"Next thing he knew, he was being attacked by a giant fur covered beast and had to defend himself."

"I believe Signore Lante shot at this . . . beast, even before it attacked him. " Frank slid the police report over to the seneschal and tapped the relevant section. Why Lante had brought his household manager along with him on such a long trip, Frank didn't know. Perhaps there was more going on back home than either was willing to admit to.

"In fact, this beast was one of the Swedish smiths who works in the area. It was his home and shop your master was relieving himself behind. Your master and his drunken friends woke him and his family up with their singing and carousing."

"I saw it. It was like no man that I've ever seen."

"He is big, I'll give you that. But he is no wild beast. Perhaps Signore Lante was a bit tipsy and confused this citizen with this legendary Bigfoot he was here to hunt for?"

"Perhaps. Not that we're admitting to anything, but it wasn't like he was trying to kill anyone important."

"Signore, I will caution you once about that mindset and hope you take this to heart. There are no racial or birth lines enforced here in Grantville. You're lucky that your master was too drunk to aim straight."

"The man struck Signore Lante! He demands recompense!"

"I don't think so. You are aware that your master might end up facing charges of attempted murder on top of the public defecation statutes he broke, aren't you?" Frank held up his hand to forestall any further interruptions. "I think I can get those charges reduced or eliminated to just a fine along with public service and time served . . . but only if he is willing to plead guilty to lesser charges."

"Signore Lante can't stay in jail like a common criminal! He would not agree to pleading guilty to anything. What would folks back home think of him?"

Not much differently than they do now,Frank thought. "I will speak with the judge and the chief of police when I'm next at court. But I will not try to bribe them or ask for favors. That would cost me my license to practice law. Would tomorrow morning be fast enough for a meeting with Signore Lante? I do have other engagements this evening, so tomorrow morning would be best. I also have other engagements to attend to tomorrow afternoon and evening, so you and Signore Lante will be on yourown. I trust you can keep him out of any further trouble? I suggest staying at the Higgins Hotel." Poker night at the General Store was the event the next evening, but Signore Lante's attendant didn't need to know that.

"I will put out feelers to see how the prosecution is standing on this case and if they are amenable to a deal. That's all I can promise at this time. Then, we'll have to see if Signore Lante is willing to plead to lesser charges or is willing to go for a more expensive and lengthy trial. I do warn you that the jury will consist of twelve of his peers, but not those that Signore Lante would consider his peers. They are just as likely to consist of the common people he holds in such high regard."

"If the charges . . . No. If all of this could disappear, his grat.i.tude would know no end. You are a man of business; you understand these things."

Frank shrugged. "I focus on the law and my client's needs. I do not worry if their business would affect my interests in any way. We here at Darke and Nelson serve the poor and rich alike."But the fees are quite different, my little man.

"Well, Signore Lante owns many ships, too." The weasel grinned and paused for emphasis. Subtle, he was not. "Many, many ships. Perhaps, if he were treated well, he might overlook the current situation between the crown of Spain and the Swedish Emperor. Thus new business investments might come to light?" The weasel looked like the last words had tasted like a sour bug in his mouth. "Overlook it enough to perhaps guarantee a share of the next ships coming back from Mexico and the West Indies as a show of good faith. At a modest investment, but a with guaranteed return?"

"Go back to your master and tell him I'll take the case. I'll see about getting him his trophies and I'll go down to the court tomorrow and see about his bail." Frank subtracted the bail charges from his retainer and made notes to charge his client for that again when he presented the final bill. The transparent attempt at a bribe annoyed him. "As for the rest . . ." Frank shrugged.

"Would it be possible to arrange for his hunt, too? Once bail is met, that is." The man paused as if mentally counting coins. "Signore Lante will need to arrange for new dogs and a new horse for a proper hunt, the one he rented doesn't have the proper temperament and it was a mare too." The face soured even more. "And perhaps you could also share the name of your tailor? Signore Lante wishes to replace the inferior clothing he was forced to purchase after a slight accident on his trip here to Grantville."

"One thing at a time, please." Frank thought a moment, then suppressed a grin. This man-and his so-called master-deserved a little treat. A little treat Frank could arrange.

"Will you be needing a ride? I do have a carriage."

The look of relief on the small man's face was almost comical. Frank's offices were far from the bustling center of town and nearer to those who needed his services.

Thursday Night The General Store "Raise you two." Robert Butcher tossed two white chips into the growing pile in the middle of the poker table. "And, Cyrus, if you know what's good for you, you won't try that trick Preston taught you lastweek when he was playing poker with us." The old Sea-bee glared across the table they had set up in the back room of Butcher's General Store. "Though someone of your stature would never stoop to cheating, now would they? Even if their nickname was 'Snake.'"

"Heh." The palmed card landed on the ones he laid face down on the poker table. "Had c.r.a.p anyway.

I'm out."

"I'll see you two and raise you five." Well-manicured fingers painted to match this evening's outfit tossed the required tokens onto the pile and Frank van der Darke smiled like a cat that not only got the milk, but also the mouse.

"I don't buy that 'I don't have a poker face' act no more, Frank. I call." Robert groaned when he saw that the Dutchman's full house trumped his own.

"d.a.m.n it. Got me again, Fancy Pants."

Frank glanced around the back room again to make sure that all the uninitiated guests for the evening's poker game had indeed departed before he raked in the final pot. Satisfied, he slid his chair back and changed his boots. Others around the table did the same.

"Fred, Dennis, Snake, and, of course, Robert . . . Honored Knights of the Order of the Foot. You have all heard about my latest client and the purpose of his visit to Grantville." Frank raised his hands to forestall the objections to bringing official business into the back room after the shoes came off. "Not court stuff, though I think that Judge t.i.to did come down hard on him. Harder than I expected. Five thousand dollars bail."

"Well, I bet that Spaghetti-head p.i.s.sed them off mightily," Cyrus "Snake" Guffy muttered. "I would've thrown the book at him were I a judge. I heard the Swede's not pressing charges. Guess knocking him into a puddle of muddy ice water was enough to satisfy his honor."

"Okay, Frank, we forgive you for bringing up business after the boots were on. Yer still new to this prank thing. Not many rules here, but talking business ruins all the fun." Dennis leaned forward and gathered up the cards and began to shuffle.

His grin promised that the group would pay close attention to this visitor to Grantville. "We each have our own secret networks of information, now don't we? We'll think of something appropriate to make Mr. Ascanio Lante's trip here memorable. Won't we, boys?" Everyone chuckled except Frank. His eyes glazed as his mind raced over the details the seneschal had shared with him earlier that day. He already had a plan forming.

Everyone's eyes watched Dennis's hands, especially Robert Butcher, who was regretting letting Preston Richards show all the other old farts in the back room some of his best card palming tricks last week.

Who knew that they'd pick up on a new way cheating that fast?

"We're going to have to do something about his insisting on hunting for Bigfoot, though. With the latest sightings others might jump on the bandwagon and we'll have another incident." He tapped his size twenty-five furred shoes to emphasize his point. "Fred almost got caught last week."

"Luckily it was only rock salt," Fred added. "Sure sounded like a Bigfoot scream when you hightailed it out of there though." Robert chuckled.

"I have a possible solution for that. Well, a suggestion, anyway. I still have to prove I'm worthy of filling these big shoes," Frank offered. "Does Duncan's wife still have those dogs he was breeding?" He bit back his smile.

"Old Pete's get?"

"No. Not those big dogs. The small annoying ones." Frank grinned. "I think they'd be the perfect dogs for a hunt for up-time legendary critters such as Bigfoot."

"That's evil."

"Oh, not so much evil, as an opportunity for some great fun. That's why we meet, yes?"

Laughter filled the back room. This group was all about having fun at the expense of others, usually in very subtle ways, though. The recent rash of Bigfoot footprints had been an old fall back prank that they'd been doing every winter for well over forty years.

Frank put his size twenty-two Bigfoot over-boots up onto the poker table and the rest of the fellows followed suit. The size of their furred shoes indicated the person's rank in this secret club. His were the smallest, but hopefully by next week he'd be wearing bigger shoes.

"So we, the Order of the Foot, are agreed? This next weekend, after his trial, we take Signore Lante on a hunt he will never forget? Then we sell him his trophy footprints and that trophy of the Bigfoot he keeps on insisting he must have."

"I'll do you one better, you d.a.m.ned peac.o.c.k," Robert Butcher drawled. His shoes were the biggest in the back room.

"And how would you do that, Robert?"

"We don't just take him hunting with the little yappers. We entice him to buy them."

"How?" Cyrus asked.

"We go looking for Bigfoot, but that's not what we'll go after."

"No?"

"No. Sat.u.r.day night after this one, we take him snipe hunting. I hear them lil' doggies are perfect for snipe hunting."

"Things breed like rabbits." Fred chuckled.

"Dangerous, unless you have the right dogs and right gear."

"Bet they've even reached Italy and Spain by now. He'll have to take the dogs with him all the way home, won't he?"

As the full intent of Robert's plan filtered through the group, looks close to awe were turned onto him. "Vote?" Everyone around the table raised his right foot into the air.

"The Feet have it. So, think we can get Birdie to go along with this one? We're gonna need some outside help this time," Snake added.

Two weeks later Sat.u.r.day evening at Birdie's farm "Snake, h.e.l.l, I've got a farm to run here."

"Look, all we need you to do is follow behind us and toss our camp while wearing these special boots-after we move out on this wild goose chase."

"I heard about that nut case. He shot someone he thought looked like Bigfoot. No way, Cyrus. I ain't doing it. Normally I'm all about putting one over on folks like him, but this sounds too dangerous."

"You owe me, Birdie."

"Yeah, I do. But that don't pay the bills."

Snake narrowed his eyes. Time to up the ante. "He's willing to buy that Jackalope trophy you got, too."

"How much?"

Cyrus named the figure and watched Birdie's face change. It had been worth holding that bargaining card close to his vest.

"Well, why didn't you tell me that in the first place? Wife's been after me to get rid of old Fang-face for years."

"I was hoping to appeal to your sense of civic duty first, Birdie."

"Screw civic duty. Cash on the barrel is what gets things done."

"Thought so." Cyrus counted over a small fortune in silver and gold into Birdie's hands. "But there's one more thing. We need you to leave Boojum marks on his gear and around the camp too."

"What the heck is a 'Boojum,' Snake?"

Snake grinned. "I hear they're small and nearly invisible and leave marks that only show up under a black light . . ." Cyrus pa.s.sed over a pair of newly made boots as well as a wood stamp and a bottle containing a chemical that Robert's grandson had guaranteed would fluoresce under a black light, but be invisible in normal lighting. "Don't ask what this stuff is and don't get any on your skin."

"Can I ask who made this stuff?" Birdie pocketed the coins before Snake could change his mind.

"Best you don't know any more details, that way you won't have to lie if you're asked about it. Okay,here's the plan." Cyrus Guffy laid out the map he'd copied and marked with a route that was guaranteed to move through every bog, over every ridge, and through some of the most difficult terrain on this side of Grantville. He pointed out locations that he needed Birdie to set up and make Wookie, snipe and boojum calls and lay scents for the dogs, and where the base camp would be located.

As more and more details fell into place, Birdie's grin grew bigger and he offered up some suggestions of his own.

"You're an evil, evil man, Cyrus Guffy. I think I'm glad I'm on your list of friends."

Snake chortled and grinned in response.

The next Sunday morning, a few hours before dawn The hunting dogs, if the small hybrids could be called that, had charged into the campsite, full of excitement. They were running around yapping, alternating with their noses to the ground and excited leaps into the air. It was obvious that they were on to the scent of something.

Lante looked up from the dogs to Robert Butcher. "More snipes?" He eyed the way the gear had been tossed and swallowed hard. "Maybe a Bigfoot?"

"Nah, the dogs don't react like this to snipes." Robert waved the rest of the group back into the camp with the shotgun-blasted snipe-net-on-a-pole he carried. "Dennis, you got that device with yah?" Dennis Haygood pulled out a three-way flashlight with a dark purple tube along one side and showed it to Robert.

"By the way the dogs are behaving this has the look and smell of . . ." Dramatic pause. "Boojums!"

"What's a Boojum?"

"Well, the thing of it is, we're not sure. No one's ever really seen one."

"Seen and lived to tell that is," Frank finished. It was all in the timing.

"How then do you know that these 'Boojums' are about?"

"The dogs, Signore Lante, the dogs. Otherwise, you don't know until it's too late. I've heard stories that my Grand'marm told me when I was a whippersnapper, oh, so high." Robert Butcher moved his hand parallel to the ground just below his waistline. He leaned the long pole against a nearby tree. "Once they mark something, they'll follow it until they or that person dies. They got a great sense of smell. Track anything anywhere they can."

"Then how do you . . ." Signore Lante stopped when Dennis lit the light and panned it about the camp.

In the weird light, glowing prints of small clawed feet left a spiral pattern around the camp. The spiral circled all the gear and ended up on Lante's gear. The same place the small dogs had finally congregated.

"The prints, they go nowhere after?" The voice cracked with every other word. Dennis followed the tracks back to Ascanio Lante and stopped. "Boojums are like that, Signore." The light turned onto Lante and he looked down onto his new safari shirt. The scream that echoed through the hills would have done horror movie scream queens proud.

The Transmitter

by Gorg Huff

"But the article says that Monsieur Bell's selenium cells had a resistance of one hundred to three hundred oms!" Piair La Corrian pointed imperiously at a pile of papers on his desk. "That's a variation of two hundred watts. With one positive and the next negative, four hundred watts. If we run four mirrors on the same turntable with each mirror hitting its own cell so we have four cells running in parallel, that's eight hundred watts positive on the up tick to eight hundred watts negative on the down tick."

"Fine. Build the silly thing. But it won't work." Oliver De Champaign had actually been to Grantville and seen the difficulty they were having in building the Voice of Luther radio station.

Ten months and several hundred thousand royals later, Oliver wished he had kept arguing, in spite of the fact that the cardinal had insisted they try every idea, even the most hare-brained. He looked around the room. It was circular, about twenty-eight feet wide, and painted flat black. In the center was an electric motor that he had had bought in Grantville and shipped here to this small estate outside of Paris. On top of the motor was a turntable, on top of the turntable was a reflective pyramid made of four triangular slightly concave mirrors. Above the mirrors, a long black tube went up through the ceiling to a complex collection of reflectors that La Corrian called his light gatherers.