But these events were mere delaying action, token resistance. Ten minutes after the Barrier had exploded, the travelers present were all in the hands of the Stappers, and cruising Stapper bands were efficiently combing all surrounding territory.
(The interesting suggestion comes amazingly from Martha that while all time machines capable of physical movement were irresistibly attracted to the amphitheater by the tempo-magnetic field, only such pioneer and experimental machines as my Derringer, which can move only temporally, would be arrested in other locations. Whether or not this theory is correct, it seems justified by the facts. Only a few isolated reports have come in of sudden appearances elsewhere at the instant of the Barrier’s explosion; the focus of arrivals of the time travelers was the amphitheater.)
The Chief of Stappers mounted the dais where an infinity-bedecked banner now covered the martyred corpse of young Dyce-Farnsworth, and announced the official ruling of the Head of State: that these intruders and disrupters of the Stasis were to be detained—tested and examined and studied until it became apparent what the desire of Cosmos might be.
(The Head of State, Stephen explained, is a meaningless figurehead, part high priest and—I paraphrase—part Alexander Throttlebottom. The Stasis is supposedly so perfect and so self-sustaining that his powers are as nominal as those of the pilot of a ship in drydock, and all actual power is exercised by such subordinates as the Editor of State and the Chief of Stappers.)
Thanks to Stephen’s ingenuity, this rule for the treatment of time travelers does not touch me. I am simply a Slanduch envoy. Some Stapper search party has certainly by now found the Derringer machine in the warehouse, which I no longer dare approach.
With two Barriers now between me and 1942, it is obvious that I am keeping this journal only for myself lam stuck here—and so are all the other travelers, for this field, far stronger than the first, has wrecked their machines beyond the repairing efforts of a far greater talent than poor Alex. We are all here for good.
And it must be for good.
I still believe firmly what I said to Stephen and Alex: that this age needs hundreds of me to jolt it back in to humanity. We now have, if not hundreds, at least dozens, and I, so far as we yet know, am the only one not in the hands of the Stappers. It is my clearest duty to deliver those others, and with their aid to beat some sense into this Age of Smugness.
“But how?” Brent groaned rhetorically. “How am I going to break into the Stappers’ concentration camp?”
Martha wrinkled her brows. “I think I know. Let me work on problem while longer; I believe I see how we can at littlest make start.”
Brent stared at her. “What’s happened to you, madam? Always before you’ve shrunk away from every discussion Stephen and I have had. You’ve said we talk of things you know nothing about. And now, all of a sudden—boom!—you’re right in the middle of things and doing very nicely thank you. What’s got into you?”
“I think,” said Martha smiling, “you have hitted on right phrase, John.”
Brent’s puzzled expostulation was broken off by Stephen’s entrance. “And where have you been?” he demanded. “I’ve been trying to work out plans, and I’ve got a weird feeling Martha’s going to beat me to it. What have you been up to?”
Stephen looked curiously at his sister. “I’ve beed out galping. Interesting results, too.”
“Galping?”
“You know. Going about among people, taking samples of opinion, using scientific methods to reduce carefully choosed samples to general trends.”
“Oh.” (Mr. Gallup, thought Brent, has joined Captain Boycott and M. Guillotin as a verb.) “And what did you learn?”
“People be confused by arrival of time travelers. If Stasis bees perfect, they argue, why be such arrivals allowed? Seeds of doubt be sowed, and we be carefully watering them. Head of State haves problem on his hands. I doubt if he can find any solution to satisfy people.”
“If only,” Brent sighed, “there were some way of getting directly at the people. If we could see these travelers and learn what they know and want, then somehow establish contact between them and the people, the whole thing ought to be a pushover. ”
It was Martha who answered. “It bees very simple, John. You be linguist.”
“Yes. And how does that—”
“Stappers will need interpreters. You will be one. From there on you must develop your own plans, but that will at littlest put you in touch with travelers.”
“But the State must have its own linguists who—”
Stephen barked with pleasure and took up the explanation. Since Farthing’s regularization of English, the perfect immutability of language had become part of the Stasis. A linguist now was a man who knew Farthing’s works by heart, and that was all. Oh, he might also be well acquainted with Zinsmeister German, or Tamayo y Sarate Spanish; but he knew nothing of general linguistic principles, which are apt to run completely counter to the fine theories of these great synthesists, and he had never had occasion to learn adaptability to a new language. Faced by the strange and incomprehensible tongues of the future, the State linguist would be helpless.
It was common knowledge that only the Slanduch had any true linguistic aptitude. Brought up to speak three languages—Farthing-ized English, their own archaic dialect, and the language of the country in which they resided—their tongues were deft and adjustable. In ordinary times, this aptitude was looked on with suspicion, but now there would doubtless be a heavy demand for Slanduch interpreters, and a little cautious wire-pulling could land Brent the job.
“And after that,” said
