1635: The Eastern Front by Eric Flint

didn't care. Nothing, in Jeff's opinion, improved a plump lip and jowls like a beard and mustache.
    "Who are the Jones?" asked Gretchen.
    "They're the next door neighbors that people are always trying to surpass in wealth and ostentatious displays."
    "Ah." She nodded wisely. "Bait, dangled by the devil."
    This was one of the seventeenth century's drawbacks, on the other hand—the tendency of its inhabitants to inflate all manner of human frailties. There was no peccadillo that someone wouldn't call a sin; no venal sin that couldn't be made into a mortal one; and no mortal sin where a dozen could be described in detail. Even a person as normally levelheaded as Gretchen was prone to the habit.
    "Fortunately, we are not guilty," she continued. "I have decided that Gunther is right. We can use this otherwise-far-too-large building for good purposes. The basement, for instance, is perfect for an armory."
    And another drawback. This one, the tendency of down-timers to look at everything bloody-mindedly. As his friend Eddie Cantrell had once put it: "These guys make the Hatfields and McCoys look like Phil Donahue and Oprah."
    Of course, given the nature of the seventeenth century, it was hard to blame them. The Hatfields and McCoys would have been right at home here.

    Veronica and Annalise came into the vestibule. "It will suit you, I think," said Gretchen's grandmother.
    Jeff figured the "I think" part of the sentence was what the British philosopher Bertrand Russell had called a meaningless noise in a collection of essays he'd read once. Gretchen was devoted to her grandmother. Jeff would allow that the old biddy was tough as nails, and some of the time he even liked her. But he often found her view of the universe annoying. Veronica, so far as Jeff could tell, recognized no distinction between an hypothesis, a theorem, and a fact—not, at least, if she was the one expounding the certainty.
    Being fair, Jeff himself thought the house would suit them. There was plenty of room for all the kids, even when you factored into the equation the small army of "security experts" that Gunther was determined to foist upon them.
    Gunther Achterhof. A kindred spirit of Gretchen's grandmother, if you set aside politics. Achterhof was as radical as they came and Veronica was about as conservative as you could get and still (grudgingly) support Stearns' regime. So what? They both knew what they knew and if you didn't like it, so much the worse for you.
    "Security experts." Yeah, sure. Back up-time, Jeff would have labeled them thugs without even thinking about it.
    On the other hand, he reminded himself, he wasn't up-time any longer. And as many enemies as Gretchen piled up, it was probably just as well that they'd be sharing the apartment building with guys who'd scare motorcycle gangs if there were any such gangs in the here and now. Which there weren't, of course, unless you wanted to count Denise Beasley and Minnie Hugelmair as a two-girl motorcycle gang.
    But that'd be silly; and besides, Denise and Minnie would get along fine with Achterhof's guys. Those two teenagers would scare Jeff himself, if he hadn't married a woman who was probably their role model when it came to unflinching pugnacity in the face of danger.
    But all he said was, "Yeah, Ronnie, I think it'll suit us just fine."
    Veronica met that statement as she would have met a statement that it was raining in the middle of a thunderstorm. A brief dismissive glance.
    "So. Annalise and I will be off then. Mary Simpson is meeting us for the journey to Quedlinburg."
    Gretchen frowned. "But school won't be starting for two months."
    "Yes. Delightful. Two months of quiet with not a squalling child to be found anywhere. I leave that to the two of you. At long last. Come, Annalise."
    And off they went. Gretchen's expression was on the sour side.

    It got a lot more sour two hours later, when Jimmy Andersen showed up.
    In uniform.
    "Hey, man, how come you're still in civvies?" he