Commander Cantrell in the West Indies(11)

The driver seemed gratified, rather than annoyed, by the question. “See ahead, the curve into the smaller cross-street we approach?”

“Yeah, you mean Rose Street?”

“Yes. We take that curve and wait.”

“Like a train being diverted into a siding.”

“Yes. But it is only one track, so we slow down to wait in the little street.”

And applying the brakes gently, they slid around the relatively tight curve with only a slight bump. But the operator frowned at the brief jolt.

“Problem?” asked Eddie.

“Not with the train; with the track,” he answered. “It is wood. It wears out quickly at the joints.”

“Then why use wood?”

He smiled. “Because wood is also very cheap. So is the cost of putting new track into place. Much cheaper than iron. Or steel. Maybe you forget that, since there was so much of that metal in the future?”

Eddie smiled back. “Yeah, there was—but no, I didn’t forget. I deal with that problem every day.”

The driver’s slightly graying left eyebrow rose. “Yes, and so?”

“I work with Admiral Simpson. Building the new navy.”

“Ah. Of course you would know about iron shortages, then.” He paused, looked at Eddie more closely. “So you are . . . are Commander Cantrell, yes? The hero?”

Eddie felt a rapid flush. “I was just—just doing my job.”

As the other engine huffed past, the man’s eyes strayed to Eddie’s left leg. “I think you did a little more than just your job, maybe.” He looked up. “I am honored to have you on my train.” His English became slightly more precise. “Where may I take you, Herr Commander Cantrell?” There was also a hint of a straighter spine and the faintest bow. Not enough to imply a new, distant formality, but enough to show acknowledgement and respect.

“Oh, just up the street to—”

“The Government House? We shall be there very soon.”

“The Government House?” Eddie echoed. “What’s that?”

The man smiled. “It is officially called the ‘Administrative Annex’—the old presidential office building. It is where all the decisions were made before the capital was moved to Bamberg. But as you must know, there are still many decisions being made there. And I suspect it will continue to be so.”

“But then why relocate the capital to Bamberg?”

The driver smiled sagely. “Oh, Bamberg will certainly be the center of attention, and home to most of the bureaucracy. All the fine lords and burgermeisters will journey there and make speeches and drink too much and diddle the barmaids—if their wives have not made the journey with them.”

“And here at the Government House?”

“Here is where the business of putting certain decisions into practice will remain. Certain sensitive decisions. It is interesting to see which offices remain here—renamed, but still here. Offices which must make important decisions very quickly. And how else should it be? Here, all the leaders, all the decisions, are still only a phone call away. But here, also, there are many up-time radios and the people who know best how to use them. Here is running water, and electricity for computers, and heat and light for winter hours that reach far into the night.” He shifted a gear, opened the throttle, looked behind, and began to reverse back out onto the main line of the track that ran along East Main. “Bamberg is certainly the capital, the center for important talk. But Grantville, Commander Cantrell, remains the center for important action.” And with that, he shifted the train’s gear back into its original position, tugged the whistle cord, and, as if to give emphasis to that hoarse toot, opened the throttle to resume their journey to Government House.





Grantville, State of Thuringia-Franconia





Hugh sighed and sipped his bourbon again. Michael McCarthy, Jr., having shrugged into O’Donnell’s heavy, distinctively embroidered cloak, thumped through the front room and out the front door.

Hugh let his head lean back on the sofa and closed his eyes, savoring the smooth aftertaste of the bourbon and letting the faces and voices of the past fade away. In their place, he let the utterly mundane sounds of the guttering fire and Michael Jr.’s progress fill his mind. Over the hissing crack of logs rapidly breaking down into embers, he heard Michael trot down off the porch and around to the garage-become-stable. A moment later, Hugh’s charger greeted the up-timer with a congenial nicker.

And then, Hugh heard a fast, sliding patter of stealthy human feet: the almost liquid sound of an assassin closing on his target.

Hugh bounded out of the McCarthys’ sagging sofa. He landed next to the coat-closet, hip-pinned his sword’s scabbard against that door, and drew the saber in one, clean sweep, still moving as he did. He was already sprinting through the abbreviated foyer when a crossbow quarrel—almost certainly a blunt, from the sound of it—smashed loudly through the garage-side window closest to the front door. Someone had seen him moving, had taken a shot.