"Yes," Colette said. "But carefully. You saw how fast that machine moved."

After another mile they found themselves looking at a large rectangular building. They watched from the edge of the woods for almost an hour. Many of the people moving in and out seemed to be young, under the age of twenty. But all appeared to be well-fed and in excellent health. Some left or arrived on two-wheeled vehicles that they steered with their hands. Others got into the metal machines which moved off with loud noises. The machines came in a variety of styles and colors but Colette noted certain commonalities. Every one had four black wheels with a metal looking center. And when they started and moved every one seemed to emit smoke to a greater or lesser degree.

Occasionally words were shouted loud enough for them to hear clearly. Colette realized that all of the people she saw seemed to be speaking English.

"English?" Henri said, when Colette told him. "What is a colony of Englishmen doing in the middle of Thuringia?"

Henri winced when he moved his shoulder. The bullet was still in there. Colette knew they would have to get to a surgeon soon. It needed to be removed. With all of these machines the Englishmen seemed to be master mechanics. Perhaps they had good surgeons as well.

Colette smiled. "Let's go find out. But pretend to know no English. We may find out more if they think we don't understand their language."

"That will not be difficult," grumbled Henri. "I don't know any English. And how is it that you do?"

"Papa hired an English Jesuit, Father Line, to teach me mathematics. I asked him to teach me English as well so I could talk to the merchants who sometimes come to Liege. After learning Latin, Dutch, and German, it wasn't too difficult."

Colas hesitated a moment. "Are you sure, Colette? Maybe these Englishmen are Tilly's soldiers."

"Colas, have you seen any weapons? Any weapons at all?"

Colas shook his head.

"Soldiers would have weapons. These people act as if they are safe," Colette said. "If Tilly's or Hoffman's soldiers were anywhere about, these people would be armed and barricaded or acting with fear. And if they do not know of Tilly's soldiers, then we can obtain their grat.i.tude by warning them."

Colette got to her feet and motioned to Colas and Henri. "Let's go. Henri, keep your sword sheathed. When we get close, start waving."

As they approached the building several of the young people stopped to watch them. When Colette waved at them, they waved back. She heard bits and pieces of their conversation as she got closer.

" . . . Jeez he's big . . . Be great power forward with those shoulders . . . She's pretty . . . looks like one heck of a sword . . ." What was "power forward," Colette wondered. They seemed friendly enough. Colette considered a moment. "Excusez-moi, savez-vous s'il y a un chirurgien par ici?"

An older boy turned and motioned for a younger blonde-haired boy with gla.s.ses to step forward.

"Sounds like French to me. Mark, you better handle it."

"My name is Mark." The boy's French was hesitant. He pushed his gla.s.ses up his nose. "But I do not speak French well. Would you like to speak with my teacher, Madame Hawkins?"

"Yes, please," replied Colette.

Mark led them inside the building and motioned for them to wait. In less than five minutes Nicole Hawkins arrived. Colette quickly explained their story to Nicole and asked for a surgeon, pointing to the dried blood on Henri's shoulder.

"We have a makeshift hospital right here. Other refugees have been injured, some seriously. Please come with me. Dr. Nichols will take a look at that for you."

The surgeon was an older man, a Moor, who acted in a very competent manner. Once Henri had his jacket and shirt off, Nichols probed and pushed at the wound, watching Henri's face as he did so. He had Nicole translate for him and Colette tried to follow his English.

"The bullet is in there and it has to come out. You already have signs of infection and we will have to clean out the wound channel." Nichols c.o.c.ked his head at Henri. "How old are you?"

"Forty-nine." Nicole Hawkins translated.

Nichols nodded. "We'll want to keep you under observation for a couple of days to make sure no infection is starting after we operate."

"His immune system isn't as good as a younger person's," Colette heard Nichols mutter. "Better safe than sorry." What was an "immune system"?

Nichols looked at Nicole. "Where are they staying?"

Nicole shrugged. "No idea. Let me ask them what they want to do."

When Nicole addressed the question to Colette, Colette thought for a moment. "Is there a Catholic Church here? Perhaps the priest has room for us."

Nicole nodded. "Excellent idea. Yes, the churches are opening their doors to refugees. And if you're Catholic, you'll be more comfortable there. I'll drive you myself."

The next few days went by like a dream. Colette went on numerous walks around Grantville. She and Colas visited Henri after his surgery. He was grumpy about staying at the hospital. Dr. Nichols told her, through Nicole Hawkins, that it was necessary to be sure the wound did not become infected, especially seeing as their supply of antibiotics was limited. What were "antibiotics"? Anti-living? It does not make sense. But Nichols had a.s.sured her that Henri would be released by Thursday evening.

It was only after the town meeting on Wednesday that the emotional impact of the event everyone was beginning to call the "Ring of Fire" began to hit home for Joshua Modi. Josh was driving Joe back to the house. Both were lost in their own thoughts.

I'll never see my family again, Josh thought. The tears started to come but he forced them back.

Got to be calm, for Gramps' sake.

The discussion he'd had with Doc Adams had made it clear that there was little that could be done for Joe's diabetes. His only living relative in this universe, his only family inside the Ring of Fire, was going to die. And there was nothing-absolutely nothing-he could do about it.

As they pulled into the driveway of Joe's house on Turnbull Street, Josh cleared his throat. "Gramps?

How much insulin do you have?"

"About a four month supply," Joe said calmly. "But I'm giving half of it to David Miklos, the butcher."

"What? Gramps, you can't do that, d.a.m.n it!" "I can and I will, Josh. David and I use the same type of insulin but he was just getting ready to order some more when this d.a.m.n Ring of Fire hit. He has less than a three week supply. And he has a family, Josh."

Joe patted Josh's hand. "I've lived a long, happy life Josh, and I'm seventy-five years old. David is under thirty. He deserves a few extra months with his family. Now come inside. I've got some things to show you."

Josh wanted to argue with his grandfather but he knew it would be useless. And Josh understood how precious the extra time might be for David's family.

Joe led Josh through the house and down into the bas.e.m.e.nt. The bas.e.m.e.nt was crammed with all kinds of things: a set of barbells, a workout bench, canning jars, three or four toolboxes. Josh spotted two boxes labeled "Josh."

"Are those my old college books?"

Joe grinned. "Yup. Maybe you can find something useful in them for this predicament we find ourselves in."

Josh snorted. Predicament. Typical for Gramps to understate the situation. Grantville was in the middle of one of the worst wars in human history, surrounded by potential enemies, and for his grandfather it was a "predicament."

Joe stopped to heave an old trunk out of his way. Then he inserted a key into a lock on a brown metal container about eight feet long and three feet wide. When Joe threw back the lid Josh could do nothing but goggle.

"What the heck is that?"

Joe chuckled and took the large semi-automatic rifle out of the container. To Josh it seemed to ooze lethality.

"I forgot you aren't a gun nut. This is an Italian version of the Garand I used to carry in World War Two. It's called a BM-59. When I saw one in Shotgun News I just had to get one for nostalgia's sake.

Bought about a thousand rounds of ammo, too. But you'll probably want to give that to the army."

Joe pulled back a blanket on the left side of the container and handed Josh a comic book in a protective plastic slip cover.

Josh looked at his grandfather and smiled. "And how long have you been keeping this a secret? I never knew you collected comic books."

"About forty years," Joe said. "And don't tell anyone or you'll find out what this old man can still do with that BM-59. I get enough ribbing as it is." Joe rubbed his jaw thoughtfully. "I have no idea if these will be worth anything here, but you never can tell.

"The most important part of your inheritance, Josh, will be this house and the rentals down on Clarksburg Street. Property has always been a good investment. With that, and with the money in the Grantville Bank, you should be fine."

Then it hit Josh. His inheritance. "Gramps, what are you saying?"

Joe smiled. "What I'm saying, Josh, is that all of what I own, all that I have, I am giving to you. You have to make a new life for yourself, boy. And this is a d.a.m.n hostile world for poor people. Just promise me you won't squander it on d.a.m.n foolishness."

Josh nodded. Tears came to his eyes. This time he did nothing to stop them. "I don't want to inherit anything, Gramps," he said softly. "I want you."

Joe's voice was rough as he patted Josh's shoulder. "I know you do, boy. I know you do. But at least this way I can go to the Lord with the knowledge that you can make a fresh start for yourself. Now promise me you won't screw things up by blowing your inheritance on fast cars and loose women."Despite himself, Josh chuckled. "I promise, Gramps. I promise."

"I've had my will made up for a long time and you were getting most of it anyway. But I'll need to see an attorney in the next week to revise it. No need to have your mom and dad in the will since they don't even exist in this universe, or whatever the h.e.l.l it is." Joe hugged his grandson gently. "Let's go upstairs.

Got a lot to talk to you about. You don't know much about the people in Grantville, since it's been ten years since you lived here. Like any town, there are some good people and some bad people. The more you know, the better off you'll be."

Josh and his grandfather went upstairs and talked for hours before Joe got tired and fell asleep in his easy chair. Josh carefully covered him with a blanket and went to his own bedroom. But he couldn't sleep. Over and over in his mind the facts churned through his head. His family was gone forever. Joe was going to die. Grantville was in the middle of a ferocious war. And he had no job. What the h.e.l.l was he going to do with his life?

Somehow he eventually fell asleep. But the last thought he remembered was still . . . what the h.e.l.l was he going to do with his life?

Josh was up before Joe. He moved quietly around the kitchen. When the phone rang he jumped to grab it before it could ring twice. "h.e.l.lo?"

"Hi, Josh. Father Mazzare here. Is Joe awake yet?"

"No, he's still . . . wait a sec . . ."

Joe yawned and walked into the kitchen, still in the clothes he'd slept in.

"Gramps, it's for you. Father Mazzare."

Joe nodded and took the phone. "What can I do for you, Father?"

Josh listened to the conversation. He could tell it was about housing. The meeting the previous night had made it clear that there were hundreds, perhaps thousands, of refugees out in the woods around Grantville. Housing them was going to be a real problem.

"Nope. Sorry, Father. Those houses on Clarksburg are packed with Vince Masaniello's relatives and guests from his fortieth wedding anniversary party," Joe said. "At least until they can make other arrangements. But I've got a spare bedroom in the studio over the garage and you're only a couple of blocks away."

Joe listened again and then nodded. "Talk to Josh, he speaks French really well."

Josh took the phone from Joe. "What's up, Father?"

Father Mazzare sighed. "As you know from last night's meeting, we've got one heck of a refugee problem. In fact, the rooms on the second story of the parish hall are already packed with people. Most of them seem to be German, but one group of three seems to speak French better than they speak German. Can you come over and talk to them, get their story? From what I can gather the older man is a close relative or friend of the family, while the woman and boy are brother and sister. The man, Henri Bex, had a bullet in his left shoulder that Dr. Nichols took out day before yesterday. The wound was festering a bit, so they have him under observation over at that makeshift hospital they put together at the high school."

"Sure, Father. When do you want me to come over?"

"How about right after lunch?"

"Sounds good, I'll be there." Josh hung up the phone. "What do you think, Gramps?"

Joe motioned for Josh to have a seat at the kitchen table while he got out milk and Cheerios for both of them. He tossed two bananas to Josh. Josh peeled and sliced them both into the bowls he'd already set up in antic.i.p.ation of their usual morning breakfast ritual.

"Did I ever tell you the story about how your great-great-grandfather, John Modi, first came toGrantville?" Joe asked.

Josh shook his head. "Don't think so. You told me lots of stories about his tinker and peddler business, though."

Joe nodded. "Well, my grandfather came from a town in Lebanon called Beit Meri. Somehow, he'd heard about the opportunities here in Grantville at the turn of the century and came to make his fortune.

He didn't know anybody in town, of course. But, through the kindness of people at the railroad station, he found a family to put him up for a week or two while he figured out what he was going to do and learned enough English to get by."

Joe took a bite of Cheerios and bananas, then wiped his mouth. "I think its payback time, don't you?"

Josh smiled. "No problem as far as I'm concerned. I'm in total agreement with what Mike Stearns said last night. We are way too small to fight off the entire population of seventeenth-century Europe. So you want to put up this French family?"

Joe nodded. "You speak excellent French. I think that would make them feel more comfortable.

They may stay or they may not, but if they're good people and hard workers, well, those are the kind of folks we'll need to help us. We can house them for awhile."

"Okay. So put the woman and boy in the studio? And what about the man? I can sleep on the couch, it's pretty comfy." The couch in Joe's living room was actually a sleeper that folded out into a family size bed.

"Yeah, let's put the sister and brother in the studio. The uncle, or whatever he is, can have your bedroom until he's healed up."

Around ten o'clock that morning a second call came.

"Hey, Sparks. Nat Davis here."

Josh smiled. "Been a long time since anyone called me that."

When Josh had been kicked out of his home in Pittsburgh after a ferocious argument with his father ("chess won't make you a living, son!") Joe had offered him a place to stay and had gotten him a job at Nat Davis' machine shop. He'd gotten his nickname when he was using a cutting torch and failed to notice where the slag from his cut was going. It had set Lou Giamarino's pants on fire. From that day forward Josh's nickname at the machine shop was "Sparks."

"Joe talked to me last night. Got a job for you, if you're interested."

Josh sat up in his chair. "What kind of job?"

Nat explained some of the details of the previous night's Executive Committee meeting, especially the need for steam engines to provide power for the electrical system.

"Last night Joe told me that you were working on a paper for a symposium about pre-Bessemer steel. The machine shops are going to need some direction so we don't squander our material. We also need to get a better handle on what kinds of resources might be locally available. Think you can come up with something to help us?"

Josh thought a moment. "Sure, Nat. How much time do I have?"

"I don't know," Nat said. "How about a week? Is that enough time?"