Into the New Millennium: Trailblazing Tales From Analog Science Fiction and Fact, 2000 - 2010 by Penny Publications Page A
Authors: Penny Publications
Tags: Science-Fiction, Literature & Fiction, Science Fiction & Fantasy, Anthologies, Anthologies & Short Stories
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trails off at the end. ". . . a void."
"Should a void exist," Buridan adds the usual disclaimer. "This ‘intrinsic resistance' makes it difficult to start a heavy body into violent motion." He waves his hand. "The external resistance from the air, pfft! For a heavy body, it is nothing. No, lad, a body resting wants to remain so, by an inner nature which we call ‘inertia.' Or ‘ideleness.'"
"Like Albert? It's hard to get ‘Farm-boy' moving, too!"
Buridan smiles. "Albertus!" he says, because the lean Saxon has not responded to the jape. "You are not listening! What engages that subtle mind of yours?"
The Saxon suspects gentle mockery, for the Franks do love to chatter, and thus confuse Germanic silence with having naught to say. "When Nickl the two heads dropped . . ." he stammers, falling into the rhythms of his milk-tongue. But what notion the plummeting sufflators has suggested goes once more unsaid when Nicole waves the bellows.
"Shit! Someone's plugged the damned thing!"
Buridan snatches it from him before he can remove the plug. "A small gift for Heytesbury when he comes."
"A plugged bellows? Oh, the Picard humor, she is more subtle than even the Saxon."
"Mock not the Ch'ti !" Buridan says gravely. "This jape," he says aside to Albrecht, "from a man who drinks from a ‘mug' instead of a ‘tasse,' and whose land boasts ‘castels' rather than ‘kateaus.'"
Albrecht scratches his head. "Don't the French say, ‘ ch ateau'?"
Buridan waves dismissal. "The French speak with porridge in their mouths. When I eat with the French Nation, the servants affect not to understand Picard."
The Saxon shrugs. "Norman, Picard, French . . . It is to me all the same."
"Well said!" booms a new voice from the doorway, and they turn, and there framed they spy a tall man, all bones and angles, with a nose like a halberd and long, wild hair that suggests motion even while standing still. "Yet they lump your savage folk with mine," he cries, "into a single nation!"
Buridan grins. "Anglo, Saxon, it all sounds the same to me. That's why civilized men use Latin." He rises from his stool and welcomes his guest. "William, how delightful!" The newcomer's youth surprises him—he is but three-and-twenty. Yet he is, after all, a Fellow of Merton College; and while Oxford is not Paris—what town is?—she produces scholars of no mean merit.
The Englishman returns the embrace, though not the kisses on the cheek. "Greetings," he says, "from ‘the Calculators of Merton.' And are these your two prizes? Not very likely specimens, what?" He exchanges a hearty grip with Albrecht and claps young Nicole on the shoulder.
Buridan shrugs. "One manages. I thought we would eat here in my quarters, rather than in the Nations. After all," he indicates the four of them, "in which would we dine, Norman, Picard, or Anglo-German?"
"Your ‘Nations' are like our ‘Colleges,' what? Endowments that provide scholars with room and board? Yes, I rather thought so; though ours are not based on the language the scholars speak. Still, I suppose that if students must board together, they ought to be able to talk together at table. Where shall I be quartered? Here? Excellent! Excellent! Just a moment." And the whirlwind spins and shouts, "Oswy! Oswy!"
The short, burly servant is standing right behind him with a coffer on his shoulder and resignation on his face. "Oswy!" William tells him, "We are to have the room two doors on the right. This side, the right . Yes. Two doors."
Oswy turns just as the kitchen maid enters with the goose on a great tray. There is a confusion of coffer and goose, and an evolution much like an estampe ; then the wench is dancing into the room, the platter precarious, the goose in deadly peril!
Saved by the Norman! A steady hand to the platter, a steadier one to the waist, and all that is lost is a little grease splashed upon the hearthstones, and a few years in Purgatory for the thoughts that rush through the young man's mind. A
"Should a void exist," Buridan adds the usual disclaimer. "This ‘intrinsic resistance' makes it difficult to start a heavy body into violent motion." He waves his hand. "The external resistance from the air, pfft! For a heavy body, it is nothing. No, lad, a body resting wants to remain so, by an inner nature which we call ‘inertia.' Or ‘ideleness.'"
"Like Albert? It's hard to get ‘Farm-boy' moving, too!"
Buridan smiles. "Albertus!" he says, because the lean Saxon has not responded to the jape. "You are not listening! What engages that subtle mind of yours?"
The Saxon suspects gentle mockery, for the Franks do love to chatter, and thus confuse Germanic silence with having naught to say. "When Nickl the two heads dropped . . ." he stammers, falling into the rhythms of his milk-tongue. But what notion the plummeting sufflators has suggested goes once more unsaid when Nicole waves the bellows.
"Shit! Someone's plugged the damned thing!"
Buridan snatches it from him before he can remove the plug. "A small gift for Heytesbury when he comes."
"A plugged bellows? Oh, the Picard humor, she is more subtle than even the Saxon."
"Mock not the Ch'ti !" Buridan says gravely. "This jape," he says aside to Albrecht, "from a man who drinks from a ‘mug' instead of a ‘tasse,' and whose land boasts ‘castels' rather than ‘kateaus.'"
Albrecht scratches his head. "Don't the French say, ‘ ch ateau'?"
Buridan waves dismissal. "The French speak with porridge in their mouths. When I eat with the French Nation, the servants affect not to understand Picard."
The Saxon shrugs. "Norman, Picard, French . . . It is to me all the same."
"Well said!" booms a new voice from the doorway, and they turn, and there framed they spy a tall man, all bones and angles, with a nose like a halberd and long, wild hair that suggests motion even while standing still. "Yet they lump your savage folk with mine," he cries, "into a single nation!"
Buridan grins. "Anglo, Saxon, it all sounds the same to me. That's why civilized men use Latin." He rises from his stool and welcomes his guest. "William, how delightful!" The newcomer's youth surprises him—he is but three-and-twenty. Yet he is, after all, a Fellow of Merton College; and while Oxford is not Paris—what town is?—she produces scholars of no mean merit.
The Englishman returns the embrace, though not the kisses on the cheek. "Greetings," he says, "from ‘the Calculators of Merton.' And are these your two prizes? Not very likely specimens, what?" He exchanges a hearty grip with Albrecht and claps young Nicole on the shoulder.
Buridan shrugs. "One manages. I thought we would eat here in my quarters, rather than in the Nations. After all," he indicates the four of them, "in which would we dine, Norman, Picard, or Anglo-German?"
"Your ‘Nations' are like our ‘Colleges,' what? Endowments that provide scholars with room and board? Yes, I rather thought so; though ours are not based on the language the scholars speak. Still, I suppose that if students must board together, they ought to be able to talk together at table. Where shall I be quartered? Here? Excellent! Excellent! Just a moment." And the whirlwind spins and shouts, "Oswy! Oswy!"
The short, burly servant is standing right behind him with a coffer on his shoulder and resignation on his face. "Oswy!" William tells him, "We are to have the room two doors on the right. This side, the right . Yes. Two doors."
Oswy turns just as the kitchen maid enters with the goose on a great tray. There is a confusion of coffer and goose, and an evolution much like an estampe ; then the wench is dancing into the room, the platter precarious, the goose in deadly peril!
Saved by the Norman! A steady hand to the platter, a steadier one to the waist, and all that is lost is a little grease splashed upon the hearthstones, and a few years in Purgatory for the thoughts that rush through the young man's mind. A
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