nodded gratitude and withdrew to study the burner yet again. “They’re clever guys, most of them,” Pridmore averred with a nod as he came to stand beside Miro. “Hardly need all the tutoring you’re paying me to give them. They’ll build you a fine balloon, sure enough.”
“They have an excellent teacher.”
Pridmore looked abashed and very, very proud. “Aw, I jus’-”
“You have taught them as no one else could. Their progress is extraordinary.” Yes, Miro added to himself, so extraordinary that they are already outpacing you, Marlon. Not that there was any surprise in that; a handful of part-time enthusiasts were no match for nine artisans working full time. But that speed of construction had a price-nine salaries worth, to be exact. So Miro had to use his limited funds as efficiently as possible, which gave him no choice but to complete his own airship before Pridmore’s. But one particular difficulty had begun to loom large: “Mr. Pridmore, I am concerned about our engines.”
“What about them? Don’t they work?”
“Yes-I mean, I believe so. But they are not the same as yours. They are-what is the term? — ‘lawn-mower’ engines. And this is where the understanding of my men is so very limited. Is there any chance that they could receive some special tutoring in regards to these engines? That, for an additional consideration, you might guide them through-?”
“An additional consideration? Don Estuban, your weekly fee for my services is plenty enough as it is. But I’ll tell you what: some of the real small-engine experts are over at Kelly Aircraft. And Kelly always needs extra money. So if you could push a few hundred at him-”
“It will be as you say. And if you will be so kind as to be my intermediary to Mr. Kelly, I believe it is only right that you receive fifteen percent of the fee I will give him. This is your ‘finder’s fee’ principle, yes?”
“Well, yes-but maybe you could help me with something else, instead.”
“If I can, I will.”
“Well, it’s like this: to make the canvas really hold the air, I need to coat it with a blend of different substances. And one of them is pretty hard to get, up here.”
“Oh? And what is that?”
“Gum arabic. I’m telling you, with a few gallons of that stuff, I could-”
“I believe I have a connection for that substance, Mr. Pridmore. And I think he owes me enough old favors that it can be made available at a very reasonable price.”
Pridmore’s gleeful expression made his answer redundant. “Not a problem, Don Estuban. Hell, I was worried that I might not be able to afford enough-or maybe any- gum arabic. So this is great news, just great.”
“I am happy to be of service,” said Miro with a small bow, and a smaller smile.
“Not as pleased as I am for your help, Don Estuban.”
Staring at the engines, Miro straightened and let his smile expand. “I assure you, Mr. Pridmore, the pleasure is all mine.”
December 1634
Francisco Nasi watched Piazza reading the report. “Miro’s airship is already closer to completion than Pridmore’s. Much closer.”
“Mmmm-hmmm,” Piazza subvocalized.
“He’s very good at what he does.”
“Pridmore?”
“No: Miro.”
“You mean, building airships?”
Nasi sighed; every time he made one of his brief returns to Grantville, Piazza seemed to take a subtle delight in becoming marginally more obtuse. “No, Ed: I mean Miro is very good at getting information, managing relationships, coordinating disparate operations and drawing upon widely divergent resources.”
Ed put down the report. “What are you saying?”
Nasi shrugged. “I’m saying that you might want to consider Miro’s capabilities in the context of a more- permanent-relationship with this government.”
“You mean, as a spy?”
“No. As an intelligence officer. Maybe even chief of intelligence, eventually.”
Piazza put aside his glasses: it was an exasperated gesture. “Francisco, we’ve already got one of those.” He stared meaningfully at Grantville’s resident spymaster.
“For now, yes. But Mike anticipates that when his time as prime minister is over, he is likely to relocate, and my own interests might take me in the same direction.”
“Oh, so we’re back to the imminent Prague exodus again…”
“Ed, I understand you don’t welcome the thought of it, much less the actuality, but I have a duty there-not just to the USE, but to my people. Sooner or later, I must-” He sent a desultory wave toward the east. Toward Prague.
Piazza made a sound that resembled “Umhh-grumpff” and looked at the reports on Miro’s airship project again. “So you think he could do your job?”
Francisco shrugged. Was it his merchant’s instinct not to “hard sell” Miro-or a sense of pride-that kept him from simply answering “yes”? Instead he said, “His mind is nimble, highly adaptive, but also capable of sustained focus. He speaks and writes six languages. He is a trained observer of nuances, including social ones-such as those required to construct and to live an assumed identity for almost ten years. He has extraordinary knowledge of one of our most urgent intelligence areas, having unparalleled familiarity with waters, ports, and markets of the Mediterranean. And he learns very, very quickly.”
“So you’ve been watching him? And he’s reliable?”
“Yes, to both.”
“Do you think he knows you’re watching him?”
“Of course he knows. As I said, he’s very good at what he does.”
January 1635
Marlon Pridmore walked around the large barn that Miro had rented, staring at the neatly arranged airship components at its center.
“You know, I would have been happy to do this without the extra-”
“Mr. Pridmore, please. It is the least I could offer. Your presence here is of immense help to us.”
Pridmore snorted out a laugh. “Really? Hell, I wish my shop looked so good-or I was so far along.” He started walking again, eyeing the rows of empty fuel tanks professionally. “Giving yourself a lot of operating range, eh?”
“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.”
