Eric Flint: Grantville Gazette.Volume VII

Larry walked over to the bookshelf and took down a volume of the Catholic Encyclopedia. "Here." Turning the pages, he found Saint Nicholas' entry. "In 1970, Nicholas Owen was, umm, will be, umm," Larry made that vague hand gesture that had come to indicate the other world. "Would have been canonized by Pope Paul VI among the Forty Martyrs of England and Wales. Their joint feast day is kept on October twenty-fifth."

He handed the volume to Nicholas who looked it over with astonishment, reading of the events and the names that rang with meaning to English recusants. Margaret Clitherow, Edmund Campion, Henry Walpole, and then… "Edward Ambrose Barlow? But I know Edward! We were at St. Gregory's in Douai together. He's alive. Or at least he was three months ago, chaplain to the Tyldesleys in Leigh."

Father Mazzare laughed. "Yes. Things like that happen a lot here. Remind me later to tell you the story of the name of this church." He put the book back on the shelf, then resumed his seat.

"But we were talking about you," Mazzare continued. "Are you named after Saint Nicholas Owen, then? And what are you doing in Grantville?"

"I am named after 'Saint' Nicholas Owen. I suppose I will have to change my feast day." Nick smiled. "My mother was reluctant to name me after a dwarf, but father insisted that Nicholas Owen did the work of three normal men and was a great champion of God. He met Owen while he was building some of his secret rooms at homes of customers of my fathers."

Larry lifted an eyebrow. "And your father was?"

"James Smithson. He is a jeweler, a specialist in fine metal work and elaborate braided wire pieces. He trained me and my brothers to follow in his craft." Nick shrugged. "That is why the Society sent me to Grantville. We have heard of the call for jewelers and metalworkers to work on the Radio. And we know that this Radio is planned for King Gustav's use, for his 'Voice of Luther.' Thus my disguise. It is highly unlikely that a Lutheran king would want a Jesuit learning the secrets of his Radio."

"Nicholas, you have a lot to learn about Grantville, and not just our list of saints. Father Kircher will introduce you to John Grover, the head of Voice of America. Unless I miss my guess, he will be absolutely delighted to meet you. If you can make the coils he needs, no one here will care about your religion.

"You can also resume your priestly functions. Fathers Heinzerling and Kircher and I can use the help. You can stay here, and in return you will take your turn for the morning and evening masses.

"Father Athanasius will introduce you to the director of the radio project in the morning. For now, let Augustus find you a place to put your things, show you around the church, and you can try the local beer. It's not English ale, but I suspect it's better than anything available in Rome."

Father Mazzare stood and held out his hand. "Welcome to Saint Mary's."

Yet a man is risen to pursue thee, and to seek thy soul: but the soul of my lord shall be bound in the bundle of life with the LORD thy God; and the souls of thine enemies, them shall he sling out, as out of the middle of a sling.

(King James Bible, 1 Kings 25:29)

John presided over this weeks' staff meeting in a much better frame of mind than last week. The interminable list of reports didn't faze him. Even the bickering between Ken Butcher, Andrew Rogers and Jennifer Hansen didn't bother him. The final report was from Gunter Klein, the only down-time team head.

"The vacuum pump works, but is not yet good enough. We get a glow, we get a pretty light bulb, we do not get a tube. It is slow, but each week is better. You will have tubes before you need them. I swear it."

Ken opened his mouth to say something, but John forestalled him. "Drop it, Ken. They're doing the best they can, especially with Gayle gone." Ken sat back, and sullenly nodded.

"One last item. I need to introduce a new staff member this morning. This is Father Nicholas Smithson. He is not our new chaplain. Father Nick is a trained jeweler specializing in fine wire work. He is going to be starting on the alternator project with us immediately, so if he asks you for information or assistance, please try to make yourself and your folks available.

"That's about it for today, folks. No one ever got any engineering done sitting in a staff meeting." John stood up. "One last thought. We do have to think of everything. We're stretched way too thin. We need something to help us focus. We need some way to keep in our minds that we have to bust the problems before they happen. Father Kircher said the other night that we need a talisman. I think he's right. When you have a minute, try to think of something, a talisman, a touchstone, something to keep our minds on the goal and on the nitty-gritty at the same time."

John knew his people would try. He knew he would try. Still he thought it slightly unfair that Father A had arranged for his special table to be returned to the Moose Lodge. He didn't belong.

Nicholas Smithson sat at the kitchen table in the St. Mary's parish house and looked at the collection of items spread before him. There was a coil of very fine wire, a magnet, a voltmeter, and a textbook.

He waved the magnet in front of the coil of wire. As the magnet approached the coil, the meter moved left. As the magnet retreated the meter moved back to the center and then to the right. He waved the magnet back and forth and the meter waved back and forth.

"Eighty thousand times per second. No one can move a magnet eighty thousand times a second."

He sat the magnet down and picked up the coil of wire. He waved the wire over the face of the magnet. The meter waved too. He set the coil down. He picked up the magnet again and spun it in front of the coil. The meter waved back and forth as the magnet spun, right-left-right-left for each rotation.

"Eighty thousand waves per second." He looked at the piece of paper where he had done the geometry. "If I spin this forty thousand times per second, I get eighty thousand waves, and the outside of the magnet is only going"-Nick looked down-"seven thousand miles per hour. I think not."

Nick picked up the "thing" John had given him. Eight magnets soldered together in the center. He spun it in front of the coil. The meter waved, but less. John had assured him that this was because the individual magnets were smaller, and that made sense. But still, eight flicks per rotation. The outside would be going only eighteen hundred miles per hour.

"I think not."

Moving the coil, of course, was worse. Coils are fragile things. And large. Much bigger than the magnet.

"Such a simple thing. August would understand it. My mother could understand it. Magnet back and forth, make electricity. Magnet and coil move, make electricity. Magnet and coil sit there, nothing gets made."

He picked up the drawing he had made of the Brandt Rock transmitter from the photograph, and reviewed his calculations.

"Thousands of miles per hour. Murphy would destroy it."

Nick thought about John's introduction to Murphy's Law. Everything that can go wrong, will. The son of a goldsmith used to working with heat and molten metal and thin wires and fluxes and solders knew all about Murphy and his imps even if he had not named them so. He sat, spinning the magnet.

Father Kircher came in. "Hello, Nicholas. How went your first day with the radio team?"

"I learned much." Nick waved his hand over the objects on the table. "I learned why John was banging his head." He spun the magnet again. "I may have to go find this 'Moose Lodge' to borrow their special table back."

"Now, Nick. None of that! And I have news, and an idea!" Athanasius removed a book from his habit and sat it in front of Nick. "Who are you named after?"