“Yes,” Miriam agreed. “Clothing here costs much more than in world two because the whole industrial mass-production thing hasn’t taken off. People wear hand-me-downs, insist on thicker, darker fabrics that wear harder, and fashion changes much more slowly. It used to be like that back home; in 1900 a pair of trousers would have cost me about four hundred bucks in 2000 money, but clothing factories were already changing that. One of the things on my to-do list is introducing new types of cloth-handling machines and new types of fabric. Once I’ve got a toe-hold chiseled out. But don’t assume this place is wholly primitive—it isn’t. I got some nasty surprises when I arrived.”

Something caught her eye. “Look.” She pointed up into the air, where a distant lozenge shape bearing post from exotic Europe was maneuvering toward an airfield on the far side of town.

“Wow. That must be huge! Why don’t your people have such things?”

Miriam pulled a wry face. “We tried them, long ago. They’re slow and they don’t carry much, but what really killed them was politics. Over here they’ve developed them properly—if you want to compare airships here with airships back home, they’ve got the U.S. beat hands-down. They sure look impressive, don’t they?”

“Yes.”

Miriam stood up and pulled on the bell cord, and the tram slid to a halt.

“Come on,” she urged. They stepped off the platform into shallow slush outside a street of warehouses with a few people bustling back and forth.

“This way.”

Olga followed Miriam—who waited for her to catch up—toward an open doorway. Miriam entered, and promptly turned right into a second doorway. “Behold, the office,” Miriam said. “Declan? This is Miss Hjorth. Olga, meet Declan McHugh.”

“Pleased to meet you, ma’am.” Declan was a pale-faced draftsman somewhere in his late twenties, his face spotted badly by acne. He regarded Olga gravely from beside his board: Olga smiled prettily and batted her eyelashes, hamming it up. Behind Declan two other youths kept focused on their blueprints. “Will you be in later, ma’am?” he asked Miriam. “Had a call from O’Reilly’s works regarding the wood cement.”

“I’ll be in tomorrow,” Miriam replied thoughtfully. “I’m showing Olga around because she will be in and out over the next few months. She’s carrying documents for me and talking to people I need to see on my behalf. Is that clear?”

“Er, yes.” Declan bobbed his head. “You’ll be wanting the shoe-grip blueprints tomorrow?”

“Yes. If you could run off two copies and see that one gets to Mr. Soames, that would be good. We’ll need the first castings by Friday.”

“I will do that.” He turned back to his drawing board and Miriam withdrew.