The ride to Pridmore’s house was not long, and was the first Miro had ever taken in an up-time automobile. But he almost failed to notice the marvels of this conveyance, so focused were this thoughts.
Balloons. He had read a little about them in the library already. They were not fast in terms of absolute velocity-certainly not in comparison to airplanes-but, like airplanes, balloons recognized few obstacles. Because the sky was their home, they flew as straight as the crow, rather than crawling as crooked as the tortoise. And for them, airfields were not required: a network of the simple support facilities would be easy enough to set up in communities located at the right intervals. And the operation of a blimp was, in comparison to piloting an airplane, almost laughably simple: it was the difference between manning a rowboat on a fishpond and steering a three- masted merchantman through treacherous reefs.
And bandits and toll collectors could only stare up and wonder what small treasures might be nestled in the gondola above them, seemingly close overhead, but for all practical purposes, as distant from their greedy hands as the wealth of Prester John’s fabled kingdom.
Pridmore’s balloon turned out to be a surprisingly simple device. Large when inflated-it would measure 150 feet in length, and 60 in girth-it became so small when deflated that it would easily fit in its own, longboat-sized, wicker gondola. Two engines-up-time devices once used to propel small, two-wheeled vehicles-provided the motive force that pushed the floating lozenge through the air. Close beneath the bag-or “envelope”-of the vehicle was what Pridmore called a “burner”-a special torch which sent new hot air upwards to keep the canvas inflated. Miro found himself deeply impressed by the elegance and practicality of the whole vehicle.
Or at least, of its many unassembled pieces: they lay about the master ballooner’s small barn in what almost looked like disarray, the envelope itself still a pile of unsewn strips. Miro gestured toward the gear: “It seems that you have a long way to go before your airship is ready, Mister Pridmore.”
Marlon-who was also called “Swordfish,” for reasons having to do with an obscure pun on piscine nomenclature-nodded sadly. “Yeah, got a ways to go with this ol’ girl. Just me and Bernard doing the work. A few other folks pitch in-when they have the time.”
“Can you not hire more workers?”
Pridmore stared sideways at him. “On my salary? Not hardly. I’m lucky to have a week where I get twenty hours to work on her.” He sighed and stared longingly at the somewhat chaotic collection of airship components. “Not like I haven’t had offers, though.”
Miro turned to face Pridmore. “To what offers are you referring?”
“Well, there was a bunch of Venetian fellows who came out here just last week. Said they had come all the way from Italy just to learn how to build aircraft-any aircraft. But none of the airplane firms wanted ’em: they’ve got more staff and apprentices than they can pay, right now, and these Venetian fellas didn’t have any prior experience with up-time machines. So they wound up coming here. They were plenty interested but couldn’t stick around: said they needed a salary more than knowledge, so they left. Can’t say as how I blame them. Last I heard, they were trying to scrape enough dollars together just to get back to Venice.”
Miro began walking to the barn door; Pridmore looked up, surprised, and trotted after. “Where are you goin’, Mr. Miro?”
“If you would be so good as to drive me back to town, Mr. Pridmore, I have some new business to conduct there.”
An hour from closing time, the tubular door chimes sounded, causing Nicolo Peruzzi to look up from securing the display case in the front room of Roth, Nasi, amp; Partners, Jewelry Sales and Lapidary Services. His first instinctual hope was that it might be a customer, but one glance made him conclude otherwise.
He had seen this fellow before-a handsome, saturnine man of about thirty years with a hint of the hidalgo about him. And today he seemed more Mephistophelean than usual. Perhaps it was because he entered the store alone, and Peruzzi was-uncharacteristically-without nearby employees. Perhaps it was because of the fellow’s careful backward glance into street, as if checking to ensure that he was neither followed nor under observation. Or perhaps it was because of the long, straight dagger he produced as soon as the door had closed behind him.
Peruzzi’s hand went to the large button under the rear lip of the display case and remained there, quite taut. Was this fellow-named Miro? — really going to rob him? In broad daylight? It was known that, although Miro was a wealthy man, he was struggling financially, still separated from his funds in Venice. But had he really become so desperate? And so stupid? Did he really think he would get more than a mile from the store before the police-?
But Miro smiled at Peruzzi and pointed with his finger-not the dagger: “May I borrow that small-do you say, ‘screwdriver’?-please?”
Wordlessly, and now as thoroughly baffled as he had been terrified, Peruzzi complied.
Miro used the screwdriver to wedge up the brass band that secured the narrow neck of the pommel to the end of the dagger’s grip. Then, exerting pressure in the opposite direction, he levered the pommel off the hilt. As it fell into Miro’s hand, Nicolo saw that it was hollow-and that, nestled inside, were two rubies and an emerald, the latter of a most prodigious size.
Sometime later-seconds? minutes? — Nicolo Peruzzi realized that he had been staring at the green stone, and that his jaw had been hanging slack. As he closed it with an embarrassed snap, Miro smiled faintly and said: “I am told that up-time gem-cutting techniques can dramatically increase the value of these stones. What share of the emerald would you charge to undertake this service for me?”
The Venetians were not hard to find in the Thuringen Gardens. In the first place, there were nine of them. In the second place, they had obviously been nursing well-watered wine and a few pretzels for a very long time. In the third place, they wore the morose expressions of the underemployed.
Miro sat down without invitation. “May I buy the table a round of drinks?”
From that moment on, no invitations were needed. Nor credentials. Nonetheless, Estuban Miro provided a (strategically edited) review of his assets, prospects, and immediate interests: to wit, constructing an airship. He ended by staring hard at the one who seemed to be the group’s leader, a fellow named Franchetti. “Can you build it?”
“What? Signor Pridmore’s airship?” Franchetti shrugged. “Our conversation with him never went so far. After all, we came here to build air-o-planes.”
“Airplanes,” Miro corrected him.
“ Si: air-o-planes. But we learned that we did not have the skills for that work. Or the knowledge. And for every up-timer who could teach us, there are a hundred, maybe a thousand, down-timers who want to learn. And it is a long process-made longer if one does not read English.”
“Or does not read at all,” grumbled his beefiest partner.
“ Si: this is true. The balloon-that would be easier. But Signor Pridmore, he does the work himself; he has no way to pay us. And we must eat.”
“And, I fear, go home,” added another sadly, watching a bevy of jeans-clad young women, recent high school grads, swaying past, the denim evidently painted on their hips.
Miro kept his eyes upon Franchetti’s. “If Signor Pridmore were to let you watch him at his work, and explain his procedures as he did so, do you think you could learn to build it?”
The Venetian shrugged. Among the French, that gesture would have meant, “it simply cannot be done.” Among Italians, it meant “of course it can be done.” His words matched the motion: “Yes, the balloon is not so difficult, I think. We have the right kind of skills. Sails, wheel locks, ships, dyes, even clocks-one or more of us have had a hand in crafting all these things in Venice. The work we saw Signor Pridmore doing-the physical tasks- appeared simple enough. But what to do, and why, and in what order?” He shook his head. “Of this, we have only a small understanding.”
“Or no understanding,” put in the beefiest one again. Miro decided that this large brooding fellow-apparently named Bolzano-could not be a bad sort: he was too forthright about his own cognitive limitations.
The wiry leader went on. “But together, we could learn to copy what he does. Particularly if he will take the time to explain each action and its purpose.”
Miro allowed himself the luxury of a small smile. “That, I think, can be arranged,” he said, producing a purse that attracted the eyes of the Venetians like a magnet attracts iron filings.
October 1634
Marlon Pridmore clapped an encouraging hand down on Franchetti’s narrow shoulder. The Venetian foreman
