Eric Flint: Grantville Gazette Volume XI

"And it wasn't just the income tax." Bernie had long since realized that there were certain things the bosses didn't want him to know. Which was okay with him. He didn't want to get involved with Russian politics if he could help it. And besides, he probably didn't want to know. So he explained a bit more about taxes.

Alexei's head was about to burst, but he had to ask.

"Not just the income tax?"

"Nah," Bernie said. "We paid the Fica, too."

"Ahh… Fica?"

"Yeah. I don't remember what it meant, but it was Social Security."

"You paid to be socially secure?" Alexei's head was going to explode, he just knew it. Any moment now.

"Yeah. In a way. Sort of." Bernie shrugged. "It was for the old folks. You paid the Fica for every day you worked. Then, when you got too old to work, the Fica paid you back. It wasn't as much as you paid in, maybe, but it was almost enough to live on, if you were careful. Anyway, guys, you could have just told me that they were paid in the first place." Bernie headed back to the shop.

Petr Grigoryevich, their "math whiz" began doodling on a sheet of paper. "I wonder," he muttered, "how much a ten percent income tax leveled on everyone… the great families… and, well, everyone, would produce. I wonder if it wouldn't produce even more money than the peasant farms and communes that the czar owns, the taxes on the serfs and the poor city folk and the special taxes. There might be even more money for the czar and the church, if everyone in Muscovy paid a certain percentage of what they earned."

"It would never happen. The great families would never allow it to happen." Alexei shook his head. "Still, it's an interesting speculation." The group fell into calculations.

Guba Ivashka Kalachnikov was very interested in the knowledge from the future. "Mercury," he whispered, "is a poison?" He wasn't that concerned about the lead that the ladies used in their makeup. There were other things that would work as well for that. He was busily trying to integrate the things that were coming from the Ring of Fire with his experience. He had a lot of the latter; he had been a healer for over forty years.

He listened to the rest of the list. It was something called a cheat sheet and was being read to him by a clerk from the Grantville section of the Embassy Bureau. The clerk was a lad of fifteen and, even though he was Guba's social superior, worked for him doing reading and writing. He paid the boy and thanked him for the service. Guba had never bothered to learn reading and writing. At least not what most people would think of as reading and writing. He used a set of symbols that was part inherited from his teacher and part made up by him to keep track of what drug,prepared in what way, was in each container.

He worked with potions to relieve pain and balance the humors. He had mixed potions for Czar Ivan when he was an apprentice. Potions that included mercury. The knowledge that his potions might have been what drove Ivan mad didn't sit well. "Mercury causes delusions?" he repeated. "I made drugs that drove Ivan Grotzny mad. Drugs without which he would not have killed his son and the Time of Troubles would not have happened?

No!he thought. It's lies. It must be. And yet. He could think of no reason for them to lie. At least none that made sense given the circumstances.

The shop was in Moscow and up-scale. Guba knew about drugs and acupuncture and a number of other treatments. He had a large number of very wealthy customers, and he wasn't sure what to do. In more than one way. First, the potion for relieving the pain of swollen joints worked. He knew that; he had seen it. Mercury potions were also the only effective treatment for syphilis that he knew of. The dementia, if it was caused by the drug and not the pain, was a side effect that took multiple doses over a period of time to manifest.

Nor did he have a replacement for the drug. Not one that was nearly as effective. He understood from some of the things the boy from the Grantville section had said that Grantville did have drugs that were effective. The little blue pills of happiness that were supposed to relive pain and restore manhood. Another called Mary Jane. It didn't matter; he didn't have them and had no practical way to get them or make them.

Grantville

"So what else is on the list of impossible demands this week?" Brandy asked.

"Bernie, or rather 'one of the brain cases,' wants a computer. The patriarch wants proof of the dangers of lead poisoning and an alternative makeup, because certain women in Moscow are having fits. Also, tons of antibiotics. I'm sending him cheat sheets on how to make chloramphenicol. I have one here from the Polish section demanding a generator 'if such things really exist.' We sent one to Bernie a while back; that must be where they heard about it. So, make unreasonable demands of me, Brandy. I'm getting used to it."

"Hmmm." Brandy considered. "Hmmm. No one has ever suggested that before, I don't think. How about a reasonable demand? How about we take off early? I want you to tell me about Moscow."

"Why not?" Vladimir shrugged. "Why not? The demands will still be here tomorrow."

It was three nights after the car had left for Russia that the prince from Muscovy made up his mind he would ask for permission to marry the girl from the future. He pulled out a pen and began the two letters. One to Natasha informing her that he would be seeking Brandy's hand and asking for her help in persuading the czar. One to the czar asking his permission to marry a foreigner. The fact that his older sister had married a foreigner would not make it easier. He would wait to ask Brandy until he had permission because he didn't know what he would do if the permission were not forthcoming.

Yaroslavich Dacha

"Oh, man." Bernie sounded worried. "Why him?"

Natasha looked up from her latest letter from Brandy Bates and watched Bernie for a moment. His beard had grown in rather nicely, she thought. His clothing, though. She shook her head. Just when she had thought the jeans were worn completely out, the unforeseen consequences of the sewing machine had resulted in Vladimir's gift of something called "torberts."

The jeans had been bad enough, in Natasha's opinion. The torberts were worse and they were catching on. That's how Bernie put it, anyway. They lacked the proper drape of Russian clothes and what was the fetish men seemed to have with pockets everywhere? The torberts were, according to Bernie, just farmer's overalls made down-time to up time design. He insisted they made good work clothes.

If that had been all they were used for Natasha wouldn't have objected. Well, not as much. But some of the other men at the Dacha were using them for social wear now, as a sort of a proclamation that they worked there. Even Bernie didn't think them appropriate for "parties and such," but he insisted he "wasn't the fashion police." Whatever that meant. He refused to explain the inappropriateness of wearing torberts into Muscovy. Bernie was Bernie. Too stubborn by half. "Why who?"

"Cass Lowry." Bernie waved the letter at her. "He used to be a friend of mine when we played football together. I thought he was so cool. He was smarter me and was always coming up with stunts to pull. The thing is, Cass never could take anyone's advice on anything. He was going to go to college on a football scholarship. Studying was a waste of time." Bernie laughed. "I was the same way. Everything that happened to us was someone else's fault. I was right with him all through high school. It was the nerds screwing up the bell curve. It was the teachers that had it in for us jocks." Natasha wondered why teachers would have it in for jocks but didn't bother asking. Bernie was still talking.

"Then, after the football scholarship fell through, Cass blamed me for keeping him from studying." Bernie looked over at Natasha and gave a shrug. "There may have been some truth to it but other guys on the team did study and went on to college. Somewhere in there, I got over myself and started to grow up. But from the letter, it doesn't sound like Cass ever did. Now he's blaming everything on the down-timers and Mike Stearns." Bernie waved the letter. "That's what this letter comes down to. I hope no one ever reads this, Natasha. Because it's pretty rude."