belief." The girl was a cutie even if she was unusually tall and thin. She bubbled like a brook or a laughing child still some how anxious for the next existing treat the world would provide her.

Sofia and the princess "Call me Natasha; everyone does," kept him busy answering questions for an hour. Boris finally broke away, swearing to return the next day with Bernie.

"Oh, and your wife." Natasha smiled. "I'm quite anxious to meet her."

As promised, Boris delivered Bernie the next day. Natasha had decided, again, that since the outlander was visiting today she would greet him in full court dress. Then, as they often did, things had come up. She rushed through the last of her preparation, took a deep breath and made her entrance. Boris-as custom dictated-kissed her on the cheek. However, though Boris seemed a nice man, he was inconveniently short. The customary kiss entailed her leaning down and Boris standing on tiptoe.

Natasha had worn a gown that was mostly black. She had heard that the Protestants had the oddest notions about somber clothing being a mark of virtue of some sort and she did want the outlander to feel comfortable. By custom, her makeup was pure white with red lips and cheeks. The outlander's face was turning the oddest shade of red. Then he started to laugh uncontrollably. She thought he might be apologizing as he laughed-which just made it worse.

Bernie couldn't help it. He had been nervous all morning after the lecture Mrs. Petrov had given him on how important the Yaroslavich family was. And suddenly it was like he was in a Rocky and Bullwinkle cartoon with Boris and Natasha. He cracked up. He almost had himself under control. "Where's Bullwinkle?" slipped out he lost it again.

Things were getting tense by the time Bernie got himself under control. "I'm sorry. I'm away from home and nervous about the new job. It was just that you two right then happened to look like Boris and Natasha."

Now the princess was looking confused again. "But we are Boris and Natasha?"

"I know." Bernie almost lost it again. He shook his head. "I think that's what really did it. Not like you, Boris and Natasha; like the cartoon Boris and Natasha. Natasha was tall and slinky, ah, beautiful with a very pale face and red lips, Boris was short and stocky. They were spies." Another giggle. "Spies who were constantly trying to blow up Rocky, the Flying Squirrel and Bullwinkle J. Moose. I used to watch it on Nickelodeon when I was a kid."

"What is a cartoon?" Princess Natasha was apparently much mollified by the notion that this other Natasha was beautiful. Bernie was less confident of her reaction to slinky, though you never knew.

"It's a simple drawing." Bernie tried to explain.

"Something like an icon but without the religious significance," Boris clarified.

"Except the ones with Boris and Natasha moved."

"Moved how?" Natasha's forehead creased under the makeup. "Did they shake the paper?" Which lead to a discussion of moving pictures in general and how they were made. By the end of this discussion, Natasha was too interested to be offended.

"Now I see how it works." Natasha saw something else too. This was why they needed Bernie Zeppi and the dacha turned into a research center. He had not come here to introduce moving icons on a screen. It had just popped out like a chicken laying an egg. How many other eggs were buried in his head and how valuable would they be to the family? Natasha had seen mimes and clowns perform. In spite of his comments, she knew that the movies and cartoons didn't need sound to be a major draw.

Daromila, who had been fairly quiet during the visit, asked, "Berna, what is all this about the moose and squirrel?"

Bernie jerked a bit. "Berna?"

Daromila grinned a bit. "It is what we do, the names. When someone is close or well liked, we… do things to the names. Boris, for instance… I call him Boriska, usually. As he calls me Dara. The princess Natalia, you recall…"

"Call me Natasha," Bernie said. "Oh. I get it. Nicknames. Like Bernie is to begin with. My real name is Bernard. Always hated it. Sounds like some old grandpa dude's name."

Daromila nodded. "Exactly. Now, tell me about the moose and squirrel," Then, with emphasis, "and the spies, Boris and Natasha."

Spring, 1633

"I think we can use him," General Kabanov said. He was in charge of guns and weapons for the Russian musketeers. "He does seem to know a great deal about guns and their use."

Boris nodded. He saw no need to point out that Bernie's familiarity with the 30.06 was nothing unusual. Bernie had just finished disassembling and reassembling his up-time rifle and then loading it and emptying it into a set of targets. Another thing Boris neglected to mention was how very slow Bernie had been in doing both those things in comparison to some of the up-timers he had seen.

"Why can't we make these repeating rifles?" General Kabanov asked Bernie but he didn't speak English, much less up-timer English, so questions were funneled through Boris. Which was probably for the best, as it allowed him to edit at need.

"Primers," Bernie said. "You can't make the primers. We went over all this in Grantville."

"In the brass cartridges," Boris translated, "are compounds of a chemical that is difficult and expensive to make in quantity-"

So it went. It was the third interview that day and there were three more to go and still more tomorrow.

"Why did you have to bring us an idiot?" Filip Pavlovich Tupikov was pacing back and forth, scratching furiously at a rather weak beard. "They know how to fly. They can make materials we never dreamed of. And you bring us this? Not a doctor, not a… what is the word? Engineer. Not an engineer. Instead you bring us this… this… barely a craftsman. Why, Boris Ivanovich?"

Boris Ivanovich looked at Filip Pavlovich. The man was a brilliant artisan and a skilled natural philosopher, but had no understanding of how the world worked. Besides, Boris had been getting some version of this from about half the interviewers for the last two weeks. "Ah, how foolish of me." Boris snorted. "I should, no doubt, have asked their president, Mike Stearns, to give up all he had in Grantville and come be a servant in Muscovy? Perhaps the master of machining, Ollie Reardon, would have given up his factory with its machines and the electric to run them? Better yet, I could have tried to persuade Melissa Mailey, a qualified teacher in their high school. Of course, she has been heard to say-more than once, I might point out-that they should start by executing nine out of ten of the nobility of Europe. She then suggests that they go up from there. I'm sure she would have been happy to serve the czar."

Filip Pavlovich flinched a bit. Boris felt he'd gotten his point across. "I brought Berna because he was who I could get. He has graduated their high school. He is a qualified auto mechanic with tools. I should know. I had to arrange for their transport. He speaks, reads and writes their up-timer English. English which is not so similar to the English we know as Polish is to Russian. You can get by with practice but the words have changed their meaning and pronunciation as often as not. Believe me, Filip Pavlovich, there are people I could have recruited that you would have liked less."