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about the American civil rights movement, haven't you?'

Rebecca nodded. She'd devoured books on American history-any kind of history, actually, but American in particular-ever since Mike had rescued her and her father from marauding mercenaries. That had happened on the very same day as the Ring of Fire. Two years ago, now-and Rebecca was a very fast reader. She'd read a lot of books.

Mike smiled. 'Well, there's a little anecdote that illustrates my point. Malcolm X once made the wisecrack that the reason the white establishment was willing to talk to the Reverend Martin Luther King, Jr., was because they didn't want to talk to him. And that's about the way it is with me and Gretchen.'

A motion outside the window must have caught his eye, because Mike turned away from her for a moment. Whatever he saw caused his smile to broaden into a grin.

'Speak of the devil… Come here, love-I'll show you another example of what I'm talking about.'

When Rebecca had come to the window, she'd seen the figure of Harry Lefferts sauntering past on the street below. It was early in the morning, and from the somewhat self-satisfied look on his face, Rebecca suspected that Harry had spent the night with one of the girlfriends he seemed to attract like a magnet. Harry was a handsome young man, with the kind of daredevil self-confidence and easy humor which attracted a large number of young women.

She was a little puzzled. Harry's amatory prowess hardly seemed relevant to the discussion she was having with Mike. But then, seeing the little swagger in Harry's stride-nothing extravagant, just the subtle cockiness of a young man who was very sure of himself, Rebecca began to understand.

Whatever women might find attractive about Harry Lefferts, not all men did. Many, yes-those who hadn't chosen to cross him. Those who did cross him tended to discover very rapidly what the Americans meant by their expression 'hard-ass.' Harry was a muscular man, and his mind was every bit as 'hard-ass' as his body. When he wanted to be, Harry Lefferts could be rather frightening.

'Did I ever tell you how I'd always use Harry in negotiations?' Mike murmured in her ear. 'Back in my trade-union days?'

Rebecca shook her head-then, laughed, as Mike's murmur turned into a more intimate gesture involving a tongue and an ear.

'Stop it!' She pushed him away playfully. 'Didn't you get enough last night?'

Mike grinned and sidled toward her. 'Well, I'd always make sure that Harry was on the negotiating team when we met with the company representatives. His job was to sit in the corner and, whenever I'd start making noises about maybe agreeing to a compromise, start glaring at me and growling. Worked like a charm, nine times out of ten.'

Rebecca laughed again, avoiding the sidle. Oddly, perhaps, by moving into a corner of the kitchen.

'I pretty much think of Gretchen the same way,' Mike murmured. Sidling, sidling. The murmur was becoming a bit husky. 'The nobility of Europe hates my guts. But then they see Gretchen sitting in the corner… growling, growling…'

She was boxed in, now, trapped. Mike, never a stranger to tactics, swooped immediately.

'No,' he said. 'As it happens, I didn't get enough last night.'

The memory of what had followed warmed Rebecca, at the same time as it brought its own frustrations. She envied Jeff and Gretchen for having been able to take this long journey together-never more so than when she heard the noises they made in an adjoining bedroom, and Rebecca found herself pining for her own bed back in Grantville. With Mike, and his warm and lovely body, in it.

But… there had been no way for Mike to come. He was the President of the United States, and his duties did not allow him to be absent for more than a few days.

Something in her face must have registered, for she saw Gretchen smiling in a way which was both self-satisfied and a little serene. However much they might seem like an 'odd couple' to others, Rebecca knew, Gretchen and Jeff were every bit as devoted to each other as were she and Mike. And, judging from the noises they made in the night-night after night, damnation!-every bit as passionate.

But perhaps she was reading the wrong thing into that smile. If nothing else, Gretchen's fervent ideological beliefs often made her a bit self-satisfied and serene.

'What did you expect?' demanded the young German woman. 'A cardinal! And the same stinking pig who tried to have our children massacred at the school last year, don't forget that either.'

Rebecca hadn't forgotten. That memory, in fact, had been as much of a help as her husband's advice, during her interview with Richelieu. Charming and gracious the man might be. But Rebecca did not allow herself to forget that he was also perfectly capable of being as deadly as a viper-and just as cold-bloodedly merciless.

Still…

There would always be a certain difference in the way Rebecca Stearns, nee Abrabanel, would look at the world compared to Gretchen. For Rebecca, for the most part, the atrocities committed by Europe's rulers had always remained at arm's length. Not so, for Gretchen. Her father murdered before her eyes; she herself gang-raped by mercenaries and then dragooned into becoming their camp follower; her mother taken away years before by other mercenaries, to an unknown fate; half her family dead or otherwise destroyed-and all of it, all that horror, simply because Europe's nobility and princes had chosen to quarrel over their competing privileges. The fact that they would shatter Germany and slaughter a fourth of its population in the process did not bother them in the least.

Rebecca was an opponent of that aristocratic regime, true enough, and, along with her husband, had set herself the task of replacing it with a better one. But she simply never felt the sheer hatred that Gretchen did. And knew, perfectly well, that Gretchen would have found nothing charming or gracious about His Eminence, Cardinal Richelieu. She would have simply measured that long and aristocratic neck for a noose.

'Which,' Rebecca muttered to herself, 'is not perhaps such a bad idea, everything considered.'

'What was that?' asked Heinrich.

The major's face exhibited its own serenity. For all his youth-Heinrich was only twenty-four-the former mercenary had already seen more of bloodshed and war's ruin than most soldiers, in most of history's eras, ever saw in a lifetime. Rebecca liked Heinrich, to be sure. But the man's indifference to suffering sometimes appalled her. Not the indifference itself, so much as the cause of it. Heinrich Schmidt was a rather warm-hearted man, by temperament. But the years he had spent in Tilly's army after being forcibly 'recruited' at the age of fifteen had left him with a shell of iron. He had enrolled readily enough in the American army, when given the chance. And Rebecca was quite sure that, in his own way, Heinrich was as devoted to his new nation as she was. Still, when all was said and done, the man retained a mercenary's callous attitudes in most respects.

'Never mind,' responded Rebecca. 'I was just reminding myself'-here, a little nod to Gretchen-'that Richelieu is capable of anything.'

She pulled out the chair over which she'd spread the scarf and sat down. 'Which brings us directly to the subject at hand. There's no point in remaining in Paris any longer. So the question posed is: by what route do we try to reach Holland?'

A motion in the doorway drew her eyes. Jeff's young friend Jimmy Andersen had entered from the kitchen. Behind him, Rebecca could see the other five soldiers in Heinrich's detachment.

She waited until all of them had come into the room and were either perched somewhere or leaning against the walls. Rebecca suspected that her very nondictatorial habits would have astonished most ambassadors of history. She dealt with her entourage as colleagues, not as subordinates. But she didn't care. She was an intellectual herself, by temperament, and enjoyed the process of debate and discussion.

'Here's the choice,' she explained, once all of them were listening. 'We can take the land route or try to hire a coastal lugger. If the first, Richelieu has offered to provide us an escort to Spanish territory and assures me he can obtain the agreement of the Spanish to pass us along to the United Provinces.'

Gretchen and Jeff were already shaking their heads. 'It's a trap,' snarled Gretchen. 'He'll set up an ambush along the way.'

Heinrich was also shaking his head, but the gesture was aimed immediately at Gretchen.

'Not a chance of that,' he said firmly. 'Richelieu's a statesman, Gretchen, not a street thug.' He smiled thinly. 'The difference isn't one of morality, you understand-if anything, I'd rather trust a footpad. But there is a difference in methods. If he has us murdered while we're clearly under his official protection, he'd ruin his reputation.'

Gretchen was glaring at him, but Heinrich was unfazed. 'Yes, he would. And stop glaring at me, silly girl! Hating your enemies is a fine and splendid thing, but not when it addles your wits.'

'I agree with Heinrich,' interjected Rebecca. 'Not the least of the reasons for Richelieu's success is that people trust him. His word is his bond, and all that. It's true, Gretchen, don't think it isn't.'

She reached back and pulled the scarf off the seat's backrest. It was dry enough, so she began folding it. 'I have no doubt at all that our safety will be assured, if we accept Richelieu's offer. But I also have no doubt at all-'

Heinrich was chuckling softly. 'We'd be 'enjoying' the longest damn trip anyone ever took to Holland from Paris. Not more than a few hundred miles-and I'll wager anything you want to bet it would take us weeks. Probably months.'

Now that Gretchen's animosity had been given a new target, the woman's usual quick intelligence returned. 'Yeah, easy enough. Broken axles every five miles. Lamed horses. Unexpected detours due to unexpected floods. Every other bridge washed out-and, how strange, nobody seems to know where the fords are. At least two weeks at the border, squabbling with Spanish officials. You name it, we'll get it.'

Jeff, throughout, had been studying Rebecca. 'So what's the problem with the alternative?'

Rebecca grimaced. 'There's something happening in the ports of northern France that Richelieu doesn't want us to see. I don't know what it might be, but it's more than simply this alliance with the Dutch. I'm almost sure of it. That means'-she smiled at Heinrich-'and I'll offer this wager, that we'll never be allowed into Le Havre. Some excuse or other, but Richelieu will see to it.'

'You're right,' agreed Heinrich. 'We'll have to take ship in one of the smaller and more distant ports.'

The major, clearly enough, was thinking ahead. The man had a good and experienced soldier's instinctive grasp for terrain, to begin with. And, where Rebecca had spent the past two years devouring the books which Grantville had brought with it, Heinrich had been just as passionately devoted to the marvelous maps and atlases which the Americans possessed. By now, his knowledge of Europe's geography was well-nigh encyclopedic.

'I still don't see the problem,' said Jeff. 'So what if we add another two or three days to the trip? We'd still be able to make it to Holland within two weeks.'

'Pirates,' replied Heinrich and Rebecca, almost simultaneously. Rebecca smiled; then, nodding toward Heinrich, urged him to explain.

'The English Channel is infested with the bastards,' growled the major. 'Has been for centuries-and maybe never as badly as now, what with the French and Spanish preoccupied with their affairs on the Continent and that sorry-ass Charles on the throne in England.'

Five of the six soldiers in the kitchen nodded. The sixth, Jimmy Andersen-who, except for Jeff, was the only native-born American in the group-was practically goggling.

'Pirates? In the English Channel?'