1636: The Chronicles of Dr. Gribbleflotz: Chapter Six

Part Two

The Start of HDG Enterprises

1631

Calling Dr. Phil

October 1631, Jena

    “Unless you are matriculated as a student or a member of staff, you are not welcome on university grounds,” Werner Rolfinck said to Dr. Phillip Gribbleflotz.

    It was like having a door slammed in his face, Phillip thought, but without the actual slamming of the door. He looked from Professor Rolfinck to the other members of the University of Jena faculty who’d witnessed his expulsion. There were a number of smug smirks visible. They didn’t even care that he saw them.

    Phillip struggled to maintain his dignity as he turned and strode out of the university grounds. He held himself together all the way back to his laboratory, where he was greeted by his landlord. The perfect end to the perfect day, except it wasn’t even noon yet.

 

---

 

    Phillip collapsed onto his bed. His landlord wanted the next quarters rent, which he didn’t have, and it was all his former patron’s fault.

    Casparus Menius had been paying Phillip’s to research the Quinta Essential of the Human Humors, which had been nice, because that was what he wanted to research. Unfortunately, Casparus had died while on a business trip to Erfurt. The nature of the establishment where he’d died hadn’t impressed his wife, who’d somehow managed to blame Phillip for not just his death, but also for where he’d died. That had resulted in his funding being cut off immediately. That wouldn’t have been so bad if he hadn’t been doing his research into the Quinta Essential of the Human Humors at the expense of producing acids for his usual customers. He had very little stock and was facing imminent eviction from his laboratory and bankruptcy.

    None of it was his fault, of course. Phillip didn’t think he could be blamed for taking on a little debt to replace the clothes and boots he’d lost in the fire at Anlaby. After all, his patron had been happily paying him a stipend and paying his bills. And with the bills being paid, it had seemed sensible to concentrate on doing the research Casparus wanted him to do rather than waste valuable research time producing acids for sale.

    Unfortunately, with Casparus dead and his funding cut off, Phillip needed money fast. He did a mental checklist of his assets, and didn’t like the results. He could pawn enough clothing and footwear to buy in supplies or pay the next quarter’s rent, but not both. That just left his lucky crystal. He walked over to the little niche above his writing desk where it lived and took it in his hands. It was a nondescript clear crystal no bigger than a chicken’s egg. The local pawnbroker had admired it when he saw it and offered Phillip a ridiculous price for it. He’d turned the man down of course — one didn’t sell one’s luck, but maybe the man would be willing to advance a small loan with the crystal as security? Philip resolved to find out.

 

---

 

A couple of days later

    Phillip had a well-deserved reputation for the quality of his acids, so he wasn’t surprised to find the orders coming in once word got out he was back producing them. He took the pile of orders and started to sort them out on one of his work benches. It didn’t take him long to realize that many of the orders had been placed by members of the University of Jena’s faculty. He swore as he quickly checked through them. Professor Rolfinck’s name wasn’t there, but of course he wouldn’t sign his own name to an order, he’d have someone else do it for him.

    “So,” he said to himself, “I’m good enough to make their acids for them, but not good enough to darken the halls of their university.”

    That was wrong. He should be welcome at the university. He was definitely better qualified than most, if not all of the medical faculty. They might have their degrees, but he’d been trained by Professor Giulio Casseri, one of the best teachers of anatomy and surgery there had ever been, for three years and followed that up with years of practical experience as a military physician and surgeon.

    Even Professor Rolfinck couldn’t match Phillip’s training. He’d been taught by a lesser man, the man who inherited the chairs of anatomy and surgery upon Professor Casseri’s death, Dr. Adrianus Spigelius. A man who’d had the misfortune to be taught by none other than Professor Hieronymus Fabricius ab Aquapendente rather than Professor Casseri.

    And now this pretender, and the rest of the medical faculty, were treating him, Phillip Theophrastus Gribbleflotz, the great grandson of the great Paracelsus, the world’s greatest alchemist of his time, as a mere technician.

    Well, that was wrong. Phillip slammed his hands on the bench hard enough to smart. There was nothing mere about his skills around the distillation furnace. He was a great technician, no, he was a great alchemist.

    Phillip nodded to himself. He’d show those imbeciles at the university that he wasn’t just a mere technician. He’d show them that he wasn’t just a great alchemist. He would show them that he was the world’s greatest alchemist. Not just in his time, but ever. He would show them that he was even better than his great grandfather.

    Phillip’s eyes fell on the empty niche where his lucky crystal usually lived, and he qualified that last thought. He’d start proving he was the world’s greatest alchemist ever, just as soon as he earned enough money to redeem his lucky crystal.

 

---

 

October1631, Sunday, Grantville

    Tracy Kubiak counted out the last ten jackets that needed button holes and placed them on the work table with the other four piles. There was a lot of work to do before she could turn this latest order over to the government, but she knew some people who would be only too happy to help her finish them off.

    She stretched muscles that were still protesting from the last few days spent over her heavy duty sewing machines as she worked to complete the order and surveyed her domain. She had turned the oversized basement into a workroom when she first went into business making and repairing camping and outdoor equipment soon after she married Ted Kubiak. A smug smile grew on her face at the thought of her husband of four years.

    “Are you ready yet? We’re running late.”

    Speak of the devil. Tracy cast one last glance over the piles of jackets waiting to be finished and hurried over to join her husband. “Just have to lock the cat flap and I’m ready. So saying she locked the flap that allowed Toby, the family cat, and Ratter, Ted’s Jack Russell terrier, access to the workroom.

    Upstairs in the house proper, Tracy discovered that Ted had everything ready. All she had to do was load the baby into the push chair. “You have been busy,” she said

    “Someone has to be. You can lose yourself once you step into your workroom.”

    She reached up to drop a kiss on Ted’s lips. Ted tried to make more of it, but after a few seconds she pushed him away. “I thought we were running late?”

    Ted sighed dramatically. “I’m married to a cruel woman. You get the kids while I load Fred.”

    “Are we taking the girls as well?” Tracy asked. Fred was their male llama gelding, which they’d originally purchased to mind the few sheep they ran on their land. The girls were a couple of llama’s that had joined the menagerie after their original 4H owners had been left up-time.

    “They insisted,” Ted said. “They can hear the crowd over the road and don’t want to miss out.”

    By the time Tracy had collected three-year-old Justin and eight month old Terrie, Ted had the panniers on Fred and was waiting for her. She locked up and joined him for the short walk to Belle and Ivan Drahuta’s place, which was just across the road from their property.

 

---

 

    Every Sunday after church the extended Kubiak clan gathered at the home of one of the families for Sunday lunch. Today was Belle and Ivan Drahuta’s turn to be hosts. Grown men and women were messing about playing touch football in the yard with some of the children. Others congregated around the grill chatting and talking while Ivan and Tommy Barancek attended to burning the meat on the grill. Children of all ages were running around underfoot, and of course, Fred and the girls were hanging their heads over a fence gobbling up any treat the children cared to offer them.

 

---

 

    Tracy lounged back on the sheltered veranda with a group of Kubiak clan women watching the activities, relaxing after finally getting their assorted babies settled.

    Erin Zaleski, one of Ted’s cousins, turned to Tracy. “How’s the military outfitting business going, Tracy?”

    Tracy dragged her eyes from Ted, who was playing in the yard. “I’m still being run off my feet.” Tracy looked around the assembled women. They were all, like Ted, direct descendants of Jan and Mary Kubiak, the original owners of the land known locally as Kubiak Country. “I’ve got a pile of jackets that need buttonholing if anybody wants a job.”

    There was a smattering of “I’m in” and “Yes, please” from the other four women. Tracy gloried in the easy camaraderie and supportive nature of the Kubiak women. It was so different from her own family, left up-time in Seattle. “If you come over the road after lunch I’ll show you what needs to be done and give you the necessary thread and buttons.”

    There were murmurings of agreement before the women turned back to watching the activities going on in the yard. Their quiet contemplations were disturbed only when Tasha Kubiak set a covered tray of steaming biscuits on the table. “Tuck in while they’re still warm, girls. After this batch, there are no more.”

    Mary Rose Onofrio turned away from watching Jana Barancek and a couple of other cousins trying to get everyone to sit down at a couple of food-laden tables set out by the grill. “What do you mean, Tasha?”

    “This batch used the last of my baking powder.” Tasha replied.

    Belle Drahuta waved a hand. “I’ve still got some if you need it.”

    “Same here,” Tracy said. “I haven’t had time for much baking lately, but I think I’ve still got an unopened can in the pantry.”

    “Thanks Belle, Tracy. You’d think there would be a way to get more baking powder wouldn’t you?” Tasha shook her head.

    Mary Rose snorted. “Get real, Tasha. If it doesn’t go boom, none of the guys are interested. I can just imagine going up to Cousin Greg and asking him to please make some baking powder so we can do some baking. He’d laugh his head off.”

    “You really think Cousin Greg would know how to make baking powder, Mary Rose?” Tasha asked.

    “If he can make his boom toys and rockets I don’t see why he can’t make baking powder. I mean, how hard can it be? Baking powder has been around for I don’t know how long. It’s probably written up in one of his books somewhere and all he needs to do is look it up.”

    “But, Mary Rose, that doesn’t get us any baking powder.”

    “No,” Mary Rose agreed, “but it would get us some instructions on how to make it. Maybe Cousin Greg can write out a recipe. Something easy to follow. Then we could make our own baking powder.” She looked around the table at the other women, an excited look in her eyes. “That would be great wouldn’t it? We’d never have to worry about running out of baking powder ever again.”

    “So when can you ask Cousin Greg for an easy to follow recipe for making baking powder?” Belle asked.

    Mary Rose looked from Belle to Tasha. “I was kinda thinking, maybe Tasha might like to ask Amy to ask Cousin Greg. After all, she is a chemistry teacher in training.”

    Nodding her head, her mouth full of biscuit, Tasha agreed to ask her daughter to pass on the request.

    “Michael. How many times have I told you not to feed that dog from your plate,” Belle bellowed before launching herself from her chair and making her way to her son.

    The ladies watched Belle put a strong restraining hand on her five-year-old son while giving her husband, who should have been watching him, a sharp talking to.

    “Situation normal,” muttered Erin with a giggle.

 

---

 

A week later, Sunday lunch, Tasha’s place

    “Guys, Amy here has come through. Come on, Amy. Show them the recipe,” Tasha said pushing her daughter towards the seated mothers. A little self-consciously Amy placed a single sheet of paper on the coffee table in front of the ladies and stood back to let them read it.

    “Uh, yuk. Do you see that?” Mary Rose pointed to the first instruction. “#8220;Imagine carefully fermenting urine. Does that mean we have to, you know, ask people to fill a bottle? And why add honey? Is that to sweeten its taste?”

    “Ha ha, Mary Rose. Obviously the honey is there to help fermentation,” Tasha said, continuing to run her eye down the directions. “How do you cook off limestone?” She looked up at her daughter, a question in her eyes.

    With a heavy sigh Amy looked at her mother and her friends. “I think this is going to be a bit like the time Dad tried to do some baking. You remember how he couldn’t understand how you got cream from butter and sugar?” Smiling at the memory Tasha nodded her head. “I think you might want to find someone who knows a little chemistry and see if they’ll make the stuff for you.”

    “But we know somebody who knows something about chemistry,” Tasha pointed out, giving her daughter a significant look.

    In horror Amy took a sudden step back, getting some separation between her and her mother. “No way. Sorry, but no way. I’m much too busy at school.” She held her hands out defensively and shook her head. “Really. I think you should find yourselves a friendly alchemist and pay them to make the stuff.”

    “And how are we going to find one of them?” asked Mary Rose.

    “Well, Jena is a university town. There must be tons of them there.”

    “So you think we should go knocking on doors in Jena asking alchemists ‘Please sir, can you make baking powder for us?'”

    “Baking soda. If you’ll read the recipe again you’ll see it’s for making baking soda, not powder,” Tracy pointed out, her finger pointing to the top of the sheet.

    “Amy?” Tasha turned to her daughter. “I thought you were going to ask about making baking powder?”

    “I did, Mom. I asked Mrs. Penzey. She said you have to make baking soda before you can have baking powder. If you look near the bottom,” she pointed to the bottom of the sheet of paper, “you’ll see she’s included how to make baking powder. The problem is getting the cream of tartar. Mrs. Penzey says that it’s a by-product of wine making, but she’s never seen it in its raw state, and has no idea how to get any. And that’s another reason why I think you should contact an alchemist. They know about things like cream of tartar, except they probably call it something different.”

    Mary Rose looked at Amy. “What you’re saying is, we can get baking soda easily, but if we want baking powder, that’s going to take a little experimentation?”

    Amy nodded. “Yes.”

    “That’s not so bad,” Belle said. “We can make biscuits using baking soda. I’m sure we all have some recipes that’ll work. Besides, there are tons of uses for baking soda. There’s toothpaste substitute for a start. And soon enough we should be able to get baking powder.”

    Amy slipped away while the ladies sat silently digesting their thoughts.

    “Tracy, are you planning on a buying trip to Jena anytime soon?” asked Tasha.

    “Ted and I were planning on going down river in another week or so. I guess we can ask around. We should see if Danielle and Steve can go as well. It’s a pity we don’t have more people able to speak German. The more people searching the faster things will go.” Turning to Belle, Tracy continued, “Will you be able to look after Danielle and Steve’s two little monsters if they go?”

    “Sure. They aren’t that bad, and they are closer in age to Louis and Michael than your mob. It’ll keep all of them out of my hair if they can entertain each other.”

 

---

 

Jena, ten days later

    Ted Kubiak had lucked out. He’d managed to get an appointment with the professor of medicine at Jena. He’d actually been hoping to talk to a professor of chemistry, but there was no such thing, yet. Instead he had to settle for a lecturer in iatrochemistry, Professor Zacharias Brendel.

    Zacharias waved the sheet of paper Ted had handed him. “You want to know if I can make this?”

 

---

 

    Ted smiled at the man in his white ruffed-collar and black coat and said, quite seriously, “I’m pretty sure you could, if you wanted to. What I really want to know is if you are willing to make a lot of it for us.”

    Zacharias nodded. “You’re right. I could make it, but to make it in any volume would take me away from my students and my research. Have you considered asking one of the alchemists in the city?”

    Ted frowned and nodded. “None of them are interested. They think making a cooking powder is beneath them.”

    Zacharias nodded. “That might be a problem.” His face pursed in thought for a while. “Have you tried Dr. Gribbleflotz?” he asked.

    “A doctor?” Ted laughed. “If the alchemists aren’t interested, what chance is there that a doctor will be interested in helping us?”

    Zacharias hemmed and hawed for a while before explaining. “Dr. Gribbleflotz isn’t a practicing doctor. He’s sort of an experimental alchemist with pretensions to being an iatrochemist, but he lacks the proper academic training.”

    “But you called him Dr. Gribbleflotz,” Ted said.

    “There is some who question his right to the title. However, he is a gifted laboratory technician. His acids are the envy of every other alchemist and even the university iatrochemists. Anybody who can afford them buys their acids from him.”

    “And you seriously think someone with all that going for him is going to make us our cooking powder when everyone else has said no?”

    Zacharias nodded. “I’m sure he will. Dr. Gribbleflotz’ patron died recently, and he is in the unfortunate position of being financially embarrassed. If you can afford to cover his needs, he will be beholden to you.”

    Ted nodded. This man sounded interesting. “You’re sure Dr. Gribbleflotz can make our baking soda?”

    Zacharias nodded. “He originally trained as an assayist and metallurgist at Fugger’s in Augsburg. There’s probably no one in Jena more able to make it for you. He has no experimental flair, but I know no one better able to follow a recipe without deviating from what is written down.” He pulled a piece of paper out of a drawer and wrote on it. After sanding the paper he handed it to Ted. “That is Dr. Gribbleflotz’ direction.”

    “Thank you,” Ted said. “And thank you for your time.”

 

---

 

    Tracy slumped down with her elbows on the table while she waited for her order to be delivered and looked across the table to Danielle and Steve Kowach. “It’s as if they don’t want our money,” she said. “As soon as I say I want someone to make baking powder for cooking they get all uptight and condescending. Their holier than you ‘I am an Alchemist, not a cook’ line is really getting to me. Have you two had any better luck?”

    Danielle shook her head and looked at her husband, who shook his head in negation. “We’ve been getting the same story, ‘Alchemists are not cooks. Please go away and stop bothering me. My work is important.'” She mimicked the condescending attitude that Tracy had run into with so accurately that Tracy started to giggle.

    “Here comes Ted. I wonder if he’s had any luck.” Steve waited for Ted to sit down beside Tracy. “Any luck?” he asked.

    “Well, I’ve ordered a heap of canvas. A few hundred yards of cord of varying diameter, and some oils for waterproof — ouch!” Ted grabbed Tracy’s hands to stop her pummeling him.

    “Edward Robert Justinian Kubiak, you know that’s not what Steve meant.” Tracy said, struggling to pull her hands from Ted’s grip.

    “Has anybody ever told you you’re beautiful when you’re riled?” Ted asked, a smile in his eyes. They both fell silent as their eyes locked.

    “Hey, you two. None of that in public,” Danielle said. “So Ted, have you found us an alchemist?”

    Ted broke eye contact with Tracy and turned to Danielle. “First thing I learnt is we don’t want an alchemist.”

    “What?” Danielle and Tracy asked in unison. “Of course we do,” Danielle continued. Tracy nodded in agreement.

    “That’s where you’re wrong. No.” Ted held up his hands to silence their protests. “No alchemist will lower themselves to do what you are asking. What you need . . .” he paused dramatically, “is a technician. Some suitably trained plodder who can follow directions without making any spontaneous additions just to see what happens.”

    “And how do we find this suitably trained plodder?” Tracy asked.

    Ted theatrically drew a piece of paper from a pocket. “By pure chance I have here the directions to one Phillip Theophrastus Gribbleflotz, who was originally trained at the Fugger’s in Augsburg. Apparently he lacks the proper scholastic and academic attitude to be an alchemist, but in some quarters he is a highly regarded technician.”

    “What’s the significance of him training at Fugger’s?” Seeing Ted’s blank look Danielle hurried on. “Never mind. He has to be better than those supercilious morons from the university.”

    “I wouldn’t bet on that, Danielle. He styles himself as Herr Doctor Phillip Theophrastus Gribbleflotz. His clientele humor him. He’s good at what he does, and it’s a fairly harmless conceit. But it does mean you’ll need a lever to persuade him to make your baking soda.”

    “Will money talk?” asked Tracy.

    “Ah, the Evil West Coast Businesswoman strikes. Yep. My informant indicates that the good doctor has a massive ego, only eclipsed by his vanity. His major expenses are his continuing experiments and flash clothes. Currently he’s financially overextended and he struggled to make this quarter’s rent. I’d say he’s the perfect mark for what you want.”

    Tracy smiled and rubbed her hands together in anticipation. If he was desperate, then he couldn’t afford to knock them back. He would probably offer token resistance as a matter of pride, but to Tracy’s mind, they already had him in the palms of their hands. It was always better to negotiate from a position of strength.

 

---

 

Jena, later that same day

    Phillip pulled his hand out of the bucket of cold water and examined the burn. It was going to blister. He sighed and looked around his laboratory. He’d had the misfortune of burning his hand when a glass retort broke. It was the latest of a string of silly accidents caused by his overtiredness, but there wasn’t anything he could do about that. He had to work sixteen hour days if he was going to pay off his debts and redeem his lucky crystal before the pawnbroker could sell it. It was only the fact that his creditors knew he was back producing acids that was keeping them from his door. Unfortunately, he was now one retort down, which he couldn’t afford to replace. That meant he was going to have to work even longer hours just to keep volumes up.

    Phillip was in a pain induced foul mood when he opened the door to a couple, who based on their styles of dress, he knew immediately were two of the infamous up-timers. “What do you want,” he asked them in his native German.

    “I’m Tracy Kubiak and this is my husband Ted,” Tracy said, “and we’ve been informed that you might be willing to make some of this for us.” She held out the recipe for baking soda.

    “Informed by whom?” he asked as he accepted the paper. The movement aggravated the tender flesh of his burnt hand.

    “Professor Brendel,” Ted said.

    Phillip raised a brow at that before skimming through the contents of the paper. “What is it?” he asked.

    “It’s a rising agent for baking.”

    Pain made Phillip more irascible than normal and he took it out on Tracy. “Let me see if I understand you correctly, Frau Kubiak. You wish me, Herr Doctor Phillip Theophrastus Gribbleflotz, Great Grandson of the Great Paracelsus, to make this ‘baking powder.'” At Tracy’s nod, he continued. “I. I am not a cook. I, do not follow a recipe. I, am an Alchemist. A Great Alchemist. A Great Alchemist does not make funny white powder so people can bake.” It came out stilted, growing in volume as he spoke, until he was almost roaring.

    It was a strategic cough from Ted that drew Phillip’s fire from Tracy. The six-foot, two hundred plus pound frame of Ted towered above Phillip’s thin, short frame. With his pronounced Adam’s apple bobbing, Phillip swallowed his words and turned his attention back to Tracy.

    “But you could make the powder if you wanted to couldn’t you, Herr Dr. Gribbleflotz?”

 

---

 

    Phillip flashed his eyes over the recipe again, then looked back at Tracy. “Of course. Any marginally competent student of alchemy could easily make this ‘baking soda.’ The ‘baking powder’ . . . a little time in the laboratory, and that too can be made.”

    “Well, can you at least help us find someone to make it?”

    “I am not a procurer. If you wish someone to make this baking powder you must find them yourself. Now, please. I wish to get back to real work. Do not bother me with ‘cooking.'”

    “Herr Doctor Gribbleflotz, we can pay, and pay well for this baking soda. Won’t you please reconsider?”

    Phillip stared at Tracy. There was no way he could afford the time it would take to research how to make their cooking powder while also keeping up his acid volumes. And he couldn’t see them compensating him for the income he’d have to forgo. “No. It’s impossible. I’m too busy…” He moved suggestively, trying to usher his visitors out of his laboratory.

    “What about a couple of sets of clothes? Tailored to fit. With pockets, zippers, and buttons. In the fabric and color of your choice.” Tracy was almost desperate.

    Phillip stopped midstride and turned to look at the up-timers. He’d heard stories about the new colors coming out of Grantville. His eyes traveled up and down Ted, examining the denim trousers, plaid linen shirt and leather jacket. Then they moved onto the woman. Again the denim trousers, a bright yellow-green shirt with a canary yellow chemise. Her jacket was a fabric he didn’t recognize but the color was a bright blue he had never seen. The styles weren’t anything he particularly admired, but the colors were amazing. Yes, the offer was appealing. With a couple of sets of clothes in the new colors he could afford to sell some of his other clothes. That would be enough to justify the research, and if they really were prepared to pay him well for the cooking powder, then he’d come out ahead, and he’d be able to redeem his lucky crystal sooner. Still, he couldn’t tell them that, nor could he allow them to think he’d caved in too easily. His eyes settled on the wedged heeled shoes Frau Kubiak was wearing. “I want shoes like yours, Frau Kubiak, with the elevated heels.”

    “Yes, even shoes with elevated heels.”

    His ego firmly stroked by Tracy’s complete capitulation Phillip held out his hand. “Give me another look at that recipe. I believe we can talk business.”

 

---

 

    Phillip watched the American man and woman walk away. He ran his fingers through his goatee beard as he looked into the distance, seeing himself in his new clothes. A fine figure of a man, commanding, dignified, the target of envy from less fortunate beings. Drawing his attention back into his rooms, he looked about his suddenly shabby quarters and laboratory. Maybe, if the Americans were as good as their words, he could move into accommodations more befitting Herr Doctor Phillip Theophrastus Gribbleflotz, the World’s Greatest Alchemist. With the advance payment they had promised he could obtain supplies, employ laborants to do the dull repetitive tasks, and even keep his creditors at bay. Yes. If the Americans came through he could purchase some of that new glassware Herr Geissler was making after his visit to Grantville. With the areas of investigation the new glassware opened, soon those narrow-minded imbeciles of the university would kneel before Herr Doctor Phillip Theophrastus Gribbleflotz, the World’s Greatest Alchemist, begging him to accept one of their diplomas. Begging him to join the staff of their university. One day . . .

 

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Sunday lunch, Tracy and Ted’s place

    “Well?” Tasha asked significantly, staring inquiringly at her cousin by marriage. “Did you find us an alchemist to make baking soda?”

    Holding her mug in both hands Tracy took a sip of tea before looking over the lip of the mug at the expectant faces surrounding her. “No.” She paused, teasing them. The quiet groans of disappointment were interrupted by Danielle breaking into a fit of the giggles. “We found someone better.” With that Danielle started to roar with laughter. Tracy limited herself to a broad smile as she too tried to imagine Herr Doctor Phillip Theophrastus Gribbleflotz as being “someone better.” “The guy is a bit of a pompous ass. But at least he’s willing to make our baking soda.”

    “When can he have it ready?” asked Mary Rose.

    “At the moment he’s only making a test sample. He said he needs at least a week for the urine to properly mature so as to produce the best Spirits of Hartshorn.”

    “Gross.” Erin shook her head in disgust. “What are Spirits of Hartshorn?”

    “Ammonia. Spirits of Hartshorn is what it’s called here and now. And quite frankly, I think it will be less trouble if we learn to use whatever names Herr Doctor Phillip Theophrastus Gribbleflotz wants to use.”

    Belle’s forehead creased. “Hang on. He’s a doctor? But you said you couldn’t find an alchemist.”

    “He’s not an alchemist. For that matter, Ted says there is some doubt that he’s a doctor, at least not from any reputable university. Anyway, he said he could deliver a couple of pounds in about two weeks’ time.”

 

---

 

Two weeks later, Sunday lunch at Belle’s

    “Now for the big test. Everybody take a bite and let’s see what we think.” Belle passed a plate of steaming biscuits around the table.

    “Mmmm, nice. Different from baking powder biscuits, but still very good,” Tasha volunteered. The other women nodded and agreed that the biscuits were good.

    Tracy looked over her friends, “So we are agreed that Dr. Phil . . .”

    “Dr. Phil?” Belle’s raised eyebrows were duplicated by the rest of the girls.

    “That’s just Ted’s name for Herr Doctor Phillip Theophrastus Gribbleflotz,” Tracy replied.

    “I thought he claimed he never watched Oprah?”

    Tracy smiled at Belle. Ted had often made that claim. However, it seemed he had been a little economical with the truth. “Anyway, are we agreed that we should look at getting Dr. Phil making lots of baking soda?” At the nods of agreement, Tracy continued. “Then we have to think about raising capital. I’ve made enquiries. Dr. Phil will need to rent new facilities, buy additional hardware and supplies. He will also need to employ some people he can teach to do the work. We will also need to supply someone to manage everything when Dr. Phil loses interest and goes back to his pet projects. I’m thinking that if all the family can contribute maybe a thousand dollars per household to the project we can raise at least twenty thousand dollars. That should be enough to get him started, and running for at least three months.”

    “Hang on, Tracy. What are we going to get for our investment?” Mary Rose frowned. “A thousand dollars is a bit steep for a few pounds of baking soda.” The other ladies looked at Tracy, nodding agreement.

    “I’m suggesting that we set up a manufacturing company with Dr. Phil as the head or consulting chemist. He gets paid a retainer, a share of any profits, and access to the company’s supply of chemicals and facilities for his experiments. In exchange, he’s responsible for ensuring the processes work, the staff he trains are capable of doing the work they are paid for, and,” Tracy paused dramatically, “the company owns anything he develops on company time, or using company facilities or chemicals.”

    “Nasty.” Belle licked her lips in anticipation. “Can you enforce that last condition?”

    “Herr Hardegg of the law firm of Hardegg, Selfisch, and Krapp seems to think so. He doesn’t expect any problems dealing with Dr. Phil. He did, however, suggest that Dr. Phil have a large share of the company. Something like fifty percent. Although he did agree that forty-nine percent would do.”

    “Are you saying your Dr. Phil is worth twenty thousand dollars, Tracy?” Erin asked.

    “I think so. Certainly there’s nobody else offering to make baking soda. You do realize that there’s a potentially big market out there, and whoever gets in first could dominate the market? I just think we should get in first.”

    “That recipe Amy got. You think someone else could get one?” a thoughtful Tasha asked.

    “Yes,” replied Tracy. “And there are plenty of bright people in Grantville capable of following the recipe. However, if we get in fast we can lock in a lot of the local suppliers of urine. That’s where some of the start-up capital will go. We also need an ice-making machine — something that will work in Jena.”

 

---

 

    Mary Rose blushed. “If we lock in the local suppliers of urine? Hold it. How do we do that? And who are the local suppliers of urine?”

    Tracy grinned. “Ted claims that the various drinking houses produce buckets full every day. Currently a lot of it is being dumped via the sewage system. He reckons he and a couple of the cousins can modify the urinals so that the urine is diverted into some barrels rather than the sewer. If we offer to make the modification at no cost in return for the urine, he thinks we could lock in most of the taverns. They’ll save on the toilet tax since they won’t be pumping so much into the sewerage system.”

    “Those years with O’Keefe’s are good for something then,” Belle commented with a grin.

    “Don’t forget the papers in waste engineering Ted’s done at college. But yes, he’s happy to be able to make a useful contribution to this project.”

 

---

 

Late November 1631, Jena

    Maria Anna Siebenhorn sat on the blanket wrapped bundles of the worldly goods of her, her brother, and their friend and leaned against the exterior wall of the bakery and tried to absorb a bit of warmth from the oven’s chimney. Across her body was a stick she could use to defend herself and the bundles, although to use it she would first have to free her hands. She was cold, as one would expect in Jena in November during the Little Ice Age, and she was hungry. Both problems had their origin in her current situation — she was a refugee. It wasn’t that the good citizens didn’t care about the refugees from the wars who had looked to their city for aid, but there were too many of them for the available alms.

    Maria, her elder brother Michael, and his friend Kurt had found shelter in the city. They’d also managed to find work, but now that the grape harvest was almost over the vineyards no longer needed so many pickers. The three of them had been without work for three days, which was about the limit the city authorities allowed, and things were strained.

    Across the street Maria Anna watched a man approached a young woman who’d been standing in a doorway flashing her wares all the time Maria Anna had been sitting against the wall. They talked, and then, after striking an agreement, they entered the building, the man’s hand clamped firmly to the buttocks of the young woman. Maria Anna knew what was going on, and she shuddered at the idea of doing it herself. She knew that if she and Michael didn’t find work soon, she might be forced into selling her body.

    “Maria Anna!”

    The shout, almost in her ear, freed Maria Anna from her nightmare. She looked up at her brother. He looked excited. “You’ve found work?” she asked.

    Michael nodded. “But we have to be quick.” He hauled Maria Anna to her feet and thrust one of the bundles she’d been sitting on into her arms before grabbing the other two and setting off.

    “What sort of work?” Maria Anna demanded as she hurried to catch up with her brother.

    “An alchemist is looking for people he can train to produce something for the Americans.”

    Maria Anna rushed in front of her brother and turned to confront him. “An alchemist?”

    “Yes,” Michael said, “an alchemist. But it’s honest work, with meals and accommodation provided.”

    Maria Anna stood aside to let Michael past and walked along beside him. Michael had just said the magic words. She was cold, tired, and hungry, and this job addressed all three of her problems, overcoming any fears she might have about working for an alchemist.

 

---

 

Jena, the shop floor of Dr. Phil’s new laboratory, a few days later

    Phillip passed his eyes over the hard-working young urchins he had recruited as laborants to make the “baking soda” for the American women. He smiled to himself as he remembered his victory over naming of the product. Who would want to be known as the man who makes “baking soda?” Sal Aer Fixus, now there was a product to be proud of. Any alchemist worth the title would immediately respect the abilities of the man who can produce Sal Aer Fixus. Baking soda was for cooks.

    “Hans.” His high-pitched squeal penetrated the noise of the laboratory. “Did I tell you to stop grinding the ice maker?” All eyes turned to Hans Saltzman, who had hastily returned to grinding the icemaker.

    Phillip walked up and down the production line checking on his workers. For a pack of illiterate street refuse, they had taken to the work well. Most of them didn’t understand what they were doing, but they were all capable of following his clear and concise instructions. At the ringing of a bell, everybody concentrated on finishing the current batch. As the batch passed from station to station, the youths cleaned down their work stations before helping other workers clean up. Soon, the batch was finished and ready for packaging in the fancy new paper bags the Grantville ladies had supplied. Waving his workers off to the noon meal, Phillip ran a finger over the image printed on some of the bags, a woodcut portrait, with “Gribbleflotz’s Sal Aer Fixus” written around the border. The image was very good, if he did say so himself. The artist had managed to catch his true essence. He appeared suitably regal and dignified. On the back of the bag there was more printing. There was a list of several uses for Gribbleflotz’s Sal Aer Fixus, including a recipe for the America culinary atrocity they called “biscuits.”

    He gave the workroom one last sweep with his eyes. What he saw filled him with pleasure. The workroom and his personal laboratory had been fitted out to his specifications, with a few suggestions from the Americans, at considerable expense. The Americans themselves had come in and done much of the work setting up the laboratories. They now boasted “fume cupboards,” something that was especially valuable when dealing with fermented urine and Spirits of Hartshorn, and easy to drain hot and cold baths. There was even running water, as long as the tanks were kept topped up.

    Passing into the dining room, Phillip waved the laborants back to the important task of eating. He well remembered the times when he had lacked sufficient food to eat, and had insisted to the Grantville ladies that the laborants should eat as well as he and Frau Mittelhausen. His eye caught on a couple of the laborants. They were some of his best workers, in spite of being female. If they caused any trouble it would be up to Frau Mittelhausen to deal with it. After all, that was what she was paid to do.

    He walked into his study. A cloth-covered tray sat on the table where he wrote up his research and did his accounts. Not that he had to do many accounts since the ladies from Grantville had encouraged him to join them in a company. Frau Mittelhausen did all that, and ran the household. All he had to do was ensure the baking soda was prepared according to the recipe, and that sufficient quantities were being made. He relaxed in his chair before removing the cloth covering his lunch. The steam rising from his simple meal reminded Phillip of the meals he had been eating only a few weeks ago. Those meals had been anything he could buy cheaply and eat quickly before returning to his laboratory where he did assays and other work to pay off his debts. He cast an eye to the shelf where his lucky crystal now sat. He would be a lot more careful with his money in future.

    He had recently started training a couple of the better laborants to do assays. Soon he would be able to leave them to conduct the rote aspects of the assay work while he concentrated on more important things. Meanwhile, he was receiving a good income from the company just for supervising its production of Sal Aer Fixus. He smiled, remembering the contract the Grantville Ladies had had him sign. He received a salary, and a share of any profits, all without having to pay a Pfennig towards the costs of the wretched baking soda.