When he was finished, Anse folded the letter back up and returned it to Noelle.
"Okay, Ms. Murphy." He smiled, slyly. "Or should I say Ms. Envoy Extraordinaire?"
For the first time since he'd come in, that characteristically quick smile flitted across her face. "`Envoyette Junior' is the way I actually feel." The smile vanished. "Is it good enough for you?"
"Sure, Ms. Murphy. I have no idea if the President's orders are legal, mind you. What I do know for sure is that I could care less. The way I figure it, he's my ultimate boss and he pretty clearly put you in charge if, in your estimation, the situation called for your direct intervention."
Noelle stared at him for a moment. Then, seemed to swallow.
"Well . . . It's not so much that, Warrant Officer. The fact is, what I'm really doing is putting you in charge. But I guess I do provide you with the official cover."
"That you do," Anse mused, thinking about it. "We're both agreed, I take it, that any attempt to threaten or attack Ruben Blumroder—or any other gunmaker in Suhl—needs to be cut off at the knees?"
"Yes." She waved her hand impatiently. "For now, anyway. Later on, if and when our authority here gets put on a solid basis, and clear laws are passed, things might be different. But for now, yes."
She took a slow breath and let it out in something that was very like a sigh.
"I've spent months studying the down-time laws that apply to this stuff, Warrant Officer. And the fact is that Blumroder is doing nothing illegal. It might be unethical, depending on how you look at it. But he's breaking no actual laws. Nobody in this time and place ties himself in knots over `trading with the enemy.' We can't change that in a few months. Even the Swedes really just want all the weapons without having to outbid the other guys, if you ask me."
Anse must have looked a little surprised, because Noelle sniffed. "Please, Mr. Hatfield! The dictates of a conqueror—and that's really all Gustavus Adolphus is, here—are not `laws.' Not in any sense of the term that our own Founding Fathers would have accepted, anyway. What Blumroder's doing is possibly immoral, if you think in terms of `us the good guys' and `them the bad guys.' And it's certainly dangerous for him, if the Swedes find out and get their backs up. But it is neither illegal nor, given the history of the area and its customs, is it even unpopular."
She ran slim fingers down her dress. It was a seventeenth-century garment, although more severely cut than the norm. "So. The way I see it, our responsibility—for the moment, at least—is to forestall an explosion. Hopefully, down the road, we can persuade Blumroder and the others to cease and desist. But, in the short term, what we have to see to is that his rights are respected."
She barked a little laugh. "It might be better to say, establish that he has rights to begin with."
Now, and for the first time, she seemed uncertain. "I admit, I'm not sure where to start or what to do."
But Anse had already figured it out. Most of it, at least. He rose from his own chair and turned to Hennel.
"Do you know how to get to Grantville, Jorg?"
Uncertainly, young Hennel shook his head. "Not really."
Anse nodded, and turned to Rau. "Jochen, tell Wili to guide him. I want them on the road as soon as possible. I wish we had a radio, but we don't—and under the circumstances, we sure as hell can't ask Horton to borrow his."
"And they are to . . . ?"
"Wili is to report—personally, and tell him not to take any crap—to Mike Stearns. Not Jackson, not Piazza—Stearns himself." He turned back at Hennel. "As soon as you arrive, I want you to meet with Gretchen Richter. Tell her everything you know."
"Very well. And what do you want her to do?"
Anse smiled, very thinly. "Plain to see, you've never met the woman. First, it doesn't matter what I want, since—as she'd be the first to tell you—she doesn't take orders from me. She doesn't take orders from anybody. Second, it doesn't matter. She'll figure out what to do, all on her own. Unless I miss my guess, she'll come right down here herself, like a . . ."
His smile widened. "You may as well get acquainted with another American expression. `Bat out of Hell.'"
He turned back to Rau. "Jochen, do you have any idea if we'd have any influence on the garrison?"
Jochen shook his head. "Not a bit, Mr. Hatfield. They're bought and paid for, and they work for Captain Bruno Felder."