Into the New Millennium: Trailblazing Tales From Analog Science Fiction and Fact, 2000 - 2010 by Penny Publications Page B
Authors: Penny Publications
Tags: Science-Fiction, Literature & Fiction, Science Fiction & Fantasy, Anthologies, Anthologies & Short Stories
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whisper, a giggle, a nod, then she is at work at the hearth, casting sheep-eyes at Nicole while she impales the goose on the roasting spit. After engaging the spit's chain to the blades, she wrestles the two sufflators to the fire's edge. "This'll do ye up fine, m'sir Rector," she says. "Cook says she's done, but ye should let 'er roast a bit ‘till the skin gets crispy-like afore ye eat 'er."
"Very good, Lizette. You may set the table . . ." Buridan looks around the room, and each table is encumbered with books. ". . . that one. Boys, put the books in their cases, so they don't get soiled. Here, William, this is for you." And he hands his guest the bellows.
Wench, grease, spit, table . . . bellows? The Englishman turns his attention to the device now pressed into his hand. He hesitates, pulls tentatively on the handles, scowls a bit, discovers the plugged nozzle, and falls into a study. Finally, he bursts into laughter. "Nature abhors a vacuum!" he cries.
Stacking the books at the table, Albrecht and Nicole glance at each other, then at the Englishman. "All right . . ." says the Saxon.
"The principle of first and last moments," Heytesbury exclaims. "Surely, your master has . . . He hasn't! Why, what a sorry deficiency!" He waves his hands as he talks, a human windmill. He may fly off like a bird at any moment! "‘Sooth, it is simplicity itself, and illuminates natural philosophy with mathematics."
"‘ Sooth '?" says Nicole.
"The Merton Calculators," Buridan comments aside to his students, "believe that ratios and geometries can reveal the secrets of nature."
"While the Parisians place their faith in reason," the Englishman parries off-handedly. "Bradwardine says that anyone who studies the Physics without mastering mathematics will ‘never enter the portals of knowledge.' The plug will not allow the air to rush in to fill the vacuum, so nature prevents the two plates of the bellows from separating. To see why this is so, consider the separation of two parallel plates in general. Remember, God may do anything short of a logical contradiction, so He may permit a vacuum if He so chooses. But has He ever done so in fact ?"
He spreads his hands, as if in appeal, to the two students, who remain mute.
"Come now," the Englishman insists. "If two plates are in perfect mathematical contact, with no material between them, and they are separated in such a fashion as to remain parallel, it would seem that a momentary vacuum must be produced. Why?" He stabs a finger at the Norman.
Oresme sees no escape. He twists his hand palm up, as if to say it is obvious. "Because at the moment of the separation the air will rush in from the perimeter, but some brief time must elapse before it reaches the center."
"Excellent! Yet, how can this be?" Heytesbury continues, "Consider first the two plates approaching." His hands are plates. They approach. "The air between them becomes progressively more rarefied; yet at no time does the air actually part to form a vacuum in the center because there is no last moment at which rarefaction ceases prior to the contact of the plates. Thus, there is no last instant in which the plates are separated. But there is a first instant in which they are in contact. Rarefaction approaches a vacuum, but never attains it because the limiting form—actual contact—is extrinsic to the intension of the rarefaction itself."
Albrecht nods. "And separation likewise? There is no first instant of separation?"
Nicole pokes him. "Of course not, Farm-boy. Suppose there is a first moment of separation. But, if they are separated, there must be a small distance between them—"
"And so," the Saxon' voice overrides him, "however small, a smaller distance must have preceded it. Thus, we haff a last moment of contact—an intrinsic limit to contact, doch?—but no first moment of separation." He shakes his head slowly, grappling with the idea of open and closed sets.
Heytesbury waves his hand dismissively while he paces
"Very good, Lizette. You may set the table . . ." Buridan looks around the room, and each table is encumbered with books. ". . . that one. Boys, put the books in their cases, so they don't get soiled. Here, William, this is for you." And he hands his guest the bellows.
Wench, grease, spit, table . . . bellows? The Englishman turns his attention to the device now pressed into his hand. He hesitates, pulls tentatively on the handles, scowls a bit, discovers the plugged nozzle, and falls into a study. Finally, he bursts into laughter. "Nature abhors a vacuum!" he cries.
Stacking the books at the table, Albrecht and Nicole glance at each other, then at the Englishman. "All right . . ." says the Saxon.
"The principle of first and last moments," Heytesbury exclaims. "Surely, your master has . . . He hasn't! Why, what a sorry deficiency!" He waves his hands as he talks, a human windmill. He may fly off like a bird at any moment! "‘Sooth, it is simplicity itself, and illuminates natural philosophy with mathematics."
"‘ Sooth '?" says Nicole.
"The Merton Calculators," Buridan comments aside to his students, "believe that ratios and geometries can reveal the secrets of nature."
"While the Parisians place their faith in reason," the Englishman parries off-handedly. "Bradwardine says that anyone who studies the Physics without mastering mathematics will ‘never enter the portals of knowledge.' The plug will not allow the air to rush in to fill the vacuum, so nature prevents the two plates of the bellows from separating. To see why this is so, consider the separation of two parallel plates in general. Remember, God may do anything short of a logical contradiction, so He may permit a vacuum if He so chooses. But has He ever done so in fact ?"
He spreads his hands, as if in appeal, to the two students, who remain mute.
"Come now," the Englishman insists. "If two plates are in perfect mathematical contact, with no material between them, and they are separated in such a fashion as to remain parallel, it would seem that a momentary vacuum must be produced. Why?" He stabs a finger at the Norman.
Oresme sees no escape. He twists his hand palm up, as if to say it is obvious. "Because at the moment of the separation the air will rush in from the perimeter, but some brief time must elapse before it reaches the center."
"Excellent! Yet, how can this be?" Heytesbury continues, "Consider first the two plates approaching." His hands are plates. They approach. "The air between them becomes progressively more rarefied; yet at no time does the air actually part to form a vacuum in the center because there is no last moment at which rarefaction ceases prior to the contact of the plates. Thus, there is no last instant in which the plates are separated. But there is a first instant in which they are in contact. Rarefaction approaches a vacuum, but never attains it because the limiting form—actual contact—is extrinsic to the intension of the rarefaction itself."
Albrecht nods. "And separation likewise? There is no first instant of separation?"
Nicole pokes him. "Of course not, Farm-boy. Suppose there is a first moment of separation. But, if they are separated, there must be a small distance between them—"
"And so," the Saxon' voice overrides him, "however small, a smaller distance must have preceded it. Thus, we haff a last moment of contact—an intrinsic limit to contact, doch?—but no first moment of separation." He shakes his head slowly, grappling with the idea of open and closed sets.
Heytesbury waves his hand dismissively while he paces
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