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CHAPTER 2

I Will Join You

      THE PRINTING press was an ugly, sturdy structure that looked very much like the winepress on which it had been modeled. "Here is our master copyist," Gutenberg said, giving the machine an affectionate pat. "His is the fair hand you admired. And he's a hundred times faster and more accurate than you can ever hope to be, Mr. Schoeffer, no matter how quickly or clearly you can write. He never changes, he never alters the words under his hand, and unlike us poor men, he never grows weary."

      "How does it work," Peter asked eagerly.

      "This lower block holds a wooden form," the old man said, pointing to it. "If you look closely, you'll see it contains many hundreds of pieces of metal, arranged in rows. Each piece has a raised letter of the alphabet on it. And together they make the words and sentences on this page."

      As he spoke, the old man inked up a roller and smoothed it across the rows of metal type that were locked into position on the tray. Then he laid a fresh sheet of paper into position on it.

      "The wheel up above here is exactly like the one that drives a winepress. It moves that block of smooth wood — the platen — downward toward the paper . . ." Gutenberg continued, giving the wheel a turn. And from above their heads the thick block began to descend, driven by a curled iron rod that was shaped like an immense corkscrew. As it moved, Peter realized that this was the source of the creaking sound he had just heard.

      With another turn of the wheel, the upper block came down to rest firmly on the paper that lay across fixed rows of metal type. Peter heard again the sound of heavy wood meeting a solid surface, followed by the faint sigh of air being forced out from between the platen and the paper.

      "Ink from the type is compressed against the paper, and then . . ." As he spoke, Gutenberg uncinched the wheel and began turning it in the other direction, lifting the platen upward again.

      "Stop, Sir, let me do that for you," Zell cried tardily. The old man stepped aside and, as Zell cranked the platen up again, Gutenberg deftly slipped the printed sheet from between the jaws of the press and offered it to Peter.

      "Here you are, Mr. Schoeffer. Have you ever known a copyist who worked as quickly as that!"

      Peter looked at the still-damp words on the printed page with a feeling that was akin to awe. "It's like magic," he breathed. "No — it's better than magic. It's a miracle."

      "Yes," Gutenberg agreed reverently. "The idea came to me like a gift from God. And that is what miracles are, aren't they?"

      "But how is the type made! I want to know everything," Peter said eagerly.

      "The process can't be learned in an hour, young man. Nor in a week, nor even a year! It's taken the best part of my lifetime to create it. We built the first press fourteen years ago, and since then I've been improving it, step by tedious step — but it's been worth it. Yes, worth ever minute! Ulrich can tell you." He waved a hand to indicate Zell. "Young as he is, he's seen it grow."

      Zell had obviously been waiting for a chance to speak. "Oh yes," he broke in. "In the two years since I came here, we've made countless improvements. The ink is better, we've learned a lot better ways to work the press, and we've even improved the way we set up the type."

      He took the damp page from Peter's hands. "Look how clear the letters are! It's really hard to give them all the same degree of blackness. If one piece of type stands even a little bit higher than the others, it takes more ink and presses more firmly on the paper, so it makes a darker mark. The Boss finally solved it by changing the casting process."

      "Show him around, Ulrich," said Gutenberg, as he disappeared through the curtain of fluttering pages. "As for me, I must go and see my banker. We need metal to make more type, and since Johann Fust has ignored my message, I'll have to go and plead with him again."

      "Fust! That old skinflint," Ulrich Zell cried bitterly. "I think the Boss pays him more in interest than he borrows from him to pay our bills!"

      Privately, Peter doubted whether that could be the case, but he contented himself by saying, "I'm surprised you're not all rich. There's a big demand for books, and your machine prints everything very quickly."

      "Oh, there will be plenty of money someday," Zell agreed, as he inked down the bed of type and carefully laid another sheet of paper on the press. "But right now, we have to keep working to improve the process, and the expenses are terrible."

      Workmen were flocking back from their noonday meal, and the shop began to hum with activity. Zell called to one of them, "Erik, will you take over here, while I show our visitor around?" And one of the men who had lunched with them came to relieve Zell at the press.

      "This is where the Boss mixes our ink," Zell said, indicating a small room at the back of the building. Peter looked in and saw several bottles and buckets clustered on a low table that was covered with stains.

      "Mixes it? Is your ink different from what copyists use?"

      "Certainly. Ordinary ink is too thin, and it doesn't lay out well on the metal. We add oil, and several other ingredients so that it will spread more evenly." Zell answered. "Our senior assistant, John Mentelin — he's the older man who was with us at the inn — helped to develop the mix we use now. He and the Boss work together when a new batch is being made."

      Peter would have liked to know more about the ink. What kind of oil did they use, and how much of it, he wondered? How would Gutenberg's ink spread under his own pen? But before he could ask, Zell hurried on, restless as a puppy.

      Next, he showed Peter where the type was made. He pointed out the punches and showed him the forms from which the type was cast. Again, Peter would have liked to go more slowly and ask more questions. Having spent several years laboriously copying books by hand, he was excited by the idea of the printing press, and he wanted to understand every step of the process. But while he was still coming up with new questions, Zell moved off again.

      "Over here, Peter," the young man called. "Look, Franz has just finished setting up a page of type. Hurry, and you'll see how it's locked into the form!"

      Peter followed quickly. "Yes? Let me see it. Ah, each of those little bits is one of the letters, is that right? What book is it?"

      "It's the next page of the Latin grammar book," Zell answered.

      Peter bent forward for a closer look, then looked up at Zell with a sudden, delighted grin. "The letters are all front to back! And the lines, too! Of course, they have to be reversed, don't they?"

      Zell began to laugh, and Franz joined him. "I wondered when you'd notice that," Zell said.

      Peter leaned over the tray of type again. "I'll bet it takes a lot of practice to learn to read it this way. Let me see if I can . . .'Amo, Amas, Amat' . . ."

      Then he frowned. "Wait — there's a mistake here! This word should be 'Amamos,' not 'Ammos' — There's a letter missing!" He pointed to a word at the top of the page.

      "What? What's that you say?" John Mentelin came hurrying across the room. "A mistake?"

      Franz said nothing, and Peter found himself blushing as he answered. "I don't want to cause any trouble, sir, but yes, this word is wrong!"

      "You're not causing trouble young man; you're preventing it," Mentelin answered emphatically. "Our work must be more accurate than any manuscript writing, because hundreds of copies will be printed from this single page of type. If we make a mistake, it will be duplicated over and over — and that would mean a thousand mistakes, in a thousand books. Think of the trouble that could cause, and all the young scholars who would learn wrong information from books we have printed!"

      He turned to Franz. "Correct the error before you lock up the form. And be more careful from now on! Thousands of eyes will read the page you're working on."

      Rather sullenly, Franz began to dismember the part of the page that contained the mistake. Meanwhile, John Mentelin took Peter's arm and led him away from the others, into a room that was obviously used as an office. "Thank you for your help," he said soberly. "Tell me, young man, what brings you to Mainz today, and what is your profession? Did I hear you say you are a copyist?"

      "Not any longer, sir. After I finished my schooling in Paris, I stayed on to work for a year or two, but my family has been urging me to come home, and . . ."

      "What profession have you chosen," Mentelin asked.

      Peter hesitated. "What have I chosen? Nothing, really. Because what I really love most is learning itself! But my father is sending me to Eltville, where my Uncle Hansel has agreed to take me into his business as a cloth merchant."

      "You're an educated person, just as I am," Mentelin said, placing a firm hand on the younger man's shoulder. "The Master needs men like us, and the work here is both satisfying and important! Why not stay here with us, instead!"

      Peter stared at the bearded man. To become a printer of books! What an exciting life it would be, compared to selling cloth! And yet . . . there were real drawbacks. As his Uncle Hansel's partner, he'd be a rich man, while if he accepted Mentelin's offer, he was almost guaranteed a life of comparative poverty. But — to create books!

      He looked around the shabby room. A stack of lead type lay untidily on the desk beside him. He picked one up and looked at it. It was the letter "M," delicate and perfectly formed. How beautiful it was!

      "Stay with us," Mentelin's deep voice urged. "Use your talents and your learning to benefit mankind."

      Peter thought of the faultless pages he had seen hanging in the other room. "Only rich people have books now," he murmured to himself. "Most ordinary people can't even read, and they have to live in ignorance and poverty . . . but if this invention is successful, the day may come when everyone can have an equal chance — when anyone can read the words of Socrates, and Julius Caesar, and the other great men of long ago who left behind their wisdom for us to share!"

      "We may not get to be rich or famous, but our work will spread a feast for the minds of all the people in the world," Mentelin nodded, echoing Peter's thoughts.

      Once again, Peter felt that little shudder, as if he had heard the voice of his destiny. "Do you really think Master Gutenberg would hire me," he asked slowly.

      "If he'd watched you find that error as I did — if he knew how valuable you'd be to us — he'd be the one asking you right now!"

      Peter met the older man's eyes. "Then, yes. I want to join you," he said.

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