“Well, can’t we build a better balloon? Something like the Hindenburg?” Seeing the look on Miro’s face, he added, “But smaller, of course.”
“I’d like to, Tom. But hydrogen is a dangerous substance. As I’m sure you’re aware.”
“You’re not talking about the flammability issues, are you?”
“Not directly. From what I’ve read, and from the up-timers I’ve talked to, the real danger is the brittlization.”
Tom nodded. “So, you’ve done your homework.” He considered Miro for a long moment. “I get it. This balloon of yours: this is just Phase One, isn’t it?”
Miro tried not to start in surprise. He rarely misgauged people, but he had mistaken the profound informality of Tom’s thought processes as diagnostic of the classical “narrow genius.” That kind of prodigy who was a wonder in regards to his own field, but disengaged from others. Now Miro saw this was not the case with Tom Stone: there were simply a few areas in which this up-timer was profoundly disinterested-or that he found downright aversive- and so he avoided them. But the idea of ballooning was apparently of interest to him, at least enough to leap ahead and see where Miro was going, what he intended. “Yes, going to hydrogen balloons is indeed my next plan. The hot air balloons are simply the first step. They will get a network of mooring towers and aerodromes established, will acclimate people to the notion of flying. But after that-”
“Sure,” said Tom with a lazy, but also canny, smile. “Everyone will want to sail in the clouds: the ultimate, natural trip.”
Miro felt, from the emphasis Tom put on the word “trip,” that he was not simply referring to a journey. “You sound interested, Tom. Personally.”
Tom rocked his feet from side to side. “Yeah. When I was just a kid, I was cruising through the Southwest. Doing my Jack Kerouac thing. Saw a bunch of balloons go up. Drove over. Traded some strictly medicinal cannabis for a ride. Man, oh man.” Tom’s eyes looked out the window, but were clearly seeing another time and place. “The colors, the shapes, the desert. Like another planet. Didn’t need the weed, you know?”
“Uh…no, I’m afraid I don’t.”
Tom blinked out of the recollection, sat a little straighter, grinned sheepishly. “’Course you wouldn’t; how could you?” His eyes became very intent. “Listen, Estuban. I’ve been watching my friends in Grantville build planes, and I’ve been amazed, just amazed, at what they’ve been able to do. But no matter how many they build, there’s always a need for more air transport. Any kind of air transport, even if it’s slow and with limited range. And the people here-you down-timers-can’t really get in on the airplane-building action, not for years, anyway. But balloons are simpler, and they can be made here.”
“Which is why I built one, Tom. And why I’m building more.”
Tom smiled. “See? It’s like synchronicity; you were meant to be here, for us to talk about airplanes but wind up talking about balloons. I’m going to talk to the people trying to build them here in Venice, if it’s okay with you. Your people have the experience now, but this city has money-lots of money-and resources. And I’ve got some myself, you know.”
Miro smiled. “Yes, I’ve heard.”
Tom nodded. “You and me, Estuban, we’re going to help people sail in the clouds. And we’re going to rescue lives while we’re at it.”
“You mean quick responses to medical emergencies?”
“I mean more than that, Estuban. Think of it: my drugs carried on your balloons. We learn of an outbreak of plague, of typhus, and BANG! — ” Tom hammered the desktop with the flat of his hand; Miro almost jumped “-we’re there, with drugs in hand. If the epidemic is in a single town, we surround it and wipe it out. If it’s coming at us like a wall of fire, we land in front of it and build a fire-break of immunity. Estuban, we could save thousands-millions! — of lives before we get to the middle of this century.”
Miro nodded. “Yes. But do remember this, Tom: balloons could carry payloads other than life-saving drugs. Much more unwelcome payloads.”
Tom’s eyes darkened. “Yeah. There’s that.” He rocked his big feet back and forth again. “I like that you brought that up, Estuban. A guy just in this for the money would have tried to leave that under the rug. Not you. You’re okay.” The feet rocked one more time and were still. “Listen. After you’ve sent that scroll on its crooked way to Sharon, you have some business in town, right?”
“I do.” Miro’s breakfast was borne in by a young man so discreet as to be almost soundless and invisible.
Tom nodded approvingly. “Good. Hang out a bit. See the sights. Lemme think on this balloon business a little. We’ll talk soon, okay?”
“Okay,” repeated Miro around a mouthful of eggs.
“Hey,” remarked Tom, “breakfast! That’s a great idea you had.” Tom jumped out of his chair, calling after the young attendant who had delivered it.
Miro, mouth still full, was unable to point out that it had been Tom’s idea, after all.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Harry Lefferts contemplated the largely abandoned shore town to the north, passing quickly now that the galliot ’s crew had stepped the sail and laid hands to their oars.
Stepping closer, Sherrilyn offered, “Penny-or pfennig — for your thoughts?”
Harry nodded at the gray, crumbling buildings and the few fishing boats moored at a single, listing pier, dark with age. “You know what that is?”
“Uh-a hard-luck fishing town?”
“That, oh-former-teacher-of-mine, is Anzio.”
For a second, the name didn’t register with Sherrilyn. Then she turned and gawked. “You mean, as in the big World War Two battle? That little shit-hole? That’s Anzio?”
“Yup,” said Harry.
“Robert Mitchum,” said Thomas North quietly, from his position farther down the port-side gunwale, almost at the taffrail.
“Huh?” said Sherrilyn.
Harry smiled broadly. “Yeah! That’s right! Mitchum starred in the movie. How’d you know that?”
North sent a long sideways look at Lefferts — Who remembered. “Right. You’re the movie-nut.” He turned to Sherrilyn. “If it has a war, or a gun, in it, and it came back in time with us, Sir Thomas North has seen it.”
Sherrilyn poked him in the ribs and muttered, “Harry, you want to maybe muzzle yourself on the Ring of Fire references?”
Lefferts smiled. He shrugged off her concern but noticed North look away sharply. “What, you’re worried, too?”
North nodded slowly. “Granted we haven’t heard any English spoken on this boat. But that means very little, and this is a very small boat.”
“God, I’m surrounded by nervous biddies and worriers.” Harry smiled.
North shrugged. “Worrying is the very heart of an intelligence officer’s job, Harry. Although you will remember that I advised against taking me along in this capacity. Several times.”
Harry’s smile widened. “Yeah, well, I ignored you.”
North was looking over the side again. “Then, in my capacity as your intelligence officer, I strongly urge you to be a little more careful with your references. Or at least the volume with which you utter them.”
“Fair enough,” said Lefferts. He looked forward over the straining backs of the rowers-most from Rimini, like the ship-at the hazy outline of their destination. A tower, maybe two, a fair number of medium-sized ships at anchor. A lazy little port, far away from Spanish held Ostia and the Rome-wending Tiber River. Lefferts turned toward the rest of the Crew, who, just behind him, were lounging (and in some cases, napping) amongst their duffles and bags. “Okay, everyone, look lively and have your gear at hand. We’re coming up on Nettuno.”
North found disembarking at Nettuno to be a leisurely affair. The customs inspection was mostly an excuse for an inspector to come aboard with two surprisingly congenial guards and exchange news, gossip, and gripes
