cylinders were coated with lard, the steam melted the lard, and the piston shoved it to the ends of the cylinders.
Then he turned and went forward again.
Struck with an idea how he might twit his younger brother, when Ivan got to the middle of the barge he asked loudly, “Say, can anyone read? My brother can’t and he got given a pamphlet in Moscow.” The front half of the barge was stacked with boxes and barrels of goods from Moscow and the Gorchakov Dacha, on which sat half- a-dozen passengers, all of it, and them probably, headed for the Gorchakov family estate at Murom.
There was a general shaking of heads. The passengers were mostly Streltzi on this run, which varied a lot. But there were generally better odds of finding a literate person on the barge than most places. The barge made a local, then an express, run in both directions. This was the express run from Moscow to Murom, a bit under four hundred miles by river. They would next hit land in four days or so. For safety’s sake, they threw out an anchor and stayed in the middle of the river at night.
One woman asked, “What have you got?”
“Just a pamphlet some kid gave my brother in Moscow,” Ivan answered.
“Sorry I can’t help.”
“Doesn’t matter. We’re sure to find someone in Murom who can read it to us. Why are you going to Murom?”
“I’ve got a cousin there. Maybe I can get work, what with all the new business Princess Natalia is promoting.”
The other passengers had similar stories. Looking for work, looking for opportunity. Bright people, hopeful people, but not literate people. So they wouldn’t find out what the Flying Squirrel had to say till they got to Murom.
Meanwhile, they cooked their meals over the boiler fire and had a generally good four-day vacation, talking about the goings on in the wider world.
“What’s the Dacha like?” the woman who had a cousin, second cousin actually, in Murom, asked the first night.
“Confusing.” Pavel laughed. “I don’t have any idea what they are talking about most of the time.”
“So how did you get the job?” asked a big man who was going to Murom in hopes of work as a blacksmith or maybe a foundry man. Not belligerently, just with the assurance that comes with being the biggest man around most of the time.
“Because we are very good boatmen,” Ivan said, with a touch of belligerence in his tone. This was their barge, after all.
The big man waved off any offense. “I didn’t mean that. I don’t doubt your skill, but I heard that those folks at the Dacha are dead set on reading and writing and figuring. I heard even the servants are learning to read at that Dacha place.”
“That’s true enough,” Pavel agreed after swallowing his mouthful. “But the princess said they’d never find enough river men to handle steam barges if they insisted that they all be able to read.”
“So they plan to make more of these?”
“They’re already making them at Murom,” Ivan confirmed. “We got the first one because we’re the best boatmen out of Murom and even the princess had heard about us.”
“We’re part of a test,” Pavel explained. “Us and the steam engine. We were shown how to operate the steam engine and sent out with it to see how it worked. Every time we go by the Dacha they ask us about what has gone wrong and how we fixed it. At first it was really bad, but we got to know the engine pretty quick and we have fewer breakdowns every trip.”
Not no breakdowns as it turned out. That trip, on the second day, they had a pipe come loose from the number two cylinder and they had to repair it as best they could with rags and pig fat and continue on. It was during the pig fat repairs that Pavel explained that what they had was a low-pressure steam engine. “See,” he explained amiably, “the piston is so big so that the pressure on any little bit of it can be less and you still get the same total power.”
Chapter 38
Grantville
September 1633
“So what else is on the list of impossible demands this week?” Brandy asked.
“Bernie, or rather ‘one of the brain cases,’ wants a computer. The patriarch wants proof of the dangers of lead poisoning and an alternative makeup, because certain women in Moscow are having fits. Also, tons of antibiotics. Apparently they are having trouble with the instructions already sent.”
“That’s not surprising. Cloramphenicol is doable, but not easy.” Brandy said.
Vladimir nodded. “I have one here from the Polish Section demanding a generator ‘if such things really exist.’ We sent one to Bernie a while back; that must be where they heard about it.”
“According to Natasha, they have a group at the Dacha who are hand-making generators and batteries. Why doesn’t the Polish Section get one from them?”
“Ah, that explains it.” Vladimir grinned. “The Polish Section wants a generator all right, but they don’t want to go through the Grantville Section or the Dacha to get it. Russian politics. I’ll direct them to the Dacha. Here’s one… they want the precise location of all gold mines in Russia. I already told them that the best we’ve found is general areas. So, make unreasonable demands of me, Brandy. I’m getting used to it.”
“Hmmm.” Brandy considered. “Hmmm. No one has ever suggested that to me before, I don’t think. I’ll hold the unreasonable demand for now and use it when it’s really inconvenient. For now, how about a reasonable demand? Let’s take off early? I want you to tell me about Moscow.”
Vladimir shrugged. “Why not? The demands will still be here tomorrow.”
It was three nights after the car had left for Russia that Vladimir made up his mind. He would ask for permission to marry the girl from the future. He pulled out a pen and began the two letters. One to Natasha informing her that he would be seeking Brandy’s hand and asking for her help in persuading the czar. One to the czar asking his permission to marry a foreigner. He would wait to ask Brandy until he had permission because he didn’t know what he would do if the permission was not forthcoming.
Having written those letters, Vladimir began to write this week’s report to the embassy bureau, attention Grantville Section. First he wrote about Hans Richter and the political implications that were already bouncing around central Germany. That was an event that would change the politics of Europe. He included some of the newspaper coverage and turned to the next item.
The steam engines are on order. The younger Herr Schmidt may prove even more suited to the new future that sits before us all than his father. I include fairly extensive notes on the tour of his plant. Herr Adolf Schmidt charged two thousand American dollars for that tour. He said he understands that he can’t prevent others from profiting from his work, but he can at least get them to pay for the privilege if he doesn’t charge too much. It would have cost more to steal the information, so I guess in this case he didn’t charge too much. I think we got our money’s worth, anyway. In spite of your efforts in Murom, I don’t think the infrastructure is in place to support a steam engine factory in Russia like the one in Magdeburg. Herr Schmidt’s factory doesn’t exist on its own, but is a part of an industrial community. Herr Schmidt gets parts from three different foundries and is looking for more. The machines he uses to finish those parts were produced by other suppliers, mostly from near Grantville. But he is looking into having a tube bender made in Magdeburg. I mention this to emphasize again that what we need more than a steam engine shop or a gun shop-or any other shop-is that community of industry. A place where the parts
