Visitors (Pathfinder 3)

“You know what I mean. By yourself without Loaf or Rigg or me.”

“Will you be all right without me?” asked Square. “You know that I’m the only thing giving real purpose to your life.”

“I’m King-in-the-Tent,” said Umbo.

“Completely powerless, and you’re not sure Queen Param loves you.”

“What’s not to love?” asked Umbo.

“I’m sure your list is longer than mine.”

“Because I’m humble to a fault.”

“Self-doubting, you mean.”

“A problem you’ll never have,” said Umbo.

“I doubt myself all the time,” said Square. “I just don’t let it make me wonder whether I’m a good person or not.”

“Because you’re sure you are?”

“Because I am whatever I am, and whatever I say, and whatever I do, so I’m finding out what kind of man I am right along with everybody else.”

Umbo chuckled. “I envy you.”

“My astonishingly deep wisdom?” asked Square.

“Your facemask,” said Umbo. “Because you know you can say outrageously stupid things and nobody can slap you because your reaction time is so fast.”

CHAPTER 25

Preemptive

It wasn’t hard to persuade the younger version of Professor Wheaton that time travel was real, and that the oldish man with them was Wheaton toward the end of his career. Wheaton had always been an open-minded guy, and a few minutes of dis­appearing into slicetime could be quite convincing. The one thing Wheaton doubted was that his future career was in ­anthropology. “I’m a philologist,” he said.

“We had to catch him in his philologist phase,” sighed Old Wheaton. “You’ll get over it.”

“I don’t see why,” said Young Wheaton.

“The need for employment,” said Wheaton. “And the fact that whatever could be extracted from philology is already known. Besides, what does it matter that you’ve learned a half dozen languages? This boy can speak all of them.”

Young Wheaton—Georgia—tested Noxon in several ancient languages, then shrugged. “Party trick.”

In Gothic, Noxon said, “The only person who knows I got it right is you.”

“Well, I’m not going to lie. You really are speaking the languages. Badly.”

“My accent is identical to yours,” said Noxon.

“Not it’s not.”

“It has to be. I’m a perfect mimic, and I learned the language from you.”

“When? I never taught a class in Gothic.”

“Just now,” said Noxon. He turned to Ram Odin. “Georgia doesn’t understand how I could have learned Gothic from him, after hearing him speak it for ten seconds.”

“Not possible,” said Georgia. “Not even for a savant.”