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supply in secret.'

'They insist on absurdly low interest,' grumbled Moses.

Rebecca began to speak, but her father stilled her with a quick hand on her arm and a cautioning glance. Let Francisco handle it. Your interests are compromised.

Francisco finished his coffee, and shrugged. 'So? Take advantage of their offer, then. Invest. I intend to do so myself. We have been moneylenders long enough.'

Moses and Samuel exchanged a hesitant glance. 'It is-not customary,' complained Samuel.

'No, it isn't,' replied Francisco. Harshly: 'What is customary is for Jews to lend money to princes, or serve the Christian aristocracy as their rent collectors. Then, when the princes are done with their wars-or the peasants rise up in rebellion-it is the Jews who burn.'

He placed the cup down so forcefully that it almost broke the saucer. 'Enough, I say! I have the full backing of Turkey's Abrabanels.' He was polite enough not to add: who are the largest and richest branch of the family. 'Whatever your decision, I have made ours. We will take all necessary precautions, of course. No reason to publicly tweak the noses of the Christian rulers. But we will provide the Americans with the support they ask. Hard currency, loans, trade, investment.'

Francisco paused, and made his own final decision. 'More. We will begin to immigrate here. I will stay myself.'

That announcement froze everyone. Francisco was the rising star in the Abrabanel firmament. Guaranteed, if he stayed in Istanbul, a life of power and luxury and splendor.

Perhaps he read their minds. He smiled. 'Until the next sultan…'

The smile vanished, replaced by a look so stern it seemed quite out of place on his young face. His eyes moved back to Rebecca.

'There is a condition,' he stated stiffly.

Rebecca inhaled so sharply it was almost a hiss. She knew full well Francisco's other purpose in coming to Thuringia. It would have taken no genius to deduce it, even if her father had not been notified in advance.

She found herself struggling fiercely to keep anger out of her own stiff face. She was almost shocked, then, to realize how much she had internalized the American way of looking at things. If this man thinks he can demand-

Francisco, as if realizing her thoughts, shook his head. 'When is your marriage to Michael Stearns to take place?' he asked.

The question caught Rebecca off guard. 'I-we-' she fumbled. Then, quietly: 'We have not set a date.'

'Set it, then,' commanded Francisco. 'That is my condition.'

Rebecca stared at him. For one of the few times in her life, she was quite at a loss for words.

Francisco's stern expression softened. 'Please, Rebecca. Do it now. For all of us.' He spread his hands, as if to explain the obvious. 'I believe in ties of blood.'

***

Moses and Samuel, true to their cautious instincts and training, made no final pronouncements that night. But it was obvious to all that Francisco had settled the matter.

The meeting broke up soon thereafter. Rebecca had to leave. Her roundtable discussion show was on the air again that night. Francisco walked her to the door, and offered to accompany her to the school.

Rebecca hesitated. She had no desire-none at all-to offend Francisco. Or to bruise his sentiments further. So, for a moment, she fumbled with the explanation that Michael always walked her Again, Francisco was a mind reader. 'He seems a magnificent man,' he said gently. 'We Turkish Sephardim, you know, are quite accustomed to marrying outside the faith.'

Rebecca's smile lost its shy hesitance. 'Thank you, Francisco. For whatever it may be worth, had the circumstances been otherwise, I would have been quite happy to become your wife. I think you are quite magnificent yourself.'

He nodded, with all the aplomb of a courtier raised in the formalities of the Ottoman court. 'I thank you for that, Rebecca Abrabanel.'

Rebecca cast hesitation aside. 'But I have a cousin in Amsterdam. She is very pretty-very intelligent, too-her name is-'

Francisco held up his hand. 'Please! Allow me a day or two to wallow in my heartbreak.' A chuckle took all the sting out of the words. Then a thoughtful expression came to his face.

'Besides,' he mused, 'it would be best to leave that aside, for the moment. I am here now, to stay. Perhaps I should give some thought to following your own example. Ties of blood.'

Hesitation-to the winds!

'Even better!' exclaimed Rebecca. 'There is a young schoolteacher-Gina Mastroianni-very good family, as Americans count such things-a good friend of mine, she has become-she is even prettier than my cousin-smarter, too, in all honesty-and-'

Francisco was laughing aloud, now. 'Be off!' he commanded. 'Later!'

Obediently, Rebecca skipped down the steps. But, by the time she reached the bottom, a new enthusiasm had come. She turned around.

'Be sure to watch the show tonight, Francisco! There will be a great opportunity to invest! Watch!'

***

'How does she get away with it?' grumbled Piazza. As usual, he was attending the roundtable discussion as part of the live audience in the recording studio.

Sitting next to him, Mike grinned. 'What's the matter?' he whispered. 'Think the TV executives we left behind-not to mention the sponsors-would have choked on this show? Not suitable for a popular audience?'

Piazza grunted sarcastically. He started to reply, but fell silent. The show was starting.

'Welcome to tonight's roundtable discussion,' began Rebecca. She was practically bouncing in her chair from enthusiasm. 'Tonight's show, I think, will be grand!'

She introduced the participants with a quick pointing finger. 'Most of you, of course, already know Greg Ferrara from his many appearances on the show. Next to him is Ollie Reardon, the owner of one of Grantville's machine shops. And next to him is Jerry Trainer. Jerry is Quentin Underwood's son-in-law and was studying for a degree in chemical engineering before the Ring of Fire-ah-interrupted his education.'

A little laugh went up from the audience. 'But he finished enough, I'm quite sure!' said Rebecca firmly. She broke off for a moment, translating the introductions into German. When she resumed in English, her enthusiasm seemed to rise.

'Tonight we're going to discuss their proposal for building a chemical factory, and they will explain the importance of it for our future.' Bouncing like a puppy, now: 'Especially sulfuric acid! Isn't that grand?'

'How does she get away with it?' demanded Piazza. 'The worst of it is-don't take this bet!-she'll keep the whole damned audience.'

***

And, indeed, she did. The German audience, anyway. Some of the Americans turned away from their TV sets. But not one German.

A half hour into the show, watching Greg Ferrara at his blackboard explaining the critical importance of sulfuric acid to practically all industrial chemical processes, a German farmer turned his head to the man sitting next to him in the Thuringen Gardens. His neighbor at the table, a German coal miner, had his eyes glued to one of the elevated TV sets scattered throughout the huge tavern.

'Sounds dangerous,' commented the farmer.

The miner snorted. 'More dangerous than a coal mine? And with the wages they're talking about?' He emptied the pitcher into his mug and looked around for a barmaid. 'Besides-'

He spotted the woman he was looking for. 'Gesine-bitte!' He waved the empty pitcher. 'Und a telephone!'

A minute or so later, Gesine appeared with a fresh pitcher and a cordless telephone. The coal miner accepted the second as easily as the first. He was an 'old America hand' himself, now. Telephones were easy.

When the call-in section of the show started, the coal miner was the first one to be sent through. In the studio, Rebecca listened carefully to the man's question, carried over the loudspeakers. Since most of the question had been asked in German, she translated.

'He wants to know if you'll be offering employees the option to purchase stock.'

'Oh, sure,' came Ollie Reardon's immediate response. 'Got to do that, these days, or you can't hire anybody.' The machine-shop owner spotted Mike in the audience and grinned. 'And we're not even going to try to stop the UMWA from organizing the place. Don't need any extra wars.'

The audience laughed.

'And she's getting away with it again,' muttered Piazza. But he was laughing himself.

***

Later that night, Mike wasn't amused in the least.

'You don't have to let anyone tell you what to do, Rebecca,' he growled. Sitting on the armchair across from her, he began to clench his fists. 'Especially not about this.'

On the couch, Rebecca shook her head. 'I am not concerned about that, Michael. Only about you. How do you feel-yourself?'

He looked away. For a moment, his eyes roamed the interior of the living room of his family's house. After the show, they had come here-at Rebecca's request-rather than the Roths' house. Mike's mother, sister and brother-in-law had already gone to bed. So had the German family which occupied what had once been Mike's bedroom. Not needing the space, Mike had set himself up in the small room which had once served his mother for her sewing.

He brought his eyes back to her. 'It was your desire to wait, sweetheart. You wanted time.'