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# Chapter 8
- URL: https://www.silberphantom.com/chapter-8/
- Published: 2026-10-17T11:00:00.000Z
- Updated: 2026-10-17T11:00:08.000Z
- Author: Blair Rawleigh
- Tags: News

## Passing the Torch

For some reason Bauhauer’s old office looked much larger unoccupied than it did when it was stuffed with the professor’s books and papers. Gerhardt, who chose the best suit he owned for the occasion, looked towards the dean for confirmation, “you’re giving an adjunct the former chair’s office?” His midnight blue cashmere topcoat was also a recent acquisition. It starkly complimented his hair, which by now had faded into an even frost. “I mean, I’m only teaching one class a semester…” 

“Professor Bauhauer said you were his most gifted student. It seems fitting you should have his old office. I’ll let you get settled in here and then there will be a faculty meeting at twelve.” Within the hour, Gerhardt had arranged his desk and posted his office hours outside the door. His introduction at the faculty meeting went over without any surprises, and he was relieved no one referenced his former profession. Then he was off again to make the commute across the city to his main job. The university gave him a choice parking spot with his name on it right outside the building. With his increasing commitments and growing network of places he had to be, he finally succumbed to the need for a car, choosing a used two-tone coffee and beige Zarathustra in good operating condition. The sporty coupe had pleasing lines and a reputation for reliability; it suited him. Had Frau von Strieben not sold some livestock to repay her son’s debt, Gerhardt might have settled for a lesser vehicle. 

Personal automotive transport gave him greater range as well, so he decided it was time to settle into a permanent home. Shortly after acquiring the car, he found a small plot of land on the outskirts of the city which had once been part of a larger farmstead. It had since been divvied up and sold piecewise. This parcel already had a serviceable einliegerhaus, or tenant house, and a somewhat decrepit barn that he shored up and converted into a sturdy shed. The house was old, but cozy, and structurally sound.

His teaching schedule meant he would have to skip his morning bicycle commute on Montag, Mittwoch and Freitag, but he could come early to make use of the circuit stations at the university track. 

In light traffic, the drive took about twenty minutes, even as big flakes of snow began to fall. A dusting of it already covered the parking lot outside the Bosch-Hanning offices by the time he pulled in, promising good skiing weather for the weekend. He looked forward to taking a few days’ vacation after the grand opening of the Sky Tower in a week. 

Several voices converged on him the moment he entered the building. “Herr Bosch! You’re needed on site at the tower this afternoon… We’re bringing the generators online at sixteen hundred… There’s a problem with one of the elevators… Can you have a look at the final roofline for the opera house? Have you heard anything further from across the channel?” At the same time one of the apprentices pressed him to review her work. 

“Hey, hey, I can only do ten things at once…” Ever since his acquisition of his former largest competitor, it seemed his workload just piled up. He didn’t mind, as it kept his thoughts off other things. 

“You’re looking all professorly there, Herr Bosch,” Fraulein Weick observed. “What made you decide to lose the mustache?”

“I outgrew it,” Gerhardt responded with a smile. Having let the front of his hair grow longer, it created a natural wave that rolled over his forehead, accentuated by a slight receding edge on the opposite side where he had previously parted it. In a way, he looked quite different from the way he did five years ago or even one year ago, and nothing like the ‘debonair’ flying ace he had been when he was younger. The apprentice’s lingering gaze made him wonder if perhaps she were developing a crush on him. 

He gave each of them their due attention, then sought refuge in his office. The approval from Richtenstadt’s government for the channel bridge proposal still sat on his desk, and he wondered how it might be received ‘across the creek.’ Immediately the phone rang; from the hollowness in the line, he could tell it was an international call – unusual for it to be routed directly like that. 

There was a click in the transmission. “Allo?” 

Gerhardt tilted his head at the receiver. He was almost certain he recognized the voice. “J’entends…”

If the caller was the person whom he thought it was, the man must have been getting up in years by now. “Gerhardt…”

“Oui?”

“Do you know who this is?”

“If I’m not mistaken, it’s François Girardeau.”

“You’re not mistaken.”

“What can I do for you today, Monsieur Girardeau?”

“First of all, what can you tell me of your military successor’s foray into politics?”

“Dietrich von Strieben? He has no morals and no compunction about anything.” Gerhardt usually would not speak poorly about someone, especially one of his colleagues, but it seemed even to him that his thoughts issued forth before he even finished thinking them. After a few hesitant moments, he added, “He’s also delusional.” That at least, was a fair assessment.

“I was wondering about your impression of him. I’ve noticed he’s taken every opportunity as of late to denounce you publicly, but that’s not the reason I called. You probably remember what I said to you when you were here, that each of us must do what we can to reconcile our nations…”

“Yes, I remember.”

“Well, I’ve had a chance to review this bridge proposal of yours. It’s a fantastic endeavor, and while I would have thought it impossible, our academy of engineers has studied it extensively and concluded that it’s not only sound but would be one of the most advanced engineering feats in the world. It would be quite an undertaking.”

“It’s sound from an engineering perspective,” Gerhardt assured, “but I’m not sure how feasible it is from a political one. It would require a lot of coordination and cooperation on both sides of the channel, not to mention financing, for it to get built.” 

“I think it is feasible, and I think I can help you raise the necessary funds from this side of the channel… On behalf of our entire nation, I would formally like to extend the invitation to you to build it.” There were several moments when nothing but static filled the line before Girardeau’s raspy cough broke the silence. “Allo?”

“Ja, That’s great news!”

“Now, aren’t you glad you took my advice?” 

*Which advice was that?* Then he remembered Girardeau’s words as clearly as they had been spoken seventeen years before. *“You have the opportunity to do what my son never will, and that is, live the rest of your life. Don’t waste that chance.”*

“In retrospect, I would have to say it was sound advice.”

“Of course, it means that at some point, you’ll probably have to come back over the channel.”

“So long as no one decides to lynch me, but I will say that Francinia’s declaring ‘Air Victory Day,’ a national holiday makes me… hesitant to go back.”

Girardeau laughed through a hacking cough. “You haven’t changed a bit, have you? Well, I think those resentments have had time to fade. Those old wounds are beginning to heal, and I think the Francinian people will receive you far more favorably as an architect and engineer than as a flying ace. Besides, as far as the next generation is concerned, the war may as well have happened a century ago.”

“Hopefully, future generations will never have to know what it’s like to be at war. At least I might ride my bike across this bridge once we build it. Perhaps you would like to join me.”

“Too old for that now, I’m afraid.” There was something wistful in Girardeau’s tone. The elder statesman elucidated, “I have stage four lung cancer.”

“Oh…” Gerhardt’s voice fell. He knew that meant Girardeau would never live to see this project come to fruition. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

“C’est la vie. Live it while you can.”

## The Apprentice

While Gerhardt found teaching to be exhilarating, developing the next generation of architects, it could at times be as frustrating as it was rewarding. The end of the academic semester meant the next crop of graduating students would soon be starting their apprenticeships. Most of them had begun scoping out compatible mentors in their penultimate year, already having established contacts with several potential firms and advisors. Gerhardt stuck around his university office a bit longer than his posted hours to help exiting students complete the required steps to launching the next phase of their careers. 

“Herr Bosch?”

Gerhardt immediately recognized the voice of the student tarrying hesitantly in his doorway. “Come in, Franz-Joseph,” he said without looking up.

“I uh… I’ve had a bit of a …setback.”

Gerhardt had very little patience for what he termed ‘University Tourists,’ those who viewed the higher academic institutions more as a social springboard than an opportunity to establish one’s profession. He caught Franz-Joseph’s extraneous movements out of the corner of his eye, and the faint modulation of the student’s voice matched his rocking from side to side whenever he got anxious.

“I got rejected by the Fortier Firm… at least for this year.” 

*I wonder if Charles-Marie Fortier is any relation to Admiral Fortier.* “You know, Franz-Joseph, the Francinians don’t exactly like us. While I understand it’s all the rage to intern abroad, and that Fortier of Laurien is considered at the forefront of the Avant-Garde movement, the firm is going to be very selective about whom it accepts as apprentices, and I may as well be blunt; if you’re not Francinian, forget about it.”

“But I do good work. I mean, if I do say so myself, my designs are better than ninety-nine percent of what they get.”

“That’s a subjective matter, and in case you haven’t noticed, the Francinian aesthetic is quite different from our own.”

“But quality should count for something.”

“I warned you not to focus all your efforts on a longshot. From what I understand, the response when you first queried last year was tepid, at best. What prospects do you have on this side of the channel?”

“Well… uh… uhmmm. None really. I mean, where would you recommend? …and can I transfer over if something works out for next year?”

“You started a little late, didn’t you?” He grew tired of Franz-Joseph’s stammering excuses and finally glanced up at him. “You can’t rely on aristocratic influence to buy your way into a program, and you have to understand, the Francinians are going to have a bias against you no matter what your innate talent, background, or training.” 

Franz-Joseph looked puzzled. “But it’s not like I’m what one would consider the typical ‘Teutonic Barbarian.’”

“Oh, so you’re more refined than the rest of us Barbarians, are you? Sorry to say, the Francinians can’t differentiate between us.”

“But…”

Gerhardt suppressed a chuckle.

“That’s not funny.”

“I don’t know what world you’re living in, but… look, if you want to establish your own genre, it shouldn’t matter what tradition or traditions you studied, so long as you have a sound foundation.”

“But the Avant-Garde is one of the most sophisticated styles; if you can master that, you can master anything!”

“Frankly, I find it a little flimsy, but that’s a personal bias.”

“Well…” Franz-Joseph furrowed his brow and frowned in concentration as he considered his options. “What if I applied at the Bosch-Hanning Firm for a year or two and then transferred? I mean, I could apprentice with you in the interim.”

“You’re joking, right?” Franz-Joseph became even more flustered, and Gerhardt realized how the student would immediately misinterpret what he meant. “I can’t rescind recent history, and if you really want to try again with the premier Francinian architectural firm in a year, you’re pretty much shooting down any chance of that by starting your apprenticeship with me.”

“Why, because of your involvement in the war?”

“That would be one glaring reason.”

“I would think they would have gotten over that by now.”

“Really? Do you, now? That’s why they still celebrate ‘Air Victory Day,’” he said making little quotations with his fingers. 

“Yeah, but you’re about to build a friggin’ bridge across the channel! I mean, how could Fortier possibly not respect the ingenuity to conceive something like that?”

“I’m flattered… I guess, but what’s with this generation’s use of language anyway? We Barbarians of my generation would never say that word.”

Franz-Joseph seemed to have difficulty understanding Gerhardt’s amusement with him. “So, you really don’t think I could apprentice with Fortier?”

“Realistically there’s not a chance in hell.”

“What, you don’t think I’m good enough?”

“I don’t think you’re the right nationality, nor do I think their attitude towards us is going to change anytime in the near future.”

“But you don’t think I’m good enough to be your apprentice, either?”

Gerhardt shifted in his seat and raised an eyebrow at him. “I’m so honored to be your last choice.”

“Forgive me, I’m not used to sarcasm.”

*This poor kid is hopeless.* “If you want to apprentice with me, you will have to be more responsible meeting deadlines, and I would have to see a lot more commitment on your part.”

“I’ve always done good work.”

“When the mood suits you. It’s not a hobby, you know?”

“I can do it!” 

“Oh, I know you *can*; the question is *will* you.” Franz-Joseph returned a glare that was halfway between indignant and pleading. Gerhardt sat back in his chair and crossed one leg over the other. “I’ll give you a chance, but I will forewarn you, I’m a strict taskmaster. If you can’t get your act together, you’re out.”

Gerhardt was already running late for the Montag morning meeting when he pulled into the lot just outside the courtyard of the Sky Tower. His new apprentice was already waiting for him. Gerhardt glanced at his watch. *I’m late; I can’t afford to set a bad example for this kid.*

“Franz-Joseph, you’re on time.” Franz-Joseph said nothing but kept staring up at the Sky Tower. “Guten Tag… Franz-Joseph…”

“Are we… in there today?”

“Yes, we’re having the meeting in the Sky Tower today. This is our inaugural meeting in our new offices.”

“I thought we were still next door.”

“We’re moving our offices onto the top floor next week. I hope you’re not afraid of heights.”

Franz-Joseph fell in behind his new boss, and Gerhardt gauged how closely he followed from the slightly out-of-step footfalls behind him. One of the elevators was already at the ground level so the door opened immediately when Gerhardt pushed the button. “I hope you don’t get claustrophobic in elevators; it’s a long climb up the stairs.” 

“Wow…” Gerhardt heard Franz-Joseph murmur when they went into the larger of the firm’s two conference rooms together. Everyone else seemed to be equally impressed with the view that stretched across the channel.

“With a good set of binoculars, you could probably see Fortier’s offices from here,” Gerhardt jibed. The shuffle of movement behind them indicated that the others were still filing in for the meeting.”

“Where do I sit?”

“Pick a seat.”

His apprentice grabbed the nearest chair, and Gerhardt spun around to make sure the others had found the location of the new conference room. Collision with something solid immediately arrested Gerhardt’s movement when he turned. “Oh… Fraulein Weick... Entschuldigung.” *Why didn’t I see her?* A collection of gray globs seemed to be suspended in his left eye right where she should have been. Physical contact continued longer than he felt comfortable, causing an electric tingling to course through his body, followed by a warm flush. His heart rate and breathing quickened. When he finally managed to get his focus where he could see her directly, he noted she stared at him like a startled animal trapped by the hunt, though she didn’t seem too keen to escape. Her pupils instantly expanded to the size of half-kroner pieces.

The flush he felt at first contact heightened to the point his knees became wobbly. “Excuse me for a moment,” he said as he sidestepped her. His pace quickened once he got into the hallway where he swallowed a knot rising in his throat. He was probably one of the few who knew where the maintenance access door was, and he ducked into it as soon as he reached it, following the short maze out into the exposed stairwell. The crisp, rarified air was refreshing, reminding him of how clean the air felt with the wind in his face shortly after takeoff. The building was new enough, and the stairwell had good circulation, so the air hadn’t become stagnant. It took conscious effort to slow his breathing as he pressed his head towards the mesh-covered window and leaned his weight on his hands against the wall. Several minutes passed before the flush drained to his feet, the tingling subsided, and he felt he could stand on his own again. Once he was certain he was in complete control of himself, he walked back to the conference room where everyone was already seated and waiting for him. He made it a point to take his place as far as he could from where Klara and Peter sat and adjusted his position so that the patchwork of lacunae in his left eye obscured Peter’s apprentice. “All right, I hope everyone enjoys the view. As first order of business, I would like to introduce our newest apprentice…” 

Out in the hallway once the meeting ended, he noticed Fraulein Weick wafting towards him. “Herr Bosch…” For the two seconds he saw her, he noticed the black apertures of her eyes still gaped wide open as if they were about to swallow him.

“Don’t ever do that again,” he reacted, backpedaling, and raising his voice without thinking about it. He turned and walked away before she could get any closer to him.

## Zarathustra

Now that Gerhardt had finally broken down and bought a car, summertime presented an excuse to take a weekend road trip. He realized he hadn’t gone outside a 200-kilometer range of the capital since his return from the war. While he didn’t like venturing outside his zone of social familiarity, driving over the mountains gave him the opportunity to enjoy his little two-seater sports car with the top down, while allowing him to survey, up-close how dilapidated the railroad bridges had become. 

Automotive traffic still had to snake its way through ancient switchbacks since road construction came to a standstill during the war. How much quicker the trip would be, he thought, with modernized infrastructure, but at least the winding mountain passages made for a scenic drive. At one point, he parked the car at a pull-off to adjust his carburetor to the thinning mountain air, then made the short steep hike up the mountain to check on the condition of the Strassenburg tunnel, the main rail corridor communicating through the great Valhalla Range. Gerhardt surmised that the nearly ninety-year-old construct hadn’t seen attention in at least forty. 

By the time he reached his destination, mud covered his vehicle up to the wheel wells, and flecks of dust and dirt spattered the windshield. The car would need a thorough washing once he returned home, but for the moment, he enjoyed living the spirit of the adventure. The little inn he found tucked away in one corner of the mountain range serviced an alpine ski resort in the wintertime and played host to motor tourists during the fall and warmer months. 

A studious-looking, bespectacled man perhaps ten to fifteen years younger than himself appeared behind the check-in counter. The concierge reminded him of his brother. “Good afternoon. You must be…” he checked the register. “Oh, Herr Bosch,” he took a second look, confirming his guest’s identity by his one, unmistakable feature. “You wouldn’t mind signing the guest register, would you?”

“Sure.” Gerhardt scribbled his signature across two lines on the page and reserved one of the earlier seatings in the dining hall for dinner. Gerhardt found that in his interactions with people outside his immediate sphere, he was either received favorably or controversially, but rarely neutrally. 

“Nineteen hours, the concierge confirmed his reservation. The specialty of the kitchen is Schwarzwälder Kirschtorte. We have some of the best coffee around too.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” 

Once he found his room, Gerhardt donned a clean shirt, changed out of his muddy boots into some more formal socks and shoes, and then drafted a letter. His room had a small writing desk by a window which had been left open, allowing an occasional breeze to swirl the gauze drapes into the room. His gaze wandered to the view outside, settling on the far horizon for what seemed a long time. The crisp mountain air, the altitude and clear blue sky brought back memories of his flying days, forcing him to acknowledge a deep-seated desire to take flight again. He feared that window of opportunity was closing, and if he were to do it, he had better do it sooner than wait – but when would he have time? Drawing his gaze back into the room, he watched the mottled shadows dance across the blank paper, reminding him of clouds and currents of air. A distant motor rumbling up into the drive outside reminded him of an aircraft engine sputtering to life after cranking the propeller a few turns. He forced himself to put those memories aside and began to write his letter.

On the way to dinner, he detoured by the reception desk to mail it, giving the little bell on the counter one swift tap. “Do you have any stamps?” Gerhardt asked when the concierge appeared.

“I can take care of that for you,” the concierge responded. Glancing at the recipient, Department of Transportation and Highways, the concierge observed, “oh, you’re here on business?”

“Purely for pleasure.”

“But you’ve apparently scoped out some potential contracts.”

“We could certainly use an updated infrastructure, and I noticed the rail bridges and tunnels are in desperate need of repair.”

“I used to work for the railroad and those bridges terrify me. The rail carriers still have most of them under contract, so I’d get in touch with them. DTH doesn’t have direct oversight.” Gerhardt smiled in response at the man’s astuteness. “By the way, we lost our oldest brother during the war.” The concierge pointed to a photograph of a man in a military uniform who could have easily been a youthful copy of himself. “Thank you for your service.”

“Sorry to hear about your brother.”

“I tried to sneak in the army at age fifteen, but they told me I was too young still. When I came back a year later the war was over.”

“Probably for the best.” The concierge seemed to Gerhardt to be a nice fellow, a genuine sort who probably had no business fighting in a war. “Considering where it got us, it wouldn’t have been worth dying over.” Gerhardt gave a casual salute before heading off to the dining hall where he found an outdoor table on the veranda overlooking what, in wintertime, would have been a ski slope. 

Upon perusing the menu, he noted some movement out of the corner of his eye. A small boy, probably not more than six years old, sidled up to his table and climbed into the seat next to him. “Whoa, that’s a big chain. What’s it for?”

When Gerhardt touched it, he realized his matte black chain lay half in, half out over his unbuttoned shirt collar, the right side of which had rolled under it. He surmised the child was young enough not to have known about the war, so he answered generically, “it’s there to remind me of a promise I made a long time ago.”

“Can’t you take it off?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Then it wouldn’t be there as a reminder, would it?”

“What kind of a promise?”

“Willie!” The voice of an irate parent interrupted Gerhardt before he could answer. “Come over here right now!” The little boy jumped down out of the seat. “We don’t ask questions like that. It’s uncouth.” 

*Kids will be kids; it’s a harmless question.*

“You should know better than to talk to strangers, anyway.” The father led the boy away and Gerhardt could hear him say, “I’ll tell you why he has to wear that chain when we get home.”

Gerhardt wondered what sort of elaboration the father’s explanation might entail. *Why didn’t you just let me tell him?* *At least my account would have been unbiased.* He turned his head over his shoulder to engage the boy’s father, who immediately averted his gaze, turned his back on him and shuffled the boy away. *What’s with some people?* 

Whatever the father’s reaction to him, the appearance of the child shifted his attention to something he normally didn’t give much thought. *I’m getting on up there. I wonder if it’s too late for me to have a family.* 

Throughout dinner, he contemplated the fact he didn’t have any prospects at a time when people his age were approaching the end of their childbearing years. Even if children weren’t in his future, the possibility of marriage seemed remote considering most potential partners from his generation were already taken. He found it ironic that up to about ten years after the war, every Donna Giovanninni it seemed, tried to hit on him, presumably so she could note in her little black book that she had ‘done’ the famous flying ace. Rarely now did anyone pay him much attention in that regard, and he wasn’t sure he wanted that kind of attention to begin with. 

Almost as if on cue, a blonde whom he judged to be at least a decade younger than he was, wearing a red dress that hid no feature of her physical landscape, approached and sat down next to him. “Mind if I join you for a drink?”

He realized he never fixed the chain, either inside or outside his collar, and it would have been a dead giveaway to his identity. Nevertheless, for all he knew, this person could have been a member of the family who owned the inn. Not wanting to make negative assumptions, and to get a better handle on who she might be, he responded, “I’m having coffee, myself.” So as not to lie outright, he hailed the waiter and ordered a coffee, then added for good measure, “and I think I’ll try some of that Black Forest cherry torte, too.”

“You won’t be disappointed,” the waiter assured. “And for the lady?”

Gerhardt shrugged. He figured he could spare an extra coffee. “You like coffee?”

“Sure. I take mine with cream and sugar.”

“Make that two coffees, then.” He thought about how he might gracefully dismiss himself after he finished dessert. “So, what brings you over?”

“Well, it’s not every day one runs into someone so notorious.”

At least now he knew which camp she fell into as far as his past was concerned. He responded jokingly, “that whole notorious thing… that was a former life for me.”

“Judging by your… accoutrements,” her eyes dropped to his neck, “I’d say that’s not entirely the case. You know, try as you might, you’ll never be able to live that down – not that you seem to make any effort to do so in the first place.”

He raised an eyebrow as the line of her gaze followed the buttons down his shirt before the tabletop prevented it from drifting any lower. “I doubt you would have recognized me without it, then we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

“Don’t sell me short, I would have figured out who you are even if you had kept it tucked in, but that’s not what brought me over.”

“Then what did?”

“I found myself intrigued by the distinguished, *single* gentleman with the white hair who… kind of reminds me of Father Frost.”

Gerhardt shifted in his seat and leveled an assessing gaze at her. “That has got to be the worst pick-up line I’ve ever heard.”

“Well, let’s cut to the chase then. You come rolling in here in that little Zarathustra of yours with the top down, and your celebrity hairdo, and you don’t expect to get noticed?” 

*Celebrity hairdo? Second-hand sports car*. “Hardly my intent.”

“Oh, come on, you’re as big a show-off now as you were during the war. I figured you’d eventually make it down to dinner.”

“Oh, so you’ve been scoping me out,” he laughed. “Well, I’ll tell you right now, I’m pretty stingy and not a hot prospect for an extended affair – probably not the best target for a one-night stand, either.”

“Who said anything about a one-night stand?”

“Good, because I’m taken.”

“Liar,” she laughed. “You probably haven’t been laid since the war. Besides, even if you were taken, why would you let a little something like that get in the way?”

“I tell you what. Why don’t I just sign your little black book now? Then you can say we did and move on. I’ll even date it and write the location for you.”

“That wouldn’t be any fun, now would it?”

Gerhardt leaned back in his chair and watched as she daintily sipped her coffee, leaving red lipstick marks on the white ceramic cup. His mouth twitched. “You know, I think our values are irreconcilably different. I’m old-school when it comes to romance.”

“What’s wrong with a little fling in the mountains; who would know?”

“I would.”

“Not the seducible type, huh?” If anything, she seemed angry. 

“Not really, but if you’re keeping score, you can at least say you lured me into buying you coffee.”

“Listen, old geezer, I wouldn’t save myself up if I were you. The virgins won’t exactly be knocking down your door to marry you.”

“You might be surprised.” *I did not just say that.* “Besides, how do you know I’m not married already?”

“Hah! You don’t think everyone this side of the Valhalla Range knows about the infamous, sports-car-driving, compensating-for-something, war-hero-architect and …bachelor who has turned the capital on its head?”

“I usually ride a bike,” was all he could think to say.

“…and you like to ski, too.”

“What, do you folks circulate some kind of underground tabloid with a running hit list?”

“I prefer to call it ‘intelligence’.”

“Then you should probably select your targets a little better. Say,” he perked up. “I know someone who would be right up your alley. There’s a fighter-ace-turned-politician you may have heard of by the name of Dietrich von Strieben – Graf von Strieben. Now, he’s a pretty hot property – with lots of money, too – way more money than I have.”

She looked at him skeptically with a raised brow. “Who says I haven’t?”

“He might be a good prospect for you… hhmmmm, or is he already in your little black book?”

Apparently, she decided he wasn’t worth the bother, suddenly getting up from her seat, picking up his glass of water and throwing its contents in his face. Without so much as a word, she stormed away. The click of her heels reverberated on the deck as they receded. Gerhardt suppressed a shiver, then blinked a drop of water out of his eye. Good thing he had already finished his coffee. *That was entertaining.* The waiter immediately came over to his table, apologizing profusely. 

“It’s just water,” Gerhardt commented, then casually brushed aside the now damp wave of hair that fell over his forehead.

“I can file a report with the police if you like.”

Gerhardt laughed. “Over that? She’s just piqued she didn’t have her way with me.” He considered the possibility that his comment about Graf von Strieben had struck a bad chord with her. Maybe he hadn’t been too far off the mark, and he wondered how many people had been burned by his military successor. If that were the case, she had just attempted to put out the wrong fire. He stood up and adjusted his dampened collar with a brisk snap. “Put it on my tab. I suppose I’ll be picking up her coffee too.”

“Oh, don’t worry sir, tonight dinner is on the house.”

## Pinnacle

Moving into the Sky Tower gave Gerhardt the feeling that he had finally reached the pinnacle of his career, something to be proud of more than any accolades he attained as a flying ace. Hopefully it meant he would be remembered in history as an architect and engineer rather than for his involvement in the war, or worse, for being shot down at the end of it. He was able to move his office into the new building quickly, and once he got most of his things in order, decided he should stop by Peter’s office to see how his business partner was getting along. 

“Hallo, Peter.” Gerhardt traipsed into his colleague’s workspace without bothering to knock. Peter moved absentmindedly between boxes and other objects strewn about on the floor and the desk. “How’s the move? This should be the last time. Need any help?”

“No.”

“I’m planning to put in a bid for the stadium if the referendum passes…” He noticed that dark red vase standing a half meter in front of Peter’s desk. “This used to be in the conference room at your old office building. You might not want to leave it on the floor.” Impressed with its size, he picked it up, noting the volume it occupied in his arms. “I always liked this color.” The glaze dispersed amber light evenly from its glossy wine-colored surface.

“Hey, careful with that!” 

Gerhardt set it on Peter’s desk. “The floor’s not the best place for it. I didn’t want someone to knock it over.”

“I haven’t decided where I’m going to put it yet,” Peter responded. 

Now that he had it in his hands, Gerhardt’s curiosity got the better of him. Having thrown pottery since his youth, he enjoyed figuring out how different pieces he encountered might have been made. He came to the immediate conclusion that it was not mass-produced and wondered how he might throw something so big himself, he began caressing the outside of the vessel to get a feel for its dimensions and texture. The shape had a pleasing tactile aesthetic, so he closed his eyes and let his hands follow the taper from the rim to the base, then he put one hand inside tracing both internal and external surfaces at once, allowing him to gauge the variation in thickness and where the seams might be. His actions sparked an immediate, but lingering figure of the object in his mind. 

“What are you doing?” Peter’s tone sounded curt. “You don’t need to make love to it.”

Gerhardt opened his eyes again, annoyed by the patchwork of ever-encroaching gray blobs that inhabited the central field of his left eye. His mental map of the vase had become so much richer than his visual percept of it, but the physical sensation of touching it recreated itself each time he looked at the piece. Finished with his survey of it, Gerhardt carefully moved it to a less precarious position towards the center of the desk. “Any idea where it came from or how old it is?”

“I don’t know exactly. It’s a modern copy from somewhere in the Far East, I think. I bought it a long time ago.” Peter returned to unpacking.

“I want you on board with the stadium project. I think between the two of us, we can come up with something… spectacular. I had some ideas I’ve sketched out already. Perhaps you could take a look.” Since no chairs had yet been moved into the office, he rested one leg over the corner of the desk, turning his head over his shoulder towards Peter who busied himself putting things on shelves behind him. If anything, Peter seemed strangely preoccupied. Gerhardt’s gaze drifted across the room as he surveyed the pictures, some hung up, some still leaned against the wall on the floor. He began chasing the imperfections in his left eye as he gazed from one image to another. He concluded that they didn’t lag behind his eye movements but stayed fixed relative to wherever he looked. He blinked his left eye a few times trying to clear his vision. *What am I going to do about this?* 

“Hey Peter,” he turned around suddenly. Something made solid contact with his right elbow, but before he could react, the crash of ceramic shattering on the hardwood floor pierced the ether, startling them both. “…oops,” he muttered under his breath. *That wasn’t there before.* *Peter must have moved it again after I set it on his desktop.* Gerhardt twirled the half-turn off the edge of the desk to stand and survey the wreck he had just made. He felt himself redden, slightly embarrassed and deeply saddened by his mistake. “I’ll pay for that.”

“You know, you’re like a damn ox in a porcelain shop! I can’t replace that.”

Gerhardt shrugged at a loss for what to do. “I’ll pay you what it’s worth.”

“You can’t. Its intrinsic value is more than any monetary price.”

“Look, I’m sorry! Is it sentimental?”

“No! I just liked it – that’s all. And you can never replace it!”

Gerhardt kneeled to pick up the largest shard he could find; his eyes narrowed critically at it. *I don’t know about that.* His mental model sprung back into his mind as he nodded imperceptibly towards the piece he held in his hand. *I can probably duplicate this if I can find the right porcelain and that particular glaze. If the aesthetic is really all you care about...*  His mind was already rehearsing how he would throw the clay onto the wheel, thinking about how many sections he would have to build it in. He surmised the vase he had just broken had probably been made in three. Not wanting to leave his colleague with a fat mess to clean up, he started to gather some of the larger pieces by hand. 

“I’ll get that,” Peter insisted. “Don’t… just, don’t worry with it! I’ll sweep it up myself. Look, maybe you should let me finish unpacking, then we can talk about the stadium later, all right?”

Gerhardt stood up and shrugged at Peter’s dismissal of him, then walked away as silently as he could, taking the largest piece with him when he left.

## The Reproduction

The Dancing Wheel Fine Pottery Shop boasted works of porcelain and stoneware by some of the most hailed masters in Richtenstadt. Expensive pieces displayed in glass cases filled the upper two floors, while the basement boasted workspace for an army of artisans and apprentices, as well as four kilns. Gerhardt rolled up on his bicycle and parked it in one of the myriad racks lining the downtown streets, then retrieved a wad of paper out of his portfolio. He had been making his own tableware since he was thirteen, and for more than a decade, had been bringing his work here to be fired. The shop didn’t appear terribly busy during the dinner hour when he waltzed into the main showroom on his singular mission. The proprietor greeted him, “Herr Bosch, you usually don’t come in from upstairs.” 

“I have a special request.” He unwrapped the piece of Peter’s vase he had shattered earlier that afternoon. “You don’t happen to know anything about this style of pottery, do you?”

She flipped a long gray braid behind her shoulders and surveyed the remnant. “Yes, it’s from the Orient… modern copy from the Shengzu Dynasty style. These reproductions were in vogue at the turn of the century, but you would be hard pressed to find one now.”

“What about this porcelain, can I order some …and is it still possible to get that kind of glaze?”

“We have some of the porcelain on hand, but if you want the authentic stuff, I’ll have to special-order the glaze. I could have some here in two weeks. Have you thrown porcelain before?”

“When I used to do decorative pieces, but I don’t typically spend the money for it. Most of my stuff is utilitarian and eventually gets broken, anyway.”

“I take it someone asked you to replicate this.”

“No, I’m sorry to say, I’m the one who broke it. The least I can do is try and replace it, but I’d like to get started on it as soon as I can while it’s still fresh in my mind.”

“If you don’t mind messing up your pedal pusher and you have some time, you can begin right now.”

“You mean downstairs?”

“Sure, why not? No one’s working there now.”

“That would be great. The suit will wash, and I generally don’t sling slip all over the place, anyway.”

The studio was deserted at that time of day, so he made himself at home at the wheel over by the corner window. The shop owner, also one of the artists whose pieces were displayed in the showroom upstairs, gave him an apron and set some newsprint roll down on the chair to prevent him from messing up his suit. 

“How much do you need to wedge that clay?” she asked after about five minutes of him bashing it on the wedging board and rolling it up to squeeze the air bubbles out.

“It’s therapeutic,” he smiled, “but you’re right, I don’t want to keep you all night.” He grabbed several globs he had just de-bubbled and pounded them into balls. From this point on, he lost himself in the process of recreating Peter’s vase. First, he placed a bat, a wooden disc, at the center of the wheel then threw the first orb of clay onto it. From there, his hands and fingers worked as he controlled the speed of the wheel rotation with his foot. He could feel the clay spool up into a cone, before he pushed it down into a dome, dipping his fingers lightly into a bowl of water every so often. He went through these motions a few times to reacquaint himself with the feel of working with the softer texture of porcelain. Then, he pulled it up into a cylinder before shaping it into the same dimensions he remembered when handling Peter’s vase, scaled up by a factor of one-third to account for the shrinkage that would occur during firing. Pulling up the walls sparked the image of the vase in his mind. As the bottom portion of the vessel began to take form, the clay seemed to tell him what it wanted to do, or perhaps it was the other way around, he was never certain. He worked quickly in spurts, then gave the porcelain time to settle before pulling it again. After completing the base, he worked the separate middle and top sections into form, recreating in three pieces the shape he had traced with his fingers in Peter’s office. 

“How in the world do you do that?”

Gerhardt had no idea his host was still in the room, but when he looked up, she was leaning against the wall at the bottom step.

“Do what?”

“I’ve been enthralled. How can you throw something like that without looking at it?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean you’ve had your eyes closed practically the whole time I’ve been watching you.”

“How long’s that been?”

“About forty minutes.”

“You’ve been here the entire time?”

“Pretty much. That’s the most amazing thing I’ve ever seen. Is this the first time you’ve thrown something like that?”

“It’s certainly the largest piece I’ve made.” He was almost giddy when surveying his work. It reproduced, as much as he could tell, an identical, scaled-up form to Peter’s vase.

She drifted to his workspace and gave the sections of his work a visual once over, peering at them inside and out. “You never saw it, and yet you’ve produced the proportions indistinguishable from an exemplar Shengzu Dynasty vase.”

Gerhardt shrugged, not exactly sure what she was talking about. He ‘saw’ it the whole time he was working on it, though perhaps only through tactile interaction with it; he didn’t know because when he threw pottery, his sensory percept merged into a singular modality. “That’s what I was aiming for, but I’ll need to let them dry for a bit before joining the pieces.” 

“We can put them in the damp box until you come back, but I wouldn’t wait too long.”

 “I’ll plan to come back when… day after tomorrow in the morning?” He started tidying up his workspace as they spoke. Before long, he had it looking cleaner than any other spot in the studio. 

“That’s about the right timeframe. I can keep an eye on it for you and give it a mist if it looks like it needs it.”

“That’d be great.”

“You sure don’t make much of a mess, do you? I wish our resident artists could be that neat. Anyway, someone usually comes in about 7:00 if you want to get here that early – probably day after tomorrow is when I’d check on it again. I’ll order the glaze first thing when I get here tomorrow.”

“Hopefully I’ll have this ready in three weeks. You’re the best!” He tossed off a casual salute before bounding up the steps, filling the stairwell with a vibrant jingle. He enjoyed imagining Peter’s reaction all the way home. 

## Skewed Reaction

“Hey, Peter…” Gerhardt peeked his head into the office. 

Peter looked up at him with an unsettlingly neutral expression and queried, “what can I do for you today, Herr Bosch?”

“I’ve got something for you.”

“Another draft of the stadium?” 

“Nei.” Gerhardt tried unsuccessfully to repress the grin of someone quite pleased with himself. 

Peter’s expression fell when Gerhardt marched in, his arms entwined around an intact replica of the shattered vase. He stared wordlessly at it for several seconds. “Well,” he spat with apparent disgust, “you have the answer for everything, don’t you?” Gerhardt drifted towards the desk and set it gently in the middle of it in front of his colleague. Peter brushed his fingers towards it dismissively, but having no place else to put it, Gerhardt left it there anyway.

“Don’t you like it?”

Peter released a sigh. “It’s not the same.”

“It’s exactly the same,” Gerhardt insisted.

“Maybe in materials and dimension, but it’s not the same vase that’s been sitting on my shelf for the last twenty years.

“Not physically the same chunk of clay, but I thought it was the aesthetic you cared about. I think I’ve done a pretty good job reproducing that.” Gerhardt hoped his tone didn’t reflect the fact he felt a little rebuffed.

“Yeah, it’s perfect… too perfect – completely stagnant. There’s nothing original about it.”

“Peter, your original was a copy.”

“So now you have a copy of my copy. You keep it.”

“I don’t have a place for it.” As orderly as he liked to maintain his home, pottery was the one thing he had in abundance, including several of his first pieces from when he was just learning the craft. While pleased with his latest results, he couldn’t think of any immediate use for it. “My house is already full of this stuff.”

“Then you have poor taste. Where did you find that thing anyway?”

*I take offense at that.* “What do you mean, where’d I find it? I made it. I had to order the glaze especially…”

Peter shot back at him incredulously, “oh, so you’re an artist too? What other tricks are you going to pull out of your hat?” Gerhardt deflated at Peter’s reaction. “You know, maybe you should stop trying to take matters into your own hands. Instead of letting it go, you just end up making things worse.” Gerhardt shrugged, not sure what Peter was getting at. “Like your blockade-busting campaign. Even the Grossadmiral asked you to desist, didn’t he?”

“What has that got to do with anything?” *Peter, what are you ranting about now?*

Peter stood up from his seat. It was the first time Gerhardt had seen him take a confrontational stance, though when he spoke his words sounded less certain. “Some say your bombing those ships was the turning point of the war; your one-man assault polarized Devonia and Francinia’s allies against us. Your arrogance may well have cost us victory.”

Gerhardt crossed his arms on his chest. “Speculation. It’s also possible that if I had continued doing it and managed to perfect the technique to where others could do it, we would have broken the blockade. We were dependent on bringing back natural resources from Rhyacea to continue production at capacity. Without it, our offensive was already sunk.” 

“What if you’re wrong? What if *you,* single-handedly, *were* responsible for turning the war against us? Think about that.”

*It’s not like I haven’t thought about it a million times before.* “Ja, but what if the Grossadmiral is the one who was wrong? We’ll never know, will we? …and I’m not going to waste *one moment,* second-guessing other possible outcomes or worrying about what can’t be changed.” His speech remained calm until his transient emphasis, and then he only slightly raised his voice.

“That’s one of the reasons you ended up the way you did.”

“Probably.”

“They hated you. A lot of people here resent you too.”

“I was damned if I did, damned if I didn’t. Either way, I was a convenient person to blame on both sides.”

“And you don’t give a damn either, do you?”

“Wouldn’t do a damn bit of good if I did.”

Peter stared at him for several seconds. “Don’t you have any compunction?”

“What am I supposed to do, throw myself off a precipice? That’d solve a lot of problems.” Peter opened his mouth to respond but then changed his mind. He couldn’t find a way around Gerhardt’s immutable logic. Gerhardt said, “what the allied forces hated was the presumption of Teutonic supremacy that we see running rampant among our politicians today. You’d think people here would have understood by now the real problem was starting that war in the first place. You think I was arrogant; what kind of arrogant notion do we delude ourselves with that we have some sort of national exceptionalism that elevates us above everyone else?”

“You’re one to talk! You were the poster child of nationalistic self-righteousness!”

Gerhardt shrugged. *Dietrich Von Strieben has since inherited that honor…* *and I am not going down this path with you.* “Peter, what did you do during the war?”

“Me? I missed the war by several years.”

“Then don’t be so judgmental. You’re apparently angry with me about something, and it has nothing to do with the war or politics. I wish you would be more forthright with me about what it is.”

“All right.” Peter paused to gather his thoughts. “It’s Klara.”

“What about her?”

“Your treatment of her lately has been egregious.”

Gerhardt gave a nod of acknowledgement. “I have been a little brusque towards her.”

“A little? Why?”

“In case you haven’t noticed, your apprentice has developed quite a crush on me.”

“Yes, that’s obvious, but can’t you be more professional about it?”

Gerhardt took a few steps backwards and gently closed the door, then recrossed his arms on his chest. “Peter, you don’t get what’s going on, do you?”

“Explain it to me.”

“Well… I would have thought that at my age, I would be impervious to that sort of thing but… I’m not. I’m flattered by her attention, but your apprentice is…”

“She turns you on.”

Gerhardt’s mouth twitched. “You’re more observant than I thought.”

“I have a family with two children. I’m not naïve to the ways of the world.”

“So then, you understand the dilemma. I’m not going to compromise her career or this firm’s reputation for…”

“Then you should learn to control your own reactions a little better, rather than trying to run her off. You can’t blame her; she didn’t do anything to you.”

“This is as assertive as I’ve ever seen you. Why couldn’t you have been this blunt with the contractors?”

“That’s something I learned from you.”

“Then I’m glad to see I’ve had a positive influence.”

“Ha!”

“Look, I’m sorry about the way I’ve treated her. I don’t mean to be harsh, but I’m at a loss. Perhaps you could talk to her…”

“I’m not going to apologize for you! You talk to her!”

Gerhardt tilted his head as he considered Peter’s response. “You know Peter, that’s about the most sensible thing you’ve said to me all week.” *He’s right I’ll have to deal with it eventually.* He picked up the vase on Peter’s desk, careful not to knock it over this time.

“Where are you going with that?”

“I don’t know. I’ll probably leave it out on the curb. Somebody might take it.”

“It’s… Actually, it’s very nice. Why don’t you keep it?”

“I made it for you; I don’t need it. It was an attempt in good faith to replace something you valued. I’m sorry I’ve failed in that.” 

Peter blocked Gerhardt’s exit and pulled the large vessel out of his grasp. “Your apology… is accepted.” He walked back to his shelves and put the vase in the empty space in the middle. “By the way, we’re planning a party at my house for Klara when she becomes an associate, assuming she passes her guild exams.”

“I don’t foresee that will be a problem.” 

“You’re invited. I do hope you’ll attend.”

## Wistfulness

The following day, Gerhardt steeled himself for the encounter that he scheduled to take place right after the close of business. He hoped that by choosing that time, he could avoid potential emotional displays from being overheard by curious coworkers. “You can leave the door open,” Gerhardt said when Klara pulled it partially closed behind her. He smiled at her; as usual, she looked absolutely stunning in her tailored suit set, probably more for what she didn’t have than what she did. Though he tried not to stare too closely, it was obvious she didn’t tie herself into one of those foundation garments meant to pull in here and push out there the voluptuous overabundance that defined the cosmopolitan fashion of the pre-war decades. She had the rugged body of a mountaineer, and her shape was the byproduct of athleticism. 

She approached cautiously. “You wished to see me, Herr Bosch?”

“I’d like to apologize to you.” He remained behind his desk and entreated her to take a seat in an empty chair. The fact that his heart pounded in his ears amused him, but at the same time reminded him of what was lacking in his life. “You’re approaching an important milestone in your career. I realize I’ve been both intolerably rude these last several weeks, as well as an unfortunate distraction. I hope none of this has created undue stress for you.” 

“What do you mean?”

He laughed self-consciously. When he started to speak, he simply deflated. Whatever words he rehearsed saying to her earlier vanished. *May as well lay it out the way it is.* After composing his thoughts, he tried again. “I think you have a bit of a crush on me …and I’m not the only one who perceives it that way. My lack of manners lately has been because I don’t want to be a diversion to you,” *and vice versa.* “…and vice versa.”

Klara’s face turned bright red, “Herr Bosch, I certainly didn’t mean to give the impression that...”

“Whether you meant to or not, you have given that impression.” He noticed her expression become taut and she sat rigidly at attention. “Look, you don’t have to be embarrassed about it. These things happen, and at the risk of sounding inappropriate…” *you’re attractive, you’re smart… I have a great deal of admiration for you.* Whatever excuses flashed through his mind seemed banal. He thought he could see her struggling to keep her composure, realizing he had put her on the spot. He shifted in his seat, as though that would make him any less uncomfortable with the situation. “To be perfectly honest, I’m taken with you too, but I’m nearly twenty years older than you are, and I’m your boss; I’m not supposed to let that happen. I wanted to let you know, I wish you the best on your exams. I’ll do whatever I can to help you… or provide moral support if you need it. More importantly, I don’t want to create difficulties for you, and I don’t want to be impolite. I’m afraid I’ve done both.” 

“I’m… I’m terribly sorry.”

*The situation’s a little awkward, isn’t it, but that’s life,* he reminded himself. “Don’t be. You haven’t done anything wrong. As I say, I’m the one apologizing.” *Why couldn’t I have met her when I was… why can’t she be my age, why can’t I be her age?* He shook his head at life’s unfairness. *She’s sure to make some lucky devil happy. I hope the man she marries does the same for her.*