Tom took a sealed scroll from his desk and handed it over to Miro. “Just what Nasi asked for: three locations, all vetted and brokered by Giuseppe Cavriani himself. I haven’t broken the seal; no one other than he knows the locations.”

  “Excellent. And the arrival of your large airplane, the Jupiter?”

  Tom slouched in his chair and picked distractedly at threads that had come loose from the upholstery on the armrests. “Next few days. Maybe next week.”

  Miro tried to keep the frown off his face. “I see. Problems?”

  “Seems so. That damn Monster’s landing gear are turning into maintenance pigs. Or so they tell me.”

  Miro wasn’t quite sure he had parsed all the slang correctly. “I beg your pardon?”

  Tom uprooted one of the threads abruptly, seemed to regret it. “The Monster-which is what most of us call our big, four engine transport, the Jupiter-has got air-cushion landing gear. It was the only approach that seemed workable when we were building it, and it also allowed us to use any body of water as an airfield. Cool idea, huh?”

  “Huh,” agreed Miro, trying not to sound confused.

  “Yeah, well it was great until this ‘ACL gear’ started failing maintenance checks. Every time that happened, they had to take it off-line-they had to ground it-and fix the problem. Now, it’s grounded more than it’s flying. Not that I see why the Monster is needed down here.” He cast an appraising glance at Miro.

  Miro smiled. “I’m not allowed to talk about that, at this point. Compartmentalization of information, I’m afraid.”

  Tom grumbled but smiled back. “Yeah, I figured. Although I figure maybe you’ll use it to get the pope out of Italy. And I figure that maybe, once Harry springs my kids, it would be a lot easier to fly away from Rome than elude overland or maritime pursuit.”

  Miro merely nodded. Well, so much for having any major operational surprises up their sleeves. Although, truth be told, if he were the Spanish, he would be expecting these gambits, anyhow.

  Tom was still staring at him. “You know, I hear rumors that you have a balloon. That that’s how you came over the Alps.”

  “There are so many rumors, these days, it’s hard to know what to believe.”

  “I got this rumor from some folks here in Venice, folks who are thinking of trying to build one of their own. Seems someone’s ex-seaman son has given up sewing sails and has instead been stitching seams for an airship’s envelope up in Grantville for the past eight months. Seems the guy paying him is one Don Estuban Miro.”

  Miro sighed. “It seems that we live in a very small world, indeed.”

  Tom smiled. “Sorry to pop your balloon, so to speak.”

  Miro’s stomach growled again. So audibly that Tom Stone noticed. Miro waved away any concern. “That was merely distress at your unforgivable pun, not hunger, Mr. Stone.”

  “Tom.”

  “Very well. Tom. And I am simply Estuban.”

  “Great.” Tom rang for breakfast before Miro could object-who silently blessed him. “Listen, Estuban, I was thinking. If the Monster doesn’t get here on time, or gets gummed up or something…well…”

  “Yes?”

  “Well, what about your balloon?”

  Miro shook his head. “I am sorry, Tom, but no, my balloons are completely insufficient for any of the tasks you are envisioning.”

  “Whaddya mean? They got you over the Alps, didn’t they? You and the Wrecking Crew, who usually come pretty heavily armed.”

  “Yes, the balloon got us over the Alps, but at a rate of only one hundred miles per day, and only thirty miles per hour.”

  “What? Why so slow?”

  “Tom, these are hot air balloons. They consume fuel at a prodigious rate. Most of our cargo space is fuel tankage for the burner, so that we can keep the air in the envelope hot enough.”

  “And why so slow?”

  “Hot air has much less lift than the other balloons you were familiar with, such as the Hindenburg and the others which used hydrogen. So hot air balloons can’t afford the weight of a full internal frame. Without that frame, the balloon deforms at higher airspeeds; it begins to flatten at the nose, buckle, veer off course. It is an inherent limit of the technology, Tom. I am sorry.”

  “Well, can’t we build a better balloon? Something like the Hindenburg?” Seeing the look on Miro’s face, he added, “But smaller, of course.”

  “I’d like to, Tom. But hydrogen is a dangerous substance. As I’m sure you’re aware.”

  “You’re not talking about the flammability issues, are you?”

  “Not directly. From what I’ve read, and from the up-timers I’ve talked to, the real danger is the brittlization.”

  Tom nodded. “So, you’ve done your homework.” He considered Miro for a long moment. “I get it. This balloon of yours: this is just Phase One, isn’t it?”

  Miro tried not to start in surprise. He rarely misgauged people, but he had mistaken the profound informality of Tom’s thought processes as diagnostic of the classical “narrow genius.” That kind of prodigy who was a wonder in regards to his own field, but disengaged from others. Now Miro saw this was not the case with Tom Stone: there were simply a few areas in which this up-timer was profoundly disinterested-or that he found downright aversive-and so he avoided them. But the idea of ballooning was apparently of interest to him, at least enough to leap ahead and see where Miro was going, what he intended. “Yes, going to hydrogen balloons is indeed my next plan. The hot air balloons are simply the first step. They will get a network of mooring towers and aerodromes established, will acclimate people to the notion of flying. But after that-”

  “Sure,” said Tom with a lazy, but also canny, smile. “Everyone will want to sail in the clouds: the ultimate, natural trip.”

  Miro felt, from the emphasis Tom put on the word “trip,” that he was not simply referring to a journey. “You sound interested, Tom. Personally.”

  Tom rocked his feet from side to side. “Yeah. When I was just a kid, I was cruising through the Southwest. Doing my Jack Kerouac thing. Saw a bunch of balloons go up. Drove over. Traded some strictly medicinal cannabis for a ride. Man, oh man.” Tom’s eyes looked out the window, but were clearly seeing another time and place. “The colors, the shapes, the desert. Like another planet. Didn’t need the weed, you know?”

  “Uh…no, I’m afraid I don’t.”

  Tom blinked out of the recollection, sat a little straighter, grinned sheepishly. “’Course you wouldn’t; how could you?” His eyes became very intent. “Listen, Estuban. I’ve been watching my friends in Grantville build planes, and I’ve been amazed, just amazed, at what they’ve been able to do. But no matter how many they build, there’s always a need for more air transport. Any kind of air transport, even if it’s slow and with limited range. And the people here-you down-timers-can’t really get in on the airplane-building action, not for years, anyway. But balloons are simpler, and they can be made here.”

  “Which is why I built one, Tom. And why I’m building more.”

  Tom smiled. “See? It’s like synchronicity; you were meant to be here, for us to talk about airplanes but wind up talking about balloons. I’m going to talk to the people trying to build them here in Venice, if it’s okay with you. Your people have the experience now, but this city has money-lots of money-and resources. And I’ve got some myself, you know.”

  Miro smiled. “Yes, I’ve heard.”

  Tom nodded. “You and me, Estuban, we’re going to help people sail in the clouds. And we’re going to rescue lives while we’re at it.”

  “You mean quick responses to medical emergencies?”

  “I mean more than that, Estuban. Think of it: my drugs carried on your balloons. We learn of an outbreak of plague, of typhus, and BANG! — ” Tom hammered the desktop with the flat of his hand; Miro almost jumped “-we’re there, with drugs in hand. If the epidemic is in a single town, we surround it and wipe it out. If it’s coming at us like a wall of fire, we land in front of it and build a fire-break of immunity. Estuban, we could save thousands-millions! — of lives before we get to the middle of this century.”

  Miro nodded. “Yes. But do remember this, Tom: balloons could carry payloads other than life-saving drugs. Much more unwelcome payloads.”

  Tom’s eyes darkened. “Yeah. There’s that.” He rocked his big feet back and forth again. “I like that you brought that up, Estuban. A guy just in this for the money would have tried to leave that under the rug. Not you. You’re okay.” The feet rocked one more time and were still. “Listen. After you’ve sent that scroll on its crooked way to Sharon, you have some business in town, right?”

  “I do.” Miro’s breakfast was borne in by a young man so discreet as to be almost soundless and invisible.

  Tom nodded approvingly. “Good. Hang out a bit. See the sights. Lemme think on this balloon business a little. We’ll talk soon, okay?”

  “Okay,” repeated Miro around a mouthful of eggs.

  “Hey,” remarked Tom, “breakfast! That’s a great idea you had.” Tom jumped out of his chair, calling after the young attendant who had delivered it.

  Miro, mouth still full, was unable to point out that it had been Tom’s idea, after all.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Harry Lefferts contemplated the largely abandoned shore town to the north, passing quickly now that the galliot ’s crew had stepped the sail and laid hands to their oars.

  Stepping closer, Sherrilyn offered, “Penny-or pfennig — for your thoughts?”

  Harry nodded at the gray, crumbling buildings and the few fishing boats moored at a single, listing pier, dark with age. “You know what that is?”

  “Uh-a hard-luck fishing town?”

  “That, oh-former-teacher-of-mine, is Anzio.”

  For a second, the name didn’t register with Sherrilyn. Then she turned and gawked. “You mean, as in the big World War Two battle? That little shit-hole? That’s Anzio?”

  “Yup,” said Harry.

  “Robert Mitchum,” said Thomas North quietly, from his position farther down the port-side gunwale, almost at the taffrail.

  “Huh?” said Sherrilyn.

  Harry smiled broadly. “Yeah! That’s right! Mitchum starred in the movie. How’d you know that?”

  North sent a long sideways look at Lefferts — Who remembered. “Right. You’re the movie-nut.” He turned to Sherrilyn. “If it has a war, or a gun, in it, and it came back in time with us, Sir Thomas North has seen it.”

  Sherrilyn poked him in the ribs and muttered, “Harry, you want to maybe muzzle yourself on the Ring of Fire references?”

  Lefferts smiled. He shrugged off her concern but noticed North look away sharply. “What, you’re worried, too?”

  North nodded slowly. “Granted we haven’t heard any English spoken on this boat. But that means very little, and this is a very small boat.”

  “God, I’m surrounded by nervous biddies and worriers.” Harry smiled.

  North shrugged. “Worrying is the very heart of an intelligence officer’s job, Harry. Although you will remember that I advised against taking me along in this capacity. Several times.”

  Harry’s smile widened. “Yeah, well, I ignored you.”

  North was looking over the side again. “Then, in my capacity as your intelligence officer, I strongly urge you to be a little more careful with your references. Or at least the volume with which you utter them.”

  “Fair enough,” said Lefferts. He looked forward over the straining backs of the rowers-most from Rimini, like the ship-at the hazy outline of their destination. A tower, maybe two, a fair number of medium-sized ships at anchor. A lazy little port, far away from Spanish held Ostia and the Rome-wending Tiber River. Lefferts turned toward the rest of the Crew, who, just behind him, were lounging (and in some cases, napping) amongst their duffles and bags. “Okay, everyone, look lively and have your gear at hand. We’re coming up on Nettuno.”

  North found disembarking at Nettuno to be a leisurely affair. The customs inspection was mostly an excuse for an inspector to come aboard with two surprisingly congenial guards and exchange news, gossip, and gripes about The Current State of Affairs. In the time it took for the galliot — the Piccolo Doge — to have its cargo cleared, several small fishing ketches had come and gone. The passengers-the Crew and North-excited a little more interest, but certainly no suspicion. The customs officer was charmed by Juliet’s mastery of both proper Italian and more salty idiom; he didn’t even bother to approach the others in the group after she explained that they were all traveling together.

  Nonetheless, North breathed a sigh of relief when the inspection party guided the Doge to her designated mooring and left. Lefferts came over and clapped a hand on the Englishman’s spare shoulder. “What? Nervous again, Limey? I thought you were a steely-eyed commando type.”

  “I remain so by remaining alert, Harry.”

  “If it’s all the same to you, I think I’ll wait to get to Rome before I commence any heavy-duty worrying.”

  “You might want to reconsider that decision. Did you notice those two guards?”

  “Yeah. What about ’em?”

  North lowered his voice. “They were papal troops.” Harry frowned, considered.

  Sherrilyn merely shrugged. “Last I checked, that means they’re on our side.”

  “Does it?”

  “What do you mean?”

  North nimbly hopped over the side and came to a sure-footed landing on the modest stone pier. “I mean, what do we really know about the loyalty of papal troops right now?”

  “We know it’s to Urban,” replied Sherrilyn as she grabbed her bags and emulated North’s debarkation.

  “That’s what we saw in Rimini,” agreed North. “But here, closer to Rome, and with Nettuno pinned between it and Osuna’s Spanish tercios in Naples, I’m not so sure their loyalties will be the same. Or at least, not as fervent.”

  “Yeah, but these guys didn’t look or sound too fervent about being friends with the Spanish, either.”

  “No, Ms. Maddox, they didn’t. They’re probably getting leaned on by the Spanish.”

  “But not constantly. There’s not a Spaniard in sight, here.”

  “Which is why we avoided Ostia and the Tiber. Those wharves are going to be swarming with Borja’s forces.”

  Sherrilyn shrugged. “Right. That’s where the trouble is, so we came here instead. What’s to worry about?”

  “Ms. Maddox, at the best of times, Italy is a hotbed of contending factions. Which in turn spawn a lively network of black marketeers, con artists, turncoats, and informers. They don’t have to like Spain to be trouble for us. They only have to like Spanish reales.”

  Harry, who had been watching the exchange like a silent referee, nodded decisively. “Okay, Colonel North, I see your point-and it’s a good one. We’ll assume that we’re under observation at all times. Now, while Juliet finds us a cart and some mounts, why don’t you stay here with the equipm-uh, luggage. Although you seem to speak pretty fair Italian, yourself.”

  “Enough to get in trouble, get a drink, or get-” North stopped and shot a quick glance at Sherrilyn, annoyed at the possibility that he might be blushing.

  Harry was smiling broadly, now. “I want to hear the end of that list, North!” And with that, he swaggered off into the narrow streets of Nettuno. Young boys stared admiringly after him; it was that effect that had spawned the lefferti trend in the first place. No small number of young women stared after Harry as well, albeit with long, steady gazes that were quite different from the lively displays of boyish emulation.

  The strange parade that was the Wrecking Crew disappeared around a corner, Juliet already asking for directions in a shrill Florentine accent.

  Three days later, Thomas North found himself in a hazy, oppressive stable. The smell of rotted dung and old hay was so dense and pungent that he imagined he could actually see the stink-a humid miasma of ordure-hanging in the air.

  A gust of cool relief washed over him as one of the large doors opened slightly. In slipped Matija and a powerfully built man of medium height, aquiline nose, and lightless black eyes. The man took a second step forward; Matija sealed the door quietly behind them.

  Lefferts was already on his feet, hand extended. The smaller man took it slowly, carefully, as if unaccustomed to the greeting. “You’re Romulus?” Harry asked.

  “It depends. Who are you?”

  “I am Vulcan. Live long and prosper.”

  Near the opposite end of the Crew’s rough, sprawling arc, Sherrilyn groaned in what sounded very much like agony.

  “What is wrong?” asked Donald Ohde.

  “Have you ever seen Star Trek?”

  “No. Just war movies. I haven’t seen many of your old television shows.”

  “Lucky you.” Sherrilyn turned back to Harry. “Really? Did you have to?”

  Lefferts shrugged. “Hey, in this world, everyone would naturally guess that a guy code-named Romulus would meet someone called Remus, right? Except us. So that’s a good code, I figure.”

  Thomas, who had occasionally watched the crew of the fictitious Enterprise go boldly where no men had gone before, had to admit that Harry was right: it was a smart code, here.

  Romulus had watched the entire exchange with little comprehension and less humor. “You have not been followed here?”

  “Not that we can tell.”

  “You took precautions?”

  “Yeah. A couple of times, we left one person as a lag-behind watcher. And we have binoculars.”

  “You have what?”

  “Uh…they’re like a really good telescope. We kept watch behind us, usually as far as a couple of miles back. Nothing.”

  The man nodded. “Very well. Don Taddeo Barberini sends his personal greeting, and apologizes that he cannot accommodate you in the palazzo itself. It would be-imprudent.”

  “For all of us,” Sherrilyn agreed. “We thank the duke for arranging these lodgings.”

  “They are humble but will arouse no suspicion, and thus ensure that our rendezvous will remain unseen. Before discussing the situation in Rome, the duke has asked me to confirm that his uncle Maffeo and brother Antonio are still alive.”