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would embarrass Louis XIII. But, to get back to Wilhelm's question, I don't know if the people living there will much care for 'East Virginia.' The name will probably rub a lot of up-timers the wrong way, and it just won't mean that much to the rest of them. However-'

He shrugged. 'I'm going to stay out of it. As of tomorrow, when my resignation takes effect, Ed Piazza is the new President of the United States. I'm not about to stick my thumb in his pot of soup. He'll handle it, just like he'll handle anything else he has to. I have great confidence in the man. Truth is, he'll be a lot better administrator than I ever was.'

An odd sort of silence fell over the small room. Mike was pretty sure it was what authors liked to call a 'pregnant silence.'

Delayed pregnancy, apparently. Mike chuckled again. 'Come on, Wilhelm, spit it out. You're trying to figure out how soon you should launch your new party and start running in opposition to me. My advice? As fast as you can.'

Wilhelm cocked his head. 'You are that confident in winning, once the emergency period is over and your post becomes elective?'

'Don't be silly. You'll win in a landslide. Not in-ah-East Virginia, of course, or Magdeburg. But when all the votes are counted, all over the new United States, I figure I'll be doing well to get a third of the votes. That's what I'll be shooting for, anyway.'

Again, silence.

'The prospect does not seem to bother you,' commented Ludwig.

'Why should it? People need to settle down some, now. Start relaxing a bit. Get accustomed to their new set of political clothes. Start growing into them at a pace they feel comfortable with. I make too many people nervous, Ludwig. You know it, I know it-everybody here knows it. Up to a point, that's fine. But I think we've probably reached that point.'

He leaned forward in his chair and gave the eight former princes a display of dignitas that would have had George Washington hollering with approval. For their part, the eight men listened with as much rapt attention as pupils listening to a world-famous sage. Eight princes-that-were, now leaders-not-sure- what-they-are. Later on, Mike knew, he would be laughing about it all.

Later, not now.

'Lesson number one, gentlemen. Not the least of the reasons a democracy is more stable than any other kind of regime is because it has a self-correcting mechanism. Right or wrong doesn't even enter into it, really, at this level. You can only stretch a people so far, before they snap. Or you snap. And don't think you can't, I don't care how powerful you are. So… we'll find out, when the election happens, but I think the people of Germany within our borders would prefer Wilhelm. For a while, at least. They need a bit of a rest.'

He gave out a rueful little laugh. 'For that matter, I could use one myself. Once Becky gets out of Amsterdam, I'd really like to spend some time with my family. Especially now that I seem to have acquired a boy also. A famous miniature philosopher, no less. That's three hours a day right there, just making sure the kid doesn't grow up squirrelly. First thing I'm doing-Becky can squawk all she wants-is teach him how to fish.'

'What will you do, if you lose?' asked one of the Wetterau counts. Mike wasn't sure of his name.

Which didn't matter, really, since his reply was addressed to all of them. Coming with a grin that would have earned a tiger's approval.

'I'll be keeping an eye on you, that's what. Have no fear, gentlemen. You'll probably have your moment of relaxation. But you won't be able to relax that much.'

He leaned back in his chair, planted his hands firmly on the armrests, and allowed the grin to fade away. The rest would be dignitas.

'In general, the principle is called 'balance of power.' It's usually applied to political structure, but it applies across the board. Do not forget-not for a minute-that although I probably won't get reelected prime minister, Ed Piazza will carry East Virginia in a landslide. And so will whoever we decide to run in Magdeburg. Do not forget-not for a second-that while the armed forces will now be directly under Gustav Adolf's authority, with Torstensson in command, that: first, neither the Navy nor the Air Force can do anything without the willing cooperation of my people; and that, second, Torstensson's new army will be made up primarily of volunteer regiments. Most of whom, as I'm sure you know, will be organized and recruited by the Committees of Correspondence.'

He allowed a little silence, so they could absorb the point. The eight former princes did not actually swallow. But they did look very thoughtful.

'Then,' he continued, 'there's the economic and financial side of the balance of power. Do not-'

He broke off, hearing a little sound behind him. When he turned in his chair, he saw Admiral Simpson standing in the doorway. His face was very pale, and he was clutching a sheet of paper in his hands. Mike recognized it as the form used by the radio operators.

'Excuse me, gentlemen, I need to attend to something.' He rose, in as unhurried a manner as he could manage, and strode to the door. Then, taking Simpson by the arm, drew him into the hallway.

'What's wrong, John?'

Simpson shook his head. The gesture had a strange, brittle quality, as if the man were afraid he might break.

'Nothing,' he whispered. 'We just got a message from Luebeck. A courier brought it over here immediately. Gustav Adolf got a message himself, earlier today. From King Christian of Denmark. The Danes-it seems-oh, Jesus-'

Tears were starting to leak from Simpson's eyes. Mike was astonished. He hadn't thought the man could cry.

'He's alive, Mike,' Simpson whispered. 'He-' Now he broke down, in the complete manner that a man will, who has no idea how to do it. Mike had his arms around him, holding him up.

From the other end of the hallway, leading into the main ballroom, Mike could hear a rising swell of sound. Suddenly, he realized that was the sound of a crowd breaking into celebration. A wild hope came to him.

'Eddie,' Simpson choked out. 'Lieutenant Cantrell, I mean.' Then, taking shaky control of himself, lifted his head and gazed at the opposite wall. 'God knows how, but he must have gotten off the boat before it hit. The Danes were all over the area, picking up their own, and they fished him out too. He was badly hurt-lost a leg, they say, or part of it-but he came through it. He's conscious again.'

He swallowed, visibly trying to regain his composure. 'Hypothermia would have been a blessing to him, actually. Kept the blood loss to a minimum. How in hell he survived the impact on the water, though-at that speed…'

Despite his own swelling heart, Mike forced himself to think. Coldly and clearly.

'John… Look, I hate to raise this. But is there any chance-'

'A Danish subterfuge? A trick?' Suddenly, Simpson started laughing. The laughter, like the earlier weeping, had a semi-hysterical quality to it. Again, as if the man who laughed had no real experience at it. Or, at least, none for many years.

'Not a chance!' he cried, holding up the message slip. 'No, it's Eddie all right. Can't possibly be a Danish ploy. He's already pissed off the king of Denmark. Apparently he lectured Christian on something called the Geneva Convention and refused to tell him anything except his name, rank, and serial number.'

Mike started laughing himself. Truth be told, perhaps even semi-hysterically.

'It gets better!' whooped Simpson. 'Christian is most disgruntled. He tells us-no fool, that man, he's already figured out he'd better not burn any more bridges behind him-he's willing to go along with whatever this Geneva Convention business means but-'

Now, the admiral was almost dancing a little jig.

'-but not unless we quit cheating.'

Weakly, still shaking with laughter, Simpson handed the sheet to Mike. 'See for yourself.'

Mike's eyes ranged down the page until he came to the end.

- CANTRELL CLAIMS FORGOT SERIAL NUMBER. WE ARE MOST SUSPICIOUS. WILL KEEP HIM AS PRISONER, FOLLOWING WHAT HE CLAIMS ARE YOUR RULES. BUT MUST INSIST HIS SERIAL NUMBER BE GIVEN TO US. ABSOLUTELY INSIST.

CHRISTIAN IV, KING OF DENMARK

'Of course,' chuckled Simpson, 'he's just covering the Old Bastard's ass. Navy takes care of its own. He didn't forget his serial number. I never thought to provide people with any.'

Mike stared at him. Simpson shrugged. 'What can I say? I screwed up. Guess we'll have to figure out a serial number system. Can't use social security numbers, of course, the way the old Navy wound up doing.'

'To hell with a 'system,' ' proclaimed Mike. 'Later for that. Right now, we'll just have to wing it. Eddie needs a number right away.'

The cheering crowd in the ballroom was starting to spill into the hallway. Mike knew he'd be surrounded by well-wishers in seconds, burying him.

Think quick.

He did. But-

Is Eddie bright enough? Stupid question.

Will he get reckless? That's the real problem. Ah, what the hell. He's lost a leg, what can he do?

Um. Eddie? Stupid question.

Piss on it, Mike. Go with the ones who got you here.

Just do it.

Pulling his ever-present notepad and pen from the inside pocket of his fancy clothing-another reason he'd insisted on his own modifications-Mike hastily scrawled a message. He just had time to hand it to Simpson before the mob swept him back into the ballroom. Dignitas be damned. Let's have a party!

Simpson didn't read the message for perhaps half a minute, until he was sure he had himself back under control. When he did read the message, however, he promptly burst into laughter again.

LT CANTRELL DECORATED NAVY CROSS. CONGRATULATIONS.