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God's sake. He's still a crude and uncouth man, as vicious in a brawl as anyone you'll ever meet, and I think he's reckless and short-sighted about a lot of things. But-'

The word was spoken almost like a gunshot. 'He understood something, right from the beginning, that we didn't. Although, looking back on it now, it's clear as day to me. Those few thousand Americans who came through the Ring of Fire were almost petrified with terror. You saw that also, and-I know you, John, you're not a bad man, never have been-reacted to it by trying to organize the fear in order to save them. And what he saw, and understood, was that fear- organized-would just turn into savagery. No matter how well it was administered. So, he used you-and me-like a punching bag. Hammered on us to dispel the fear by offering them…'

She paused, wiped her face. 'Oh, hell, call it inspiration, if you will.'

'Mary, that's the most one-sided-'

'Shut up. Can't you ever listen?' The fury was returning to her voice. 'I was at those campaign rallies at the Club 250, John. Tonight-now, after it's all over-look me straight in the eye and tell me we weren't staring down the throat of a Ku Klux Klan in the making.'

Her shoulders shivered. 'I always felt like taking a shower afterward. Would have, too, if the hot water hadn't been rationed. God, those animals. 'No dogs and Germans allowed.' 'Pale niggers.' 'I got nuthin' 'gainst no Kraut-ev'ry Murikan should own one.' That's what they were saying in the crowd, John, it doesn't matter what fine words you were spouting from the speaker's platform.'

Simpson swallowed. He'd hated those rallies, himself. But, given Stearns' savage and relentless campaign, he'd had no choice-

He groped for… something. 'Damn it, his program and policies were incredibly reckless. Without our traditions, our customs, letting tens of thousands of Germans-I don't care about their so-called 'race,' it's got nothing to do with that and you know it-let them have the franchise- swamping us under with their medieval attitudes and superstitions-God knows what they'd do with it…'

The words petered off. Mary laughed drily.

'Yes? And then what? What have they done with it?' She glanced at the bare wall, and managed a smile. 'Having no pictures up isn't really the end of the world, you know. It's been two years now, John. And if the man was wrong about a lot of things-and I think he was, and still do-he wasn't wrong about that. He may have screwed up around the fringes, but he didn't screw up at the core. Did he? Whatever else this new United States is and may become, at least it's nothing we or anybody else needs to be ashamed of. And-be honest, John-are you so sure you'd be able to say the same thing today, if you'd been running the show?'

He tried to say it, but… couldn't. Quite.

'Terror is a horrible thing, John,' she said softly. 'A monster, if it's set loose. Much less if it's whipped up. And I think, no matter how hard you tried, you wouldn't have been able to control it. Not after you'd done everything you could to ride terror into power. Which-to be blunt-is exactly what you tried to do.'

Again, she wiped her face. 'Yes, yes, me too. I'm not trying to put the blame on you, John. Just… oh, fuck it.'

The profanity jolted him. Mary was usually fastidious in her use of words. More than anything, in fact, it had been Rita Stearns' unthinking use of profanity-and the way it seemed to have infected Tom-which had so instantly turned Mary's prejudice against their son's fiancйe into unyielding opposition to the marriage.

Suddenly, they were both laughing. Almost hysterically, in fact-Simpson himself as much as Mary. Some of that was his own relief at the realization that his marriage was going to survive. But as much-even Simpson could understand it-because the laughter would let him release all errors. Wash them away into the past, without ever actually having to come right out and…

Admit it.

'All right, Mary,' he said after the laughter died down. 'Tell me what you want.'

She sat down next to him and took his hands in hers. 'I want us back, John. I want my life back. I want our son back, if we can manage it. You've had your work with the Navy to keep you going. I've had nothing.'

He nodded, acknowledging the truth of that. 'I'll do-'

'Oh, shut up!' This time, though, the snapped words were friendly, not hostile. 'John, you don't have to do anything. Well… not quite. I'm going to need you to call in the favor Mike Stearns put in your bank account.'

She laughed at the stiffness in his face. 'Come on. Whatever else he is, the man's as slick a politician as you'll ever meet. That much ought to be obvious to anyone with half a brain-especially you, Mr. Black and Blue All Over and Still Wondering What Truck Ran Over Him.'

Again, laughter. And again, a wave of relief. Mary and he hadn't shared this much in the way of warmth since before the Ring of Fire. He'd missed that intimacy, and desperately-all the more so because he'd had no way of telling her. He wasn't good at that. Marriages don't lend themselves well to efficient administration.

'That's what that personal apology was, John, that he gave you on the wharf. It wasn't just an olive branch. It was also an offer. So take him up on it, you dimwit. Or would you rather stay all cooped up, festering in resentment?'

She rose to her feet, moved over to the one window in the room, and drew aside the curtain. There was really nothing much to see, of course, in the middle of the night.

'Let's steal a page from Mike Stearns' book, John. Down there in Grantville, he's groping his way when it comes to imperial politics. But up here, in Magdeburg… I can feel it, John. Feel it, I tell you. It was all through the air at that soiree tonight. Those people are perched on a knife's edge between exhilaration and terror. Some of them-The Landgravine of Hesse-Kassel, for instance-are even smart enough to know it. And if you think Amalie's a smart cookie, you ought to meet the abbess of Quedlinburg. I spent more time talking to her than anyone.'

'I don't understand what you mean. Steal a page from Mike Stearns' book? How?'

'Give them confidence, John. Give them hope. Gustav Adolf's not seeing that either, I don't think. 'I want this, I want that. Give up this, give up that.' They all recognize that he's right-the ones who were at that soiree, anyhow. And there's even a part of them-the best part-that's a bit thrilled that they're going to be bold enough to do what everyone has known for-oh, for centuries now!-needs to be done, if Germany is ever going to be more than a basket case. But they're scared.' She stared out into the darkness. 'If there's one thing I've come to know, these past two years, it's the way fear can eat a human being alive. Terror is a dangerous thing, John. Let's not-this time-be on the wrong side of that equation.'

He shook his head. 'Mary, I'm not trying to argue with you. I just don't understand-'

She spun around, her hands spread wide and a great smile on her face. For just an instant, his heart swelled, remembering the young woman he'd met and married so many years before.

'Give them an empire, John. Not just money and power. Hell, you're trying to take that away from them. So-so-' She groped for words. Then, softly: 'Give them an olive branch, extended on a wharf. Give them a place of their own. Give them an imperial city for a capital, not just a great, ugly, monster of an industry town. Give them universities that they can send their children to. Give them opera houses and libraries and museums. Give them a city they'll want to live in-and it won't hurt any to have them here under Gustav's guns instead of festering out in their country mansions, now will it?-while they spend their energies in a social whirl. There's no harm in it, and a lot of good. I know you think my hobbies are a bit silly, but I will tell you this, John Chandler Simpson. Culture is not just a pretentious word for rich bitches with nothing better to do.'

She smiled, seeing his jaw sag at her language. 'Oh, phooey. Since I'm broke now, anyway, why not? If you've got the name, why not have the game?'

She shook her head firmly. 'It's not, John. However foolish the trappings often are. Culture is what transforms raw power into civilization. So if we're going to do this, then, damnation, let's do it right. If Gustav wants his empire, fine. I just insist that the thing has to shine.' She spurted a little half-laugh, half-giggle. 'At the very least, I insist that it glitter.'

'But-but-' He took a deep breath of his own. 'Mary, who is going to pay for all this? We're already strapped-'

'Men!' She rolled her eyes. 'And you're no better than Mike Stearns or Gustav Adolf!'

She lowered her eyes and gave him a twisted half-grin. ' 'Mr. Pittsburgh.' What a laugh. Tax breaks, you dumbbell. Gustav Adolf is about to strip away the tax exemption from Germany's nobles. Well… those of them, at least, who are willing to vote for it. And a lot of them are going to, I'll give them full credit for it. But then what? How easy is it going to be to collect the taxes?'

He winced.

Mary's half-grin twisted still further. 'You know as well as I do-you ought to, John, as many accountants as you had on your payroll-how energetically they're going to try to dodge the bullets. And they'll have all the advantages you didn't have. A poorly educated civil service, for starters-not like those sharpies in the IRS, you can be sure of that-a population which doesn't even consider it 'corruption' unless the stealing takes place in broad daylight-'

Now, he was scowling. He understood her point, and perfectly. After all, he had spent untold hours closeted with his accountants and tax lawyers, in years gone by, figuring out every angle to shave money from his tax bill. But…

Even in his day and age, up-time, with all the complex dodges a highly industrialized and well-educated society provided, the key to efficient tax collection had been the basically cooperative attitude of the tax-payer. Sure, everybody would look for the legitimate loopholes. But, in truth, not all that many people really tried to break the law outright. Especially when-

'Jesus, you're right,' he whispered. 'Give them a legal loophole…'

'At last. The dawning light.' Her smile was positively serene. 'You let me trot around and show all those noblewomen how their husbands can swindle the emperor all the way to their opera houses-as founding contributors, of course, they'll be entitled to their own box seats-and they'll cough up the money he needs for his soldiers and his ironclads. Gladly enough, believe me. They won't want any surly foreigners sailing up the river to interrupt their parties. And Gustav Adolf doesn't really lose anything in the process, because-you know this as well as I do-he'd never get his hands on that money anyway. They'd hide that much from him, be sure of it. So why not have them hide it in broad daylight? And, while you're at it, provide this place with universities and art institutes and musical centers-which anybody can use, after all-and also make them feel like they're important. A part of it, not just the sheep that got shorn.'

He stared up at her. Then, rose abruptly to his feet.

'Let's try it. What the hell.' He took her coat off the rack by the door and held it up. 'Come on.'

'Where are we going?'

'Radio station at the naval base. I'm going to call the President. If the idea comes from him, Gustav Adolf will listen.'