Hesse-Kassel’s face looked as sour as a pickle. But, as his eyes came toward the end of the message, the expression began to lighten.
“Huh,” he grunted. “I thought this Simpson fellow was some sort of semi-barbarian. You told me—”
Saxe-Weimar looked slightly embarrassed. He’d had no good words to say himself, about the campaign which Simpson had run against Mike Stearns the year earlier. Simpson himself could claim, as he had once to Wilhelm in private, when Wilhelm had raised objections to him, that he had no personal prejudice against Germans. Saxe-Weimar was even inclined to believe him. But Simpson’s followers had certainly not been so meticulous in their distinctions. Saxe-Weimar could still remember the sign which had adorned at least one tavern in Grantville: No dogs or Germans allowed.
“An injustice to the man,” he said firmly. “I’m quite convinced of it now. Yes, he certainly made some mistakes. Bad ones too, in my opinion. But—” He gave Hesse-Kassel a glance. “Which of us can say he has not, eh?”
They’d reached the steps to the palace. Hesse-Kassel lowered the letter for a moment, to negotiate the steps. Glancing up at the still-unfinished but massive edifice, he grunted again. “Not Germany’s princes, that’s sure and certain.”
He tapped the letter with his thumb. “And I will say this last part certainly seems promising. Impressive, even, though of course I don’t recognize any of the names.”
Wilhelm didn’t need to look at the letter again to know what Hesse-Kassel was talking about. Mike Stearns had ended the letter with a list of the various organizations Mary Simpson had once belonged to—in some cases, been the leader of.
“Yes, it is. Especially for Amalie, I think, given her patronage of the arts and sciences.”
Hesse-Kassel grunted agreement again, walking up the steps and still reading the letter.
“What do you think this means? ‘Board of Directors’? Sounds impressive, whatever it is.”
Up in the sky, now many miles south of Magdeburg, Jesse gave Mike a somewhat sarcastic smile.
“Well? Do you feel better now, Mr. President? After wasting all that valuable fuel, I mean.”
Mike’s responding smile was serene. “I’d rather waste gas and ink than waste blood, Jesse.”
“Um. Okay. I’ll buy that.”
Chapter 34
The cabinet meeting that began that evening, soon after Mike returned to Grantville, was the stormiest one in months. In some ways, the stormiest ever.
It began with a squall and escalated from there. Throughout, not to Mike’s surprise, Quentin Underwood was at the center of it. Like the eye of a hurricane, except this eye was not calm at all.
“Look, I know it’s going to be a pain in the ass! Unfortunately, that doesn’t mean we don’t have to do it. So quit telling me all about how we can’t, and figure out how we can!”
Mike Stearns glared at the available members of his cabinet. At this particular moment, he missed Rebecca badly, and not just because she was his wife. And he missed Melissa Mailey almost as badly. This was definitely not the sort of crisis Melissa was best equipped to cope with, but her uniquely astringent version of calm would have been far more welcome than the exasperated expressions looking back at him.
“It’s all fine and good to sit there waving your hands in the air telling us we have to do something,” Quentin Underwood growled. “Have you really considered exactly how we’re supposed to accomplish this miracle for you?”
“Eddie was already pulling together the first barge loads before Jesse flew me home again,” Mike said flatly. “They’ve recalled Meteor and Metacomet to tow the barge strings downriver, and Eddie and Simpson promised me they’d have Meteor underway with the first consignment before dark. If they can manage that, then I am not going to accept any bullshit about how we can’t do our part!”
Mike was genuinely annoyed. Meteor and Metacomet were the first pair of several planned sternwheel river tugs powered by Grantville-built steam engines. They weren’t fast, but they were much faster than tow horses, and their two-foot drafts were shallow enough to navigate virtually any water deep enough to float a barge—all of which Quentin knew perfectly well, since he was counting on them to provide much of the transportation for the petroleum he was starting to produce at Wietze.