"Turenne left us a note? Why?"
"That's part of the bad news, Mike. Quentin Underwood is dead. Shot by French soldiers. The gist of Turenne's note was an explanation that he was killed in the course of combat, and the French had no idea who he was until afterward. Turenne gives his word of honor that it was not an assassination and says he'll provide us with a full report later if we request it."
Mike took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. "Damn it. I was afraid of that. I tried to talk him into getting out, but…"
"Yeah, I know. Quentin Underwood. As pigheaded a man as any who ever lived."
"That he was. Where did Turenne leave the note?"
"He left it with one of his junior officers. The man showed up under a flag of truce early this morning, just a couple of hours before I got here. What do you want me to tell him?"
"Tell him we accept Marshal Turenne's explanation. No, better write a short note to that effect. But we'd appreciate it if he'd send us the report as soon as convenient. If for no other reason, because Quentin's family will want to know what happened."
"Okay, will do. But, Mike, the worst news isn't really what happened to the oil field. We'll lose a few weeks' production, but there's no permanent damage done. What matters a lot more is that we found a French soldier who'd gotten hurt in an accident and was left behind. More than that-we found his rifle. And Jesse's guess was right. It is a breechloader. In fact, it's basically just an American Sharps rifle from back in the middle of the nineteenth century."
There was a pause, on Ferrara's part, then, "Mike, I feel terrible about this. I really dropped the ball."
"Hey, look, Greg-"
"No, I mean I really dropped it big time. It's a percussion-cap design, Mike. The French somehow managed to mass produce production caps after I convinced everybody on our side it couldn't be done quickly enough for this war. On account of all the problems you have trying to work with fulminate of mercury."
"Yeah, I remember. So I guess the French were more willing to absorb a lot of casualties in their production force than-"
"Goddamit, Mike-I don't think they're using fulminate of mercury. I won't be sure until I get it into the lab, but I'm willing to bet they're using potassium chlorate."
Mike frowned. "I thought-"
"Yeah, yeah, I did think of it myself, back when. What I told you was that the production process would be way too complicated. But now that I'm looking at this… Oh, shit. I half-remember, now-now that it's too late-that I think you can probably make the stuff just by-"
From the way his voice was rising, it was obvious to Mike that Ferrara was on the edge of tears. "Greg! Stop it! For Christ's sake, man, you're a high school chemistry teacher who got the world dropped on your shoulders. We asked you to become a one-man military research and development team that would have employed thousands of people up-time and had a budget in the umpteen God-knows-how-many billions of dollars. You've worked miracles as it is. So, fine, maybe you dropped a stitch here. I'm just amazed you haven't dropped a hundred by now."
Mike broke off, giving Greg time to compose himself. A few seconds later, he continued. "It isn't the end of the world. So stop beating on yourself, will you? The way I look at it, the whole thing's just a salutary reminder to us not to drop the biggest stitch of all. And you want to know what that one is? It's the arrogant presumption that our side is the only one with any brains. We'll survive this one, well enough. We ever get in the habit of dropping the big stitch, our ass is grass. We are talking about the French, right? Correct me if I'm wrong, but aren't they the same people who produced Pasteur, the Curies, ah-hell, I can't remember-"
Ferrara's chuckle was quite audible. "Oh, jeez, there's a whole slew of 'em, Mike. Cuvier, Berthelot, Becquerel-four generations of great physicists, in that family-Ampere, Foucault, Poincare, the list goes on and on. If you include mathematicians and philosophers, you can start with Rene Descartes and Blaise Pascal-and let me tell you it feels really weird knowing they're both alive right now."
"I rest my case. Just take a deep breath or three and relax, Greg. If they can make a Sharps, we ought to be able to catch up before too long. And they didn't make enough of them to make a qualitative difference in this war, so we've got the time. Right?"
When Ferrara spoke next, his tone was firm and resolute. "Yes, we can. Damn right we can, in time for the next war."
"That's assuming there's a 'next war' in the first place. Who knows? Maybe there will be and maybe there won't. Don't forget they're also the same nation that produced the Marquis de Lafayette and the Declaration of the Rights of Man and of the Citizen. Not all that far down the road from now, either, if you put it all in perspective. We're not trying to destroy France, Greg. We never were. We just want to hurry those folks along a bit, that's all."
"Yeah, you're right. Easy to forget sometimes, though, isn't it?"
Mike hesitated, not wanting to add another bruise to Ferrara's already battered spirit. But some things just had to be said, and damn the bruises.
"I've never forgotten it once, Greg," he said bluntly. "That's what it's all about in the first place. The world doesn't need another fucking empire. They always come out of the mint looking bright and shiny, but the truth is they're a dime a dozen. The human race has been littering the landscape with them for thousands of years. The Mesopotamians alone must have produced a dozen, and nobody except specialists even remembers the names of more than a couple any longer. For every one that did some good, there were at least ten that were just pretentious garbage."
There was silence on the other end, for a moment. Then, quietly, Ferrara said, "Okay, I'll sign off now. I've got things to do and you've got some of our people to rescue. But… ah, Mike…"
"Yeah?"
"In case the chance never comes around again, I'd just like to tell you that I've been really glad, ever since it happened, that you came through the Ring of Fire with us. Most of us just floundered, but you were the one person who seemed made for this time and place."
Mike smiled. "Well, thanks. But you're forgetting Tom Stone, aren't you? Not to mention-talk about predestination-a certain gent by the name of Harry Lefferts."
"And there it is," said George Sutherland cheerfully. "The Tilbury fort. How d'you want it, Captain Lefferts? Scrambled or fried?"
Harry stood in the bow of the barge, his hands on his hips, gazing benignly upon the ramshackle old fort that had just come into view. "Aw, hell, those guys were friendly and polite when me and Don dropped by for a visit. I'd feel downright unneighborly if we went and ruined their day. As long as they don't mess with us, I figure we won't mess with them. Besides, we're getting low on munitions."
Melissa Mailey had seemed to be dozing off, but her eyes popped wide open. "Oh, certainly. You need to save the stuff for more important work. Destroying Stonehenge. The Roman works at Bath. Better yet! I think we should sail back to London. You forgot to blow up Parliament. And as long as we're headed that way, we could hunt around and find the field at Runnymede. Plow it up and sow it with salt."
"Jeez, Ms. Mailey. How long are you gonna hold this grudge, anyway?"
Melissa's expression was dark, dark, dark. "They signed the Magna Carta a little over four hundred years ago. That seems about right."
Harry grinned. "I hate to be the one to break the news, but you aren't likely to live that long."
"You watch, young man. I'm starting an exercise regimen as soon as I get back. Eat nothing but healthy foods, too."
"Fine. I won't live that long."
"Won't do you any good. Might have, back up-time, but not here. Paracelsus and Nostradamus didn't die all that long ago, not to mention John Dee. I'll track down their disciples, find out how to raise the dead. If Dante were still alive, of course, I wouldn't bother. I'm sure I could talk him into adding a tenth level to the Inferno and immortalizing you for posterity."