She introduced the participants with a quick pointing finger. "Most of you, of course, already know Greg Ferrara from his many appearances on the show. Next to him is Ollie Reardon, the owner of one of Grantville's machine shops. And next to him is Jerry Trainer. Jerry is Quentin Underwood's son-in-law and was studying for a degree in chemical engineering before the Ring of Fire-ah-interrupted his education."
A little laugh went up from the audience. "But he finished enough, I'm quite sure!" said Rebecca firmly. She broke off for a moment, translating the introductions into German. When she resumed in English, her enthusiasm seemed to rise.
"Tonight we're going to discuss their proposal for building a chemical factory, and they will explain the importance of it for our future." Bouncing like a puppy, now: "Especially sulfuric acid! Isn't that grand?"
"How does she get away with it?" demanded Piazza. "The worst of it is-don't take this bet!-she'll keep the whole damned audience."
And, indeed, she did. The German audience, anyway. Some of the Americans turned away from their TV sets. But not one German.
A half hour into the show, watching Greg Ferrara at his blackboard explaining the critical importance of sulfuric acid to practically all industrial chemical processes, a German farmer turned his head to the man sitting next to him in the Thuringen Gardens. His neighbor at the table, a German coal miner, had his eyes glued to one of the elevated TV sets scattered throughout the huge tavern.
"Sounds dangerous," commented the farmer.
The miner snorted. "More dangerous than a coal mine? And with the wages they're talking about?" He emptied the pitcher into his mug and looked around for a barmaid. "Besides-"
He spotted the woman he was looking for. "Gesine-bitte!" He waved the empty pitcher. "Und a telephone!"
A minute or so later, Gesine appeared with a fresh pitcher and a cordless telephone. The coal miner accepted the second as easily as the first. He was an "old America hand" himself, now. Telephones were easy.
When the call-in section of the show started, the coal miner was the first one to be sent through. In the studio, Rebecca listened carefully to the man's question, carried over the loudspeakers. Since most of the question had been asked in German, she translated.
"He wants to know if you'll be offering employees the option to purchase stock."
"Oh, sure," came Ollie Reardon's immediate response. "Got to do that, these days, or you can't hire anybody." The machine-shop owner spotted Mike in the audience and grinned. "And we're not even going to try to stop the UMWA from organizing the place. Don't need any extra wars."
The audience laughed.
"And she's getting away with it again," muttered Piazza. But he was laughing himself.
Later that night, Mike wasn't amused in the least.
"You don't have to let anyone tell you what to do, Rebecca," he growled. Sitting on the armchair across from her, he began to clench his fists. "Especially not about this."
On the couch, Rebecca shook her head. "I am not concerned about that, Michael. Only about you. How do you feel-yourself?"
He looked away. For a moment, his eyes roamed the interior of the living room of his family's house. After the show, they had come here-at Rebecca's request-rather than the Roths' house. Mike's mother, sister and brother-in-law had already gone to bed. So had the German family which occupied what had once been Mike's bedroom. Not needing the space, Mike had set himself up in the small room which had once served his mother for her sewing.
He brought his eyes back to her. "It was your desire to wait, sweetheart. You wanted time."
"Yourself," she commanded.
The half-clenched fists opened. "Oh, hell," he whispered. "I wouldn't have waited a day."
She smiled. "Good. It is settled, then. We will get married as soon as possible." Half-eagerly; half-timidly: "Tomorrow?"
He was still frowning. Rebecca made a little fluttering motion with her hand. "Enough time!" She almost giggled. "Even for me!" Then, seriously: "And Francisco is right, Michael. I also have a responsibility to my family. They will be risking much. I know it is hard, sometimes, for you to understand this. But we have survived, in part, because we can also be cold-blooded when necessary."
The term "cold-blooded" went very poorly with the warmth-the heat-in her voice. "Tomorrow," she whispered.
Mike heaved a deep breath, almost clenching his fists again. He did press them very firmly into the armrests.
"No," he said forcefully. "Not until after the election. The convention is about to take its final vote, and we're going to win-hands down. I'll call for immediate elections. Give it-say, a month for campaigning. No, six weeks would be better. Then we can get married."
"Why?" Rebecca demanded. She slid forward to the edge of the couch, her whole posture pleading. "Why so long?"
Mike's expression, for all the love so obvious in it, was set like stone. "Because, sweetheart, I will see you-finally-elected to office in your own name. Before you take mine."
Rebecca groped for the logic. When she found it, she burst into tears.
Mike rose and came to the couch, enfolding her in his arms. "Not so long," he whispered. "Six weeks. Maybe two months."
But Rebecca was already wiping away the tears. She turned her face into his neck and pressed open lips against him. "I love you," she whispered. "And we will not wait two months. Not for everything."
She rose and extended her hand to him.
"I have never seen your bedroom. Show me."
Chapter 44
Everywhere, the whirlwind.
A new nation would be born that winter. Three days later, the convention would ratify the new constitution-without amendments-by a seventy-eight percent majority. Mike would announce new elections with the same blow of the gavel with which he closed the convention. The election "season" would last through December, but it was more in the nature of a triumphal parade than a contest. With the franchise now extended to most of Grantville's German residents, the outcome was a foregone conclusion. After the way in which he had conducted his campaign against the constitution, Simpson had alienated every German in the area except the pure halfwits. Now, he even lost a large number of his American supporters. Sensing the tide, they bowed to the inevitable.
Mike's decision to allow weeks for the campaign proved to be a wise one. The conclusion was foregone, true-and had been from the first day. But Mike knew the difference between "winning" an election campaign and forging a political structure. The weeks of constant campaigning allowed him and his supporters time and opportunity to sink real roots in the new nation's budding growth.
The process proved complicated and contradictory, as these things do in the real world. The Fourth of July Party was really more of a coalition than a political party. Over the weeks, the different underlying factions had time to sort themselves out. Which, from Mike's point of view, was all to the good. "Unity" is a splendid word, but not when it comes at the price of clarity. That there would be political factions in the new United States, just as there had been in the one left behind in another universe, was as certain as the sunrise. Better to have them out in the open, where the public could gauge their programs, than hidden away in murky shadows.
His own position was somewhat peculiar, and more than a bit awkward. Mike now commanded a personal allegiance-especially from the "new" Americans-which would have allowed him, had he so chosen, to force through anything he wanted. Whatever else they disagreed on, Melissa Mailey and Quentin Underwood-the publicly recognized leaders of the Fourth of July Party's respective "left" and "right" factions-were both heard, on more than one occasion, to grumble about "Bonapartism." But not even Melissa or Quentin used the term seriously. No one who knew Mike Stearns was really worried about "a whiff of grapeshot." So, much like George Washington before him, Mike tried as far as possible to stay out of the immediate factional fray. And he accepted compromises, as a prospective president, that his younger persona would have sneered at.