“Good idea!” he chimed in. “That’s the way Joachim von Thierbach always works, you know.”
The assembled Marcoli clan studied him with bright eyes.
“Si?” asked Giovanna. “That is how the great Thierbach does his . . .” She groped for a moment with the English term. ” ‘Agitprop,’ I think they call it.”
She looked at her father. “Thierbach is very good, you know. He is the one who writes as ‘Spartacus.’ I have read some of his tracts you brought back with you. The ones you translated, at least. My German is still not good.”
Bless the girl! Frank was still holding on to the hope that the love-of-his-life possessed all of what little common sense God in His Heaven had seen fit to bestow upon the Marcolis. Not much, maybe. But with those dimples and . . . everything else, he was willing to overlook some minor flaws.
Besides, it wasn’t as if Frank’s own genetic heritage didn’t include a fair share of lunacy. Hypocrisy, get thee behind me. Down with double standards!
Antonio Marcoli’s doubts seemed to be assuaged. In fact, he was positively beaming. “If this is as Spartacus says, then we must do it also!”
“Ab-so-lutely,” Ron said firmly. “Joachim’s a genius with propaganda, and this is something he found works really well.”
That was true enough, actually. Joachim von Thierbach was one of the stars of the Committees of Correspondence, after Gretchen Richter, of course. Other people thought about propaganda as something you just did. Joachim lived it, breathed it, and probably spouted it in his sleep. Of the three Stone brothers, Ron paid the most attention to Joachim’s lectures and writing. Frank realized with relief that if Ron could get these guys onto the subject of propaganda and tied up in getting out their message then they wouldn’t be thinking about doing anything stupid with the Inquisition. Not any time soon, at least.
Praise be. Frank had mental visions of the Inquisition’s goons. Huge, mustachioed guys, he imagined, with those crescent-shaped helmets the Spanish used all the time, prodding people with long, wicked-looking swords into cellars to be tortured. Handing out leaflets and doing a spell in the kitchens at the Freedom Arches was his own idea of revolutionary activity. Taking on huge sword-wielding thugs and their sinister priestly masters was not included.
Ron and Massimo were getting into a serious debate, now. Marius was following the talk back and forth, and looked to be getting a little dizzy. Granted, Marius would probably get a little dizzy trying to follow any extended conversation.
Ducos, on the other hand, was silent and reserved. He’d moved away from the table a little, his face looking more saturnine than ever. Apparently, the Frenchman was a man of action and wasn’t entirely satisfied with the new developments. Roberto and Dino were discussing something else at another table, something that involved them making notes on a piece of paper.
And Marcoli himself—Marcoli was now speaking to Frank. “Messer Frank—perhaps your brother Gerry also—this propaganda talk does not need us. May I ask you to help with the technology?” He was awkward in pronouncing the up-time word.
“Uh, sure,” said Gerry.
Frank nodded vigorously. He was hardly what you’d call experienced and adept at the art of getting on the good side of the Male Parent of The Intended—even leaving aside the fact that he still didn’t really know exactly what he intended—but this was a gimme. In West Virginia, showing off one’s mechanical skills to the MPTI was hallowed tradition and custom. Even for someone whose real name was Faramir.
And at least, this time, whatever the MPTI wanted wouldn’t involve internal combustion engines. Frank suppressed a wince, remembering that one time . . . Missy Jenkins’ father hadn’t stopped laughing for three minutes.
“It is for the propaganda. Please, come.” Marcoli got up and went over to the back of the room, where a big crate was lying on the floor with three smaller ones stacked next to it. “Our printing press, si? But our mechanical skills, they are not great for something like this.”
Frank recognized it. One of the things the German Committees were doing—Joachim again—was shipping improved little printing presses out to Committees across Europe. Essentially, they were the seventeenth century’s closest equivalent to the mimeograph machines that had been the staple for radical organizations up-time in the years and decades before the advent of copying machines.