Cities in Flight

The Margraf himself had left; five minutes of Carrel’s talk had been enough to arouse his impatience. The Graf Nandór was still there, wearing the suffering expression of a man delegated to do the dirty work. So were four or five other nobles. Three of these were chattering in the back of the room with muffled sniggers, and a raucous laugh broke in upon Carrel’s dissertation every so often. The remaining peacocks, evidently of subordinate ranks, were seated, listening with painful, brow-furrowing concentration, like ham actors overregistering Deep Thought.

“This will be enough to show the analogy between atomic and molecular binding energies,” Carrel said smoothly. “The Hamiltonians”—he had seen that the word annoyed the peacocks and used it often—“the Hamiltonians have shown, not only that this binding energy is responsible for the phenomena of cohesion, adhesion, and friction, but also that it is subject to a relationship analogous to valence.”

The appearance of concentration of the nobles became so grave as to be outright grotesque. “This phenomenon of molar valence, as the Hamiltonians have aptly named it, is intensified by the friction-fields which they have designed into a condition analogous to ionization. The surface layers of molecules of two contiguous surfaces come into dynamic equilibrium in the field; they change places continuously and rapidly, but without altering the status quo, so that a shear-plane is readily established between the roughest surfaces. It is evident that this equilibrium does not in any sense do away with the binding forces in question, and that a certain amount of drag, or friction, still remains—but only about a tenth of the resistance which obtains even with the best systems of gross lubrication.”

The nobles nodded together. Amalfi gave over watching them; the Hruntan technicians worried him most. There were an even dozen of them, a number of which the Margraf seemed fond. Four were humble, frightened-looking creatures who seemed to regard Carrel with more than a little awe. They scribbled frantically, fighting to take down every word, even material which was of no conceivable importance, such as Carrel’s frequent pats on the back for the Hamiltonians.

All but one of the rest were well-dressed, hard-faced men who treated the nobles with only perfunctory deference, and who took no notes at all. This type was also quite familiar in a barbarian milieu: head scientists, directors, entirely committed to the regime, entirely aware of how crucial they were to its successes, and already infected with the aristocratic virus of letting lesser men dirty their hands with actual messy laboratory experiments. Probably some of them owed their positions as much to a ruthless skill at court intrigue as to any great scientific ability.

But the twelfth man was of a different order altogether. He was tall, spare, and sparse-haired, and his face as he listened to Carrel was alive with excitement. An active brain, this one, doubtless politically unconscious, hardly caring who ruled it as long as it had equipment and a free hand. The man would be tolerated by the regime for his productivity, but would be under constant suspicion. And he was, by Amalfi’s judgment, the only man capable of going beyond what Carrel was saying to what Carrel was leaving unsaid.

“Are there any questions?” Carrel said.

There were some, mostly dim-witted, from the technies—how do you build this, and how do you wire that; no one with any initiative would have wanted to be led by the nose in such a fashion. Carrel answered in detail. The hard-faced men left without a word, as did the nobles, who lingered only long enough to save face. The scientist—he was the scientist for Amalfi’s money—was left alone to launch into an ardent stammering dispute over Carrel’s math. He seemed to consider Carrel as an equal as a matter of course, and Carrel was beginning to look uncomfortable by the time Amalfi summoned him to the back of the hall.

The scientist left, pocketing his few notes and pulling thoughtfully at his nose. Carrel watched him go.

“I can’t hide the kicker from that boy long, sir,” he said. “Believe me, he’s got brains. Give him about two days and he’ll have the whole thing worked out for himself. He won’t get any sleep tonight for thinking about it; I know the type.”

“So do I,” Amalfi said. “I also know barbarian council halls—the arrases have ears. Just pray you weren’t overheard, that’s all. Come on.”