Eric Flint: Grantville Gazette. Volume 21

"That's not true," protested her husband. "You know-we both do-lots of people in the Christian community."

"Sure we do. Each and every one of whom is a noble or an officer or a courtier or a bureaucrat or at the very least an educated person. Usually a clergyman. Or their wives. And just who among them d'you think Joanna and Willa could hire as a cook or a maid?"

"Well…"

"Don't teach your grandmother how to suck eggs. Or your wife."

Willa and Joanna both laughed. Then, peered at their husbands.

"Kosher sounds okay to me," said Joanna.

"Beats the alternative," said Willa. "Trichinosis. Cholera. Nothing else, a near constant case of the runs."

"Oh, it isn't that bad," protested Bernard.

"No?" His wife made a face. "The last time I was in church-which was the Sunday before we left, remember?-I saw a man-"

"Joanna!" protested her sister-in-law.

"You saw it too, huh? Talk about gross." She shook her head. "Bernard, stay out of this. You don't come to church but two or three times a year anyway, so what do you care? We'll leave our souls in the care of the priests. But I'd just as soon leave our stomachs and livers in the hands of whoever Judith can turn up."

"Not to mention our gall bladders, colons…" said Willa.

"Speaking of which," continued Joanna, "what's the condition of the Catholic church here in Prague? For me, that's probably going to be the worst of it. I really like our church in Grantville, even now that Larry Mazzare's no longer the priest."

Morris grinned at her. "Lemme get this straight. You're asking me-the Jew, remember, and none too observant at that-to give you the lowdown on the state of the Catholic church here?"

Joanna grinned right back at him. "Cut it out, Morris. You know perfectly well that it's the political lowdown I'm interested in. I'm not asking you about the theological fine points-or even about the personalities of the priests in town. I can handle that myself."

Morris paused for a few seconds, before answering. "That's kind of a tricky issue, actually. The Jesuits pretty much run the show here in Prague, and… well…"

"They're having a nervous breakdown all over Europe," Willa filled in for him. "What with the Pope himself and the Father-General being so friendly to us lately, whereas a lot of the Jesuits are pretty much still in full Counter-Reformation mode."

"Yup," said Morris. "By all accounts, the Jesuits in Poland are in what amounts to an almost open rebellion. Pledge of allegiance to the Pope be damned."

"What about here?"

"They're dancing back and forth, from what I can tell. Most of them, that is. But I can introduce you to one of the fathers who's on the side of the angels. So to speak."

"Okay." Joanna heaved a sigh. "That's a relief. I was really not looking forward to having to attend a church where I felt like an enemy walking in."

Her daughter Amy, who'd been silent throughout the meal, suddenly spoke up. "That's all fine and dandy. But now let's get down to the real nitty-gritty. I broke up with my worthless bum of an ex-boyfriend almost three months ago. Long enough. My heart bled buckets but my wounds heal very quickly. So what are my prospects going to look like here in Prague?"

All the adults at the table stared at her. The seventeen year old girl seemed quite unfazed. "I got no problems with down-time boys. Well. Leaving aside the worthless bum I broke up with. In some ways I like 'em better than American guys, being honest, though you usually do have to educate 'em some on hygienic matters. But how do I go about meeting anybody here? Seeing as how you said earlier, Mr. Roth, that I can't get accepted into your new college until I get my high school diploma-and that might take a bit of doing, seeing as how we're going to be moving here pretty soon. I still got more'n a year left at the high school in Grantville, and that's going to be sayonara."

She gazed at Morris. Then at Judith.

"So how's it work?" she asked.

Morris cleared his throat, preparatory to speaking. And then…

Said nothing.

"Men," muttered his wife. Judith gave Amy Fodor her most winning smile.

And why not? Judith foresaw no problems. The teenager was rather attractive, allowing for a certain amount of pudginess. But her appearance didn't really matter anyway. She could be downright ugly, and it wouldn't matter. Within a year, with her father established as one of the most prosperous burghers in town-and with the glamorous aura that usually surrounded up-timers, even when they weren't wealthy-Amy Fodor's biggest problem would be beating off unwanted suitors with a stick.

That was especially so, since the girl obviously didn't have any issues concerning down-timers. There were still some American girls and boys whose romantic interests were restricted to other up-timers. But given Amy's attitudes-

"There were a couple of Jewish kids I saw on our way here," Amy continued cheerfully. "About my age. Both of 'em were cute as hell, too, allowing for the silly hairdos."

Oh, boy.

Her husband cleared his throat again.

And, of course, said nothing.

"Men," Judith muttered.

The Pessimist's Daughter

Written by Mark H. Huston

The Gardens, December, 1634

"I found every last one of those sons-of-bitches. Every last one. Do you have any idea how much money that son-of-a-bitch spends on those sons-of-bitches?" Staunton Bell took a deep swig of pilsner beer, emptied the mug, and slammed it down with a victorious bang. "Could Tony find them? Could he?"

"No, he couldn't. Not at all. Not in a million years." LaDonna Marshall nodded into her beer mug in sympathy. She then straightened in her chair, chugged her mug down, and banged it on the table next to Staunton's. "We need more beer."

"But I found them. That is why I should be running the Department of Economic Affairs. Not friggin' Tony Adducci. He doesn't even have a degree in accounting. But they got him running the friggin' department." Staunton realized he was being loud, and tried to tone it down to a stage whisper. "He doesn't even have a degree!" He wobbled as he stood up and pushed back his chair, waved his mug, and shouted. "More beer here, wench!" He paused, noticed a few patrons glancing his way, glared back defiantly, and growled. "Sonofabitch." Seeing no challengers, he added a triumphant "Ha!" He sat back down with a self satisfied flourish, and looked at his co-workers.

"Staunton, be quiet. People are looking at us. This is supposed to be a little after work Christmas Party." Greta Greenwald felt tipsy, but not nearly as tipsy as the other three at her table. Her fellow down-time clerk, Katarina Zingerly, was a big woman who could drink. LaDonna Marshall, their up-time boss, appeared to be holding her own. Greta looked at Staunton Bell, and shook her head sadly. There was a man who could not hold his liquor. Drunk on his ass, as they say. Staunton was winding up again.

"Nasi thinks he is so damn smart. But he missed the first rule. Follow the money. That's what I did." He stood up again, knocking his chair over in the process, and announced to the room, "Follow the money!" A few heads turned to glare at him; he looked back through a pilsner induced haze, and met their glare defiantly once again. "Sonofabitch. Ha!" He then sat down hard on the floor, as he had not picked up his chair. Most of the room gave a quiet chortle.

Greta watched as LaDonna and Katarina helped the skinny and balding accountant back to his chair. It reminded her of two children with a pet ferret. She shook her head. "You should get home to that wife of yours, Staunton. And you should stop drinking. Before you get into trouble."

Katarina agreed. "You should go home, Mr. Bell. We think you've had enough for now." She started to whisper. "You did real well to find all of those hidden accounts of Don Fernando Nasi, you should feel good about the job, but you should not drink. It doesn't agree with you."