Eric Flint - The Grantville Gazette Vol 9, Angielskie [EN](4)(2)
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Grantville Gazette-Volume IX
Table of Contents
ASSISTANT EDITOR'S PREFACE
FICTION
Mail Stop
Those Daring Young Men
NCIS -Young Love Lost
Those Daring Not So Young Men
A Matter Of Taste
Those Not So Daring
Anna the Baptist
Fly Like a Bird
Gearhead
Water Wings
Under the Tuscan Son
Wings on the Mountain
Pocket Money
Moonraker
The Minstrel Boy
Ultralight
Tool or Die
If at First You Don't Succeed . . .
Waves of Change
Try, Try Again
Little Jammer Boys
Safe at First Base
The Order of the Foot
The Transmitter
CONTINUING SERIALS
The Essen Chronicles, Part 3: Trip to Paris
At the Cliff's Edge
Butterflies In The Kremlin, Episode 2: A 'Merican in Moscow
FACT:
Radio in 1632, Part 3
The Sound of Mica
A Tempest In a Baptistry
The Daily Beer
White Gold
IMAGES
SUBMISSIONS TO THE MAGAZINE
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Back
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Contents
Water Wings
by Terry Howard
Somewhere in the North Sea
The line arcing off the boat kinked between deck and water. Eric, watching for just that, yelled to the
crew uncoiling the stiff hose, "Hold it! Back it up!" Then the kink swelled a bit. Eric screamed, "Back it
up! Back it up now!"
Before the offending line could be pulled back up onto the deck, the kink burst.
"Shit!" Eric yelled. "Get the bell up! Now! Get it up!"
The crew who had been manning the air pump left their now useless post and manned the capstan to
raise the bell. Putting their backs into it, they pushed its arms for all they were worth.
Eric watched as the collapsed air line came up out of the water at a fast pace. He had brought the details
for a diving bell along with the location of the wreck, due north of Castle Point and west of St. Olef's
Bay, back from a strange town in Germany called Grantville and was able to convince a local merchant
to fund the salvage effort.
The air line was made of two layers of waxed leather. The book called for rubberized canvas, with the
outer layer sewn over the seamless inner layer. No one, outside of Grantville, knew what rubberized
meant. It had to be water-proofing. It must really be something because they had absolutely no luck using
canvas to make the high pressure air line. Two layers of leather worked. It had to be doused down with
hot water before it was lowered away to keep it from cracking and it made a large coil that filled the free
deck from rail to rail. The coil barely left room for the air pump and the capstan for lowering the diving
bell in the middle.
"Belay that!" the captain called.
"But, sir," Eric protested. "We've lost air."
"I am aware of that, Mister." He turned to the pump crew. "Kyrie Elison, gentlemen," he said, meaning
he wanted them to start singing the old church chant and turning the capstan at a slow measured rate.
"Bring him up at the regular pace, if you please. We don't need him doubled over and dying on the deck
with cramps. That's why we put the valve on the bell."
The line crew lifted the leather hose over the heads of the now chanting men who now turned the
capstan. Eric, worried, turned back to the sea and watched the collapsed air line inch up out of the
water.
Until now, when a line broke they hauled away with all speed to raise the bell before it lost air. Twice
they failed. Twice they succeeded, only to have the man die a painful death from horrid cramps. This was
the first time a line had blown since they had installed a shut off valve. The pump had to work harder to
push it open but it should hold the air in if the pump failed.
"I can see the bell." Eric called out. Then, without another word, he dove into the cold waters of the
North Sea. At the staging platform, eager hands pulled him and the body he had retrieved out of the
water.
"I saw him slip out of the bell. He must have passed out. We need a tie off in there so a man stays in if he
blacks out."
With the bell up, the capstan was switched over to lifting the cargo cable to see if anything had been
loaded.
With five lost to accidents and one lost to illness, Eric wondered if he would be number seven. It was his
turn to go down.
Well, if my number is up, my number is up. If I die, at least I die rich.
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Framed
Back
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Contents
Under the Tuscan Son
by Iver Cooper
November, 1633
Curzio Inghirami had learned a great deal during his visit to Grantville, but he now was back home at
Villa Scornello, the family seat. It was a few miles outside of Volterra, a town in the grand duchy of
Tuscany.
He beckoned to one of the family servants. "Tell Father that Lucrezia and I are going fishing." Lucrezia,
his younger sister, giggled for no apparent reason. "Have Cook pack a picnic lunch for us, and then meet
us out back in half an hour."
Curzio and Lucrezia whiled away the time, gossiping about their friends in Volterra. In due course, the
servant joined them, basket in hand, and the three began the half-hour walk down to the bank of the
River Cecina. The two siblings fished for a while, handing each catch to the servant, then started throwing
stones into the river. Curzio reached down for another, then exclaimed, "Wait a moment! Look at this!"
"Oh, it's just an old pottery shard," said Lucrezia. "Throw or drop it, but don't talk about it."
"No, wait, it has writing on it. In Etruscan, I think. And here's a Latin word: 'thesaur'–the rest of the
word is lost." He thought about it for a moment. "I am sure it must be 'thesaurus.'"
"I don't think Father Domenico has taught that one to me, yet." Father Domenico Vadorini was the
Anghirami family priest, and their tutor.
"It means . . . 'treasure.'" Their servant blinked, but said nothing.
"Treasure?" Lucrezia put her hands on her hips and stared at her older brother. "Well, what are you
waiting for? Let's find the rest of the vase. Perhaps the treasure is inside!" They started rummaging about.
"Here it is!" said Lucrezia triumphantly. She turned the broken vase upside-down, and shook it. What
came out wasn't a treasure. At least not one which was recognizable as such. It was a lump of what
looked like pitch, but with many hairs sticking out of it. "Yuck. Some treasure."
"Don't jump to conclusions, little sister," said Curzio loftily. He was six years her senior. "There might be
something inside. Let's take it back up to the house and examine it more closely."
"Very well. I am tired of fishing, anyway." Curzio and Lucrezia tramped back up the hill. The servant, a
respectful couple of yards behind them, carried the fish.
Once on the veranda of the family villa, Curzio threw the lump against a stone wall, and it broke apart.
"Now we're getting somewhere. Look, there's a folded cloth inside. Some kind of linen. And there's
writing on it. Let's go show Father."
Their father, Inghiramo Inghirami, was impressed. At least by the reference to treasure. However, the
writing, some of which was in Latin, was not too informative. It suggested that the 'treasure,' whatever it
might be, was located in a citadel, and that the latter was set on a hill near where the little stream, the
Zambra, met the Cecina. They knew such a hill, and there were ruins of some kind there. Inghiramo told
them that if they were interested, they could, on his authority, direct some of the tenant farmers to help
them excavate the site.
* * *
"Hello, Curzio," said Raffaello Maffei. Raffaello was Curzio's best friend, and a noted antiquarian. "What
brings you and the good Father down to town today?"
"Have a look at this." Curzio proffered the linen scroll. "I think this message might be in Etruscan."
"Come with me. We'll compare it to the inscriptions my namesake found." Raffaello led them into the
Palazzo Maffei, where they could inspect the Etruscan inscriptions on a funeral stele and on a statue of a
mother nurturing a child. Sure enough, the letters were similarly formed. As a frequent guest, Curzio had,
of course, seen these Etruscan exemplars many times before.
"Did you find any more of these scrolls?" asked Raffaello, with the eagerness of a true scholar.
"Indeed, we did. I found this one inside a strange hairy, tarry
offa
." The Latin word could mean a ball of
dough, or a tumor, or indeed any shapeless mass. "But we have others we haven't opened yet. I wouldn't
think of doing so without the benefit of your company."
"I thank you. You have them here?"
"A few. Father Vadorini is carrying them."
Curzio, as the discoverer, was granted the honor of the first incision. He took out the new scroll, and
read it. "This is astounding—read this sentence, Father."
Father Vadorini read aloud, "I am an augur, a prophet of my people. Yet it is not prophecy which
compels Man, but the Great Aesar, who, when he created Man, permitted him to possess his own Will."
He crossed himself.
"This is of great theological import! We know that of all the ancient peoples, none were more religious
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Back
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Next
Grantville Gazette-Volume IX
Table of Contents
ASSISTANT EDITOR'S PREFACE
FICTION
Mail Stop
Those Daring Young Men
NCIS -Young Love Lost
Those Daring Not So Young Men
A Matter Of Taste
Those Not So Daring
Anna the Baptist
Fly Like a Bird
Gearhead
Water Wings
Under the Tuscan Son
Wings on the Mountain
Pocket Money
Moonraker
The Minstrel Boy
Ultralight
Tool or Die
If at First You Don't Succeed . . .
Waves of Change
Try, Try Again
Little Jammer Boys
Safe at First Base
The Order of the Foot
The Transmitter
CONTINUING SERIALS
The Essen Chronicles, Part 3: Trip to Paris
At the Cliff's Edge
Butterflies In The Kremlin, Episode 2: A 'Merican in Moscow
FACT:
Radio in 1632, Part 3
The Sound of Mica
A Tempest In a Baptistry
The Daily Beer
White Gold
IMAGES
SUBMISSIONS TO THE MAGAZINE
Back
|
Next
Back
|
Next
Contents
Water Wings
by Terry Howard
Somewhere in the North Sea
The line arcing off the boat kinked between deck and water. Eric, watching for just that, yelled to the
crew uncoiling the stiff hose, "Hold it! Back it up!" Then the kink swelled a bit. Eric screamed, "Back it
up! Back it up now!"
Before the offending line could be pulled back up onto the deck, the kink burst.
"Shit!" Eric yelled. "Get the bell up! Now! Get it up!"
The crew who had been manning the air pump left their now useless post and manned the capstan to
raise the bell. Putting their backs into it, they pushed its arms for all they were worth.
Eric watched as the collapsed air line came up out of the water at a fast pace. He had brought the details
for a diving bell along with the location of the wreck, due north of Castle Point and west of St. Olef's
Bay, back from a strange town in Germany called Grantville and was able to convince a local merchant
to fund the salvage effort.
The air line was made of two layers of waxed leather. The book called for rubberized canvas, with the
outer layer sewn over the seamless inner layer. No one, outside of Grantville, knew what rubberized
meant. It had to be water-proofing. It must really be something because they had absolutely no luck using
canvas to make the high pressure air line. Two layers of leather worked. It had to be doused down with
hot water before it was lowered away to keep it from cracking and it made a large coil that filled the free
deck from rail to rail. The coil barely left room for the air pump and the capstan for lowering the diving
bell in the middle.
"Belay that!" the captain called.
"But, sir," Eric protested. "We've lost air."
"I am aware of that, Mister." He turned to the pump crew. "Kyrie Elison, gentlemen," he said, meaning
he wanted them to start singing the old church chant and turning the capstan at a slow measured rate.
"Bring him up at the regular pace, if you please. We don't need him doubled over and dying on the deck
with cramps. That's why we put the valve on the bell."
The line crew lifted the leather hose over the heads of the now chanting men who now turned the
capstan. Eric, worried, turned back to the sea and watched the collapsed air line inch up out of the
water.
Until now, when a line broke they hauled away with all speed to raise the bell before it lost air. Twice
they failed. Twice they succeeded, only to have the man die a painful death from horrid cramps. This was
the first time a line had blown since they had installed a shut off valve. The pump had to work harder to
push it open but it should hold the air in if the pump failed.
"I can see the bell." Eric called out. Then, without another word, he dove into the cold waters of the
North Sea. At the staging platform, eager hands pulled him and the body he had retrieved out of the
water.
"I saw him slip out of the bell. He must have passed out. We need a tie off in there so a man stays in if he
blacks out."
With the bell up, the capstan was switched over to lifting the cargo cable to see if anything had been
loaded.
With five lost to accidents and one lost to illness, Eric wondered if he would be number seven. It was his
turn to go down.
Well, if my number is up, my number is up. If I die, at least I die rich.
Back
|
Next
Framed
Back
|
Next
Contents
Under the Tuscan Son
by Iver Cooper
November, 1633
Curzio Inghirami had learned a great deal during his visit to Grantville, but he now was back home at
Villa Scornello, the family seat. It was a few miles outside of Volterra, a town in the grand duchy of
Tuscany.
He beckoned to one of the family servants. "Tell Father that Lucrezia and I are going fishing." Lucrezia,
his younger sister, giggled for no apparent reason. "Have Cook pack a picnic lunch for us, and then meet
us out back in half an hour."
Curzio and Lucrezia whiled away the time, gossiping about their friends in Volterra. In due course, the
servant joined them, basket in hand, and the three began the half-hour walk down to the bank of the
River Cecina. The two siblings fished for a while, handing each catch to the servant, then started throwing
stones into the river. Curzio reached down for another, then exclaimed, "Wait a moment! Look at this!"
"Oh, it's just an old pottery shard," said Lucrezia. "Throw or drop it, but don't talk about it."
"No, wait, it has writing on it. In Etruscan, I think. And here's a Latin word: 'thesaur'–the rest of the
word is lost." He thought about it for a moment. "I am sure it must be 'thesaurus.'"
"I don't think Father Domenico has taught that one to me, yet." Father Domenico Vadorini was the
Anghirami family priest, and their tutor.
"It means . . . 'treasure.'" Their servant blinked, but said nothing.
"Treasure?" Lucrezia put her hands on her hips and stared at her older brother. "Well, what are you
waiting for? Let's find the rest of the vase. Perhaps the treasure is inside!" They started rummaging about.
"Here it is!" said Lucrezia triumphantly. She turned the broken vase upside-down, and shook it. What
came out wasn't a treasure. At least not one which was recognizable as such. It was a lump of what
looked like pitch, but with many hairs sticking out of it. "Yuck. Some treasure."
"Don't jump to conclusions, little sister," said Curzio loftily. He was six years her senior. "There might be
something inside. Let's take it back up to the house and examine it more closely."
"Very well. I am tired of fishing, anyway." Curzio and Lucrezia tramped back up the hill. The servant, a
respectful couple of yards behind them, carried the fish.
Once on the veranda of the family villa, Curzio threw the lump against a stone wall, and it broke apart.
"Now we're getting somewhere. Look, there's a folded cloth inside. Some kind of linen. And there's
writing on it. Let's go show Father."
Their father, Inghiramo Inghirami, was impressed. At least by the reference to treasure. However, the
writing, some of which was in Latin, was not too informative. It suggested that the 'treasure,' whatever it
might be, was located in a citadel, and that the latter was set on a hill near where the little stream, the
Zambra, met the Cecina. They knew such a hill, and there were ruins of some kind there. Inghiramo told
them that if they were interested, they could, on his authority, direct some of the tenant farmers to help
them excavate the site.
* * *
"Hello, Curzio," said Raffaello Maffei. Raffaello was Curzio's best friend, and a noted antiquarian. "What
brings you and the good Father down to town today?"
"Have a look at this." Curzio proffered the linen scroll. "I think this message might be in Etruscan."
"Come with me. We'll compare it to the inscriptions my namesake found." Raffaello led them into the
Palazzo Maffei, where they could inspect the Etruscan inscriptions on a funeral stele and on a statue of a
mother nurturing a child. Sure enough, the letters were similarly formed. As a frequent guest, Curzio had,
of course, seen these Etruscan exemplars many times before.
"Did you find any more of these scrolls?" asked Raffaello, with the eagerness of a true scholar.
"Indeed, we did. I found this one inside a strange hairy, tarry
offa
." The Latin word could mean a ball of
dough, or a tumor, or indeed any shapeless mass. "But we have others we haven't opened yet. I wouldn't
think of doing so without the benefit of your company."
"I thank you. You have them here?"
"A few. Father Vadorini is carrying them."
Curzio, as the discoverer, was granted the honor of the first incision. He took out the new scroll, and
read it. "This is astounding—read this sentence, Father."
Father Vadorini read aloud, "I am an augur, a prophet of my people. Yet it is not prophecy which
compels Man, but the Great Aesar, who, when he created Man, permitted him to possess his own Will."
He crossed himself.
"This is of great theological import! We know that of all the ancient peoples, none were more religious
[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]