Ring of Fire III (57 page)

“Or more payload over shorter distances—and at higher speeds.”

Pridmore stopped. “How high a speed?”

“It is our objective to be able to operate at thirty-five mph.”

Pridmore started, then glanced back at the envelope. “Thirty-five mph? Then you’re building it wrong.”

Miro felt a stab of panic deep in his bowels, but gave no sign of it. “Wrong in what way?”

“Well, you need a keel and a nose-frame; you can’t just have an unsupported bag.”

Miro’s response was the most routine sentence he used when discussing balloons with Marlon Pridmore. “I don’t understand: what do you mean?”

“I mean, if you try to get an unsupported hot air envelope up to 35 mph, it’s going to deform on you.”

Miro felt an incipient frown and kept it off his face. “Can you explain that to me...erm, visually?”

“Oh, sure. You’ve seen soap bubbles, right?”

“Yes.”

“And they stay round as they float through the air, right?”

“Yes.”

“But what happens if you blow too hard on them—either with the wind or against it?”

Miro thought for a second, then nodded. “Their shape begins to stretch, to warp. They can’t really be pushed very hard without, without—”

“We would call it ‘being deformed by atmospheric drag.’ It’s the same with a loose-bag blimp; there’s only so fast you can go before the ‘nose’ of the bag starts dimpling and buckling: the air inside can’t hold the shape against the pressure generated by the air friction on the outside.”

“So you need a...an ‘internal skeleton’ to help it keep its shape.”

“Right. In this case, you don’t need more than a keel and a nose-cone—sort of like a spine with an underslung umbrella at the front.”

“I see. And you would know how to make this?”

“Why, sure. And Kelly will have some good tips for you, too. Better, maybe.”

“This is most helpful: please, let me compensate you for your advice.”

“You already do compensate me for my advice. Damn, your money is helping me far more than my advice is helping you.”

Miro smiled as he opened his purse. “Trust me when I insist that you are quite mistaken in that assumption, Mr. Pridmore; quite mistaken, indeed.”

March 1635

Despite the bitter wind that drove the cold rain sideways into every pedestrian’s face, Francisco Nasi waved broadly at Miro and crossed the street toward him.

Miro waved back and smiled. He had not seen much of Nasi over the last five months. Mike Stearns’—and Ed Piazza’s—spymaster extraordinaire was usually in Magdeburg, often closeted for marathon meetings, and sometimes “traveling on business” to places about which only one thing was known: they were far away from Grantville. In consequence, Miro had had few opportunities to converse with Nasi again—and whenever he did so, Miro sensed—what? A shadow of guilt? A hint of regret?

Miro took Francisco’s extended hand, noted the same slightly melancholy smile. “How are you, Don Francisco?”

“I’m freezing, so my senses still function. And you, Don Estuban?” Nasi’s use of his full, correct title was code, but its message was quite clear: Nasi had learned that Miro’s Venetian funds had finally arrived, were more considerable than even he had guessed, and—most importantly—were the proof positive that the
xueta
was exactly who he had claimed to be almost eight months earlier.

“I am well enough, Don Francisco. And my project is nearing completion.”
As if you didn’t already know that.

“Excellent. But it must be very absorbing. We don’t see much of you in town.”

“But how would you know if I’m in town, Don Francisco? Your presence here seems much rarer than mine.”

“
Touché
. But I have much family here, and they are my eyes and ears. On the streets, in the restaurants, elsewhere—”

Elsewhere. By which you mean, “the synagogue.”

Nasi looked up the street at nothing in particular. “I have regretted that the circumstances of your arrival made it impossible to—to welcome you, as was proper. As is traditional.”

Miro proferred a small bow. “You had no choice, Don Francisco. Your official responsibilities must trump all other considerations.”

“Yes. But only for as long as they must.” Nasi put out his hand to say farewell, opened his mouth, waited a long moment before speaking. “You have no family here. And a
seder
alone is no
seder
at all.” Then Nasi smiled faintly, released Miro’s hand, and, hunching over, hurried off into the cold.

Miro looked after him: it had not been, strictly speaking, an invitation. But that would no doubt change when Estuban Miro made his appearance in the almost-repaired synagogue this coming Shabbat.

He trusted that the spitting rain hid any other moisture that might have made his eyes blink so quickly. To sit and pray in a synagogue once again. To share a
seder
once again. To hear and speak Hebrew. To be a Jew in something other than name and memory only. To reclaim his life after nine long years.

Estuban stared up into the cold rain and felt suddenly warm, felt his soul rise with the promise of his almost-ready airship.

April 1635

Franchetti angled the props upward a bit, driving the blimp toward the ground. Then he cut the engines, and pulled hard on the lead ground line.

The forward bow of the gondola pushed into the soft loam, and the night-time noises hushed; the moon stared down, bright and indifferent.

As the rest of the Venetians swarmed the craft—affixing new lines, tossing in some ballast, opening flaps—Franchetti hopped out, followed by Bolzano, his beefy assistant in all things. “I am an aviator!” Franchetti cried. “I have flown like the birds!”

Miro smiled. “Excellent work, Franchetti—and you must not breathe a word of it.”

“But Don Estuban—”

“This is as we agreed, Franchetti. Would you take away Signor Pridmore’s joy at being the ‘first’ to fly in a balloon? After all he has done to help us build the
Swordfish
?”

Franchetti looked like a truant child. “No, you are right, Don Estuban—but did we not finish first? Long before him? And look at her! Is she not beautiful?”

Now sagging slightly in the moonlight, her abbreviated ribs showing, Miro thought the airship looked more akin to an emaciated maggot. “She is beautiful indeed, Franchetti—and I promise, in the future, you will be able to tell everyone that you were the first test pilot—for the
next
airship we build.”

Franchetti stared at him. “The next—? So we are not done? Then why did you say that this was our final week of pay?”

“Because now we change how you will be paid, Franchetti. I have been thinking that the master craftsmen who build my airships should also have the option to have part ownership in them. Of course, not all will want that. However, for those who do—”

But Franchetti was out of the gondola in a single leap and, landing with his arms around Miro, planted a sweaty kiss on each of the
xueta’s
well-shaven cheeks. “I will be an aviator!” he shouted loudly into the night sky.

So loudly that Miro harbored a faint worry that Marlon Pridmore might have heard—and might have lost the joy of thinking himself the first to fly one of the airships he had designed.

May 1635

Francisco Nasi’s desk was almost bare, and the contents of his “courtesy office” were now mostly in boxes. Nasi was bound to depart within a few months, and the process of relocation was already underway. But right now, his attention was very much riveted on the report in front of him. “I notice that President Piazza’s agents picked up this man Bolzano just a day after you passed word to me that we keep an eye out for him, heading south. What I’m wondering is: why?”

“Why what, Francisco?”

“Why you wanted the local authorities advised to pick him up. And how you knew he was a confidential agent for ‘other interests.’ ”

Miro shrugged. “The answer to the second is also the answer to the first. Bolzano started out as self-deprecating, unskilled illiterate, only worried about securing a salary. But during the process of constructing the
Swordfish
, he proved to be a quick study, dedicated, resourceful. And when I offered extended contracts with better terms to all my workers, he demurred, pleading urgent business in Padua. Nonsense. He had to return south to report to his real employers, and so had to decline the permanent position—which was wholly out of character for the role he had opted to play up here.”

“Well, you were right—although it seems he was not working directly for any government. Only a factotum for parties unnamed. But why did you recommend that President Piazza hold him in custody, Estuban?”

“Firstly, Francisco, I suggested it to
you
.”

“Yes—and my responsibilities here are finished. I no longer have power in this matter.”

Miro decided not to look as dubious as he might have. “Yes—that’s what all the official documents say. But it seems to me that President Piazza has asked you to, well, ‘watch over’ me this far, so I surmised that he might ask you to oversee this final related incident. Just as a means of ensuring a smooth transition, of course.”

Nasi did not blink or move for five full seconds. Then he said, almost without moving his lips: “I have certain—discretionary allowances—regarding the resolution of your current project. But let us return to the topic: why did you request that Bolzano be held?”

“First tell me this: why have you elected to do so? My suggestion certainly isn’t justifiable grounds for detaining a foreign national, is it?”

Nasi shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “You know it’s not.”

“Then I was right to guess that—for a little while, at least—Grantville’s own intelligence ‘brotherhood’ would like to keep my balloon a secret.”

“Well...yes. So far as it’s possible, since the Venetians spoke openly about what they were doing. But most everyone thinks they are still building the first balloon, not the second.”

“Yes; that was why I suggested you find and detain Bolzano. Not to protect the knowledge of how to make an airship; that will be common knowledge, soon enough—particularly since this design is so simple. But Bolzano might also have informed others that we already had a working balloon.”

“Yes, about that—”

Estuban let himself smile. “It’s about Italy, isn’t it?”

Nasi’s face became completely expressionless. “How do you know?”

“News like that travels quickly; by tomorrow at the latest, everyone in Grantville will know that there will soon be an anti-pope, and that Urban is missing.” Miro smiled wider. “Or is he? Because if Urban
isn’t
missing—if, instead, someone wanted to fly him out from a spot where there was no airfield, or fly in a special security team and their equipment—I suspect it might be very helpful to have a balloon to expedite that kind of mission.”

“So you can do it? You can fly to Northern Italy?”

“I can lift three thousand pounds over the Alps and arrive in Brescia four to eight days after we start out. The journey would be in four legs. Leg one is to Nürnberg. Then to Biberach. Then across the Bodensee up to Chur in the Grissons cantonment. Then south over the Valtelline and onto the Northern Italian plain. Each leg is a three-hour trip, give or take. Assuming that we must arrange support at the endpoint of each leg, we should be able to make a flight every two or three days. If the support could be arranged ahead of time,”—Miro looked through the wall in the direction of the radio room—“we could perform a flight a day.”

“So we—that is, President Piazza—could have a team on-site in four days?”

“If you consider Brescia ‘on-site,’ then, yes: if the weather permits, four days. Assuming that President Piazza—or even higher authorities—can arrange the necessary support.”

“And what kind of support will you need?”

Miro wondered, given the carefully rehearsed diction of that question, if it had been originally anticipated by Nasi, or Piazza, or Stearns—or maybe all three. “At each endpoint, we need a place to store the balloon—which, given its segmented keel, folds down to fifty feet long and twenty wide. And we need enough fuel on site—ethanol, methanol, lamp oil, fish oil—for the balloon’s next flight.”

“Sounds simple.”

“Oh, it is—which is why I already have twelve transport contracts for when I begin commercial flights.”

“Twelve? Already?”

Miro nodded. “Six out of Venice, one from Lubeck, two from Amsterdam, one from Prague, two from Brussels.”

“And you are carrying—?”

“A fair number of passengers, particularly diplomats and specialists. Lots of documents: data, research copies, bonds, certificates, and contracts of all sorts. Some specie, some spice, some lenses, even some gemstones and pearls. Low weight, high value. My rates are steep, but the transport is fast, safe, and almost entirely tariff- and toll-free.”

“And could you carry a—a ‘special cargo’ for President Piazza, first?”

“Of course; here’s the rate sheet.”

Nasi studied it, blanched, and then looked a bit like a penniless farmer confronting a burly
amtman
. “Estuban—I can’t—I don’t think the government here can pay these charges.”

Miro nodded, watching Nasi closely: another second and the spymaster might start mentioning how President Piazza might need to “nationalize a key asset—such as your balloon—for the duration of the crisis.” Probably not, but why risk having the deal move in that direction? By claiming poverty, Nasi had inadvertently given Miro the initiative: “Let’s keep the operating expenditures equal to my costs, Francisco: just have the president—or your successor—pay for the fuel and the crew. Besides, what’s more important to me than your government’s money is your government’s political influence.”

“What kind of influence?”

“The kind that would allow my airship company to become a government partner in bulk purchasing and shipment of various kinds of fuel. The kind of influence that would help us get support facilities established in the cities we’d be servicing directly. The kind of influence that reduces or eliminates certain tariffs or taxes. In short, nothing that needs to come out of a president’s—or a spymaster’s—always overburdened operations budget.” And Miro smiled.