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carried brand new flintlock rifles in saddle scabbards. They continued to carry two or three huge, cumbersome wheel-lock pistols apiece, as well, but Larry suspected that would be changing soon. The Swedes were still feeling their way into the new realities of 17 th -century warfare, American-style. Once they'd adapted fully to it, he thought, cavalry pistol charges were definitely going to become a thing of the past.

It wasn't a completely satisfied thought. Not because Larry disapproved of the changes to come, but because they were coming so much more slowly than he would have preferred.

The troopers' rifles were a case in point. They were much shorter and handier than any of the Swedes' previous shoulder arms, and with their new, American- designed hollow-based bullets, steel ramrods, and conical touch holes, they were vastly more lethal. Their effective range, despite their shorter barrels, was several times that of any standard infantry weapon. Or, rather, any other army's standard infantry weapons, because the rifles being produced for Gustavus' infantry were even longer- ranged than the cavalry version. They were also equipped with the first socket-mounted bayonets in European history, which was going to come as a nasty surprise to someone, one fine day.

But they were still flintlocks, and that offended Larry's sensibilities. It might be possible to fire them three or even four times as rapidly as some clumsy matchlock, but they still couldn't be fired as rapidly as a decent breech-loading design. And like any flintlock, they were much more vulnerable to misfires than a percussion cap design.

Larry and Eddie had been strong supporters of the group which had argued in favor of producing a breechloading, cartridge-firing weapon, instead. Failing that, they'd at least wanted a proper caplock design, and they'd been initially supported by Gustavus Adolphus. But they-and the king-had been overruled by no less than the President himself.

Larry had been at the meeting where that decision had been made, serving as a very nervous staff officer accompanying Admiral Simpson. Mike Stearns, General Jackson and several American and German arms manufacturers and technical advisers had come to Magdeburg specifically for the purpose, to confer with Gustav Adolf and his own advisers and military staff.

'Yes, we've been able to create a small cartridge industry,' Mike had acknowledged at the meeting, 'but it's barely enough to keep our existing up-time weapons supplied. And not all of them, for that matter. We're not even trying to maintain ammunition except for the most common calibers. There is no way at all we could supply more than a trickle to a new line of cartridge-using breechloaders, even if you could make those in large numbers. Which I doubt we could, at least for the next couple of years or so.'

Gustav had glanced around the room, seeing the agreement so obviously manifest on the faces of the Americans (and now, a few Germans) who were the experts on the subject.

'Very well. I will accept that. But why are you also opposed to the introduction of caplock muskets? Those would be simple muzzleloaders.'

Mike turned toward Greg Ferrara. The former high school science teacher-now quickly emerging as one of the new United States' premier inventors/industrialists- cleared his throat.

'We're not opposed to them, Captain General Gars. We think a caplock industry can and should be started. But… ah…' Ferrara coughed. ' 'Your Majesty,' I meant to say. Sorry, I forgot where we were.'

Gustav grinned. A little laugh went around the room-a bit of an embarrassed one, on the part of the Americans; simply amused, on the part of the Germans and Gustav's Swedish officers.

Larry himself had joined in that laugh, once he understood the meaning of Ferrara's quick little apology. When Gustav Adolf visited the United States, under the terms of agreement by which the U.S. had affiliated to the Confederated Principalities of Europe, he did so in his persona as 'Captain General Gars'-thus maintaining the formality that the U.S. itself was a republic, not a constitutional monarchy. In certain respects, there was a parallel between Gustav Adolf's position in the U.S. and the position of the House of Orange in the United Provinces. Officially, the United Provinces was a republic. In practice, the 'unofficial royalty' of the House of Orange carried a great deal of real authority.

In the CPE proper, however-certainly those areas like Magdeburg, which were under direct imperial rule-these convoluted formalities did not apply. In his own imperial capital, Gustav II Adolf was 'Your Majesty' and no fancy-dancing around it. King of Sweden, emperor of the CPE, not to mention a host of other titles.

Fortunately, the King-and-Emperor-Etc was usually good-tempered about the whole business. Today, as well. After the laugh faded away, Gustav inclined his head, politely urging Ferrara to continue.

'It's like this, Your Majesty. Eventually, sure, we'll want to switch everything over to caplock muskets. But we think it would be a bad mistake to try to jump too quickly. The problem is with the caps. There are just too many 'ifs' and unknown quantities involved.'

Ferrara ran fingers through his hair. 'Despite what seems to be my growing reputation, I am in fact just a high-school science teacher, with a particular background in chemistry. And as good as the libraries and other data sources we have in Grantville are, given the circumstances, they are very far removed from the resources of a university research library.'

For an instant, a look of longing crossed his face. 'If the Ring of Fire had just stretched a little-brought all of Morgantown along with it, along with West Virginia University… not to mention Fairmont and all the industry in that town…'

Frank Jackson barked a laugh. 'Hell, Greg, if we'd had Fairmont and WVU with us-'

He, too, broke off, coughing. Larry had to suppress a grin. He could complete the thought in his own mind:

We'd sure as hell not be doing this silly dance with kings and emperors and dukes and earls. You betchum. Gimme Fairmont's National Guard Armory and 30,000 professors and students at a modern state university and all those machine shops and factories-not to mention prob'bly half the membership of UMWA District 31-

West Virginia ьber alles, that's what…

Ferrara hurried past the awkward moment: 'The point is, Your Majesty, we're groping a lot of the time. I don't know exactly how to make percussion caps. I've got a pretty damn good idea, mind you, especially after kicking it around with some of the gun collectors in Grantville. So, with a little experimenting, I'm quite sure we'll be able to start making them. But not enough of them-not soon enough-for what you need.'

He grimaced. 'The one thing that's clearest of all to me is that we do not want to be messing around with fulminate of mercury. I repeat: not. Well… not in any kind of hurried-up rush production program, anyway. The problem-again-is that our needs are outrunning our resources. Of which the most important, ultimately, is skilled human labor.' He gave the emperor a look of appeal, with a trace of exhaustion under it. 'Your Majesty, I don't have enough chemists. Not more than a handful. What I've got are half-trained kids that I'm trying to train at the same time as-'

Gustav Adolf interrupted him. 'I understand. You are afraid that-this is dangerous material I take it?-disasters will result if the thing is rushed.'

Ferrara nodded wearily. 'I'm scared as it is, Your Majesty. There are so many ways we've been cutting corners. With chemistry, some kinds of it, you can only do that for so long. Sooner or later…' He shuddered a little. 'Some of this stuff will kill a man in a heartbeat. And some of it can do the same to a whole town, if something goes wrong badly enough.'

He straightened and shook his head, as if to clear it. 'Give me some time-time to train people properly, take it slowly-I'll give you percussion caps. Other stuff, too. Guncotton, for instance, which-if you make it properly, making sure you rinse-' Again, he shook his head. The emperor didn't need or want a detailed technical lecture. 'Besides, I need time anyway, even leaving aside the shortage of skilled labor. Most of this stuff depends on something else being ready also- which it usually isn't. Guncotton, for instance. Making guncotton is no big deal, in itself, but it does presuppose a supply-a plentiful supply-of nitric acid. And, as you know from yesterday's discussion of our overall progress in building a chemical and antibiotic industry, nitric acid is probably the biggest-'

'Yes, yes,' said Gustav, waving his hand. 'You explained. 'Bottleneck,' was the term you used. The problem is an insufficient supply of what you call 'stainless' steel.'

Ferrara nodded. 'Exactly. So what we'd be faced with is the same thing we're faced with time after time with so many of the chemical products we need: what amounts to a mom-and-pop bucket-and-bathtub production line. To sum it up: yes, we could make caplock muskets and percussion caps; no, we couldn't make enough of them, quickly enough, to provide the armed forces of the King of Sweden and Emperor of the CPE what it really needs right now. Uh. In my opinion, that is. Uh, Your Majesty.'

Gustav smiled thinly. Then, after stroking his mustachios, looked at Axel Oxenstierna. 'Mine also, I think, now that you have explained. Chancellor?'

'As you well know, I am generally more conservative than you in all things. So I am hardly going to disagree here.' Oxenstierna frowned. 'This much I know for sure: it has happened to me, on campaign-you also, Gustav-where I have found myself required to use captured enemy gunpowder because our own supply train collapsed or was inadequate. With flintlocks, we can do that. With this new caplock design…'

The king's face took on a frown of its own. 'We might find ourselves in a battle, and out of percussion caps. Surrounded by plenty of gunpowder we can't use-but could have used if we'd stayed with a more primitive design. Which is still, let us not forget, much better than anything our enemies have at the moment.'

'Maybe Clarke had it right. 'Superiority,' ' Larry muttered under his breath.

Or so he'd thought. A moment later, the king's head swiveled and Larry found himself under Gustav Adolf's blue-eyed gaze.

'Yes, Lieutenant? You have something to add?'

Larry was paralyzed. He'd had absolutely no intention of speaking at all at this conference. In point of fact, the admiral had ordered him to keep his mouth shut, unless he was asked a direct question.

Which, of course, the king had now done. But only because Larry had interrupted the meeting. He found himself wishing desperately for a hole to crawl into.

Simpson cleared his throat. 'What my aide is referring to, Your Majesty, is a story written by a well-known author of our time. 'Up-time,' as people seem to be putting it now. A science fiction author-think of it as a type of fantasist-named Arthur C. Clarke. In this story, 'Superiority,' Clarke imagines a situation where one side loses a war because of its obsession with the most technically advanced weapons. None of which work the way they are supposed to, or can be made in the quantity predicted. So the enemy overruns them, using cruder and simpler weapons-but ones which work, and of which they have a plentiful supply.'

'Ah! An excellent cautionary tale, I think.' The king nodded approvingly. 'Is there a copy of this story available? I think it would be a good idea to have it printed up and distributed to our officers.'

Casually, Simpson swiveled his head to look at Larry, who was standing behind him. 'I'm afraid my own copy was left behind in Pittsburgh, Your Majesty. Lieutenant?'

Larry managed to jolt himself out of his state of shock. 'Uh, yessir. I've got a copy in one of my anthologies. Uh… it's back at my house-I mean-the Dreesons-uh… it's in Grantville. Uh, sir. Uh, Your Majesty.'