"Time," said the Grandmaster.
And what was time? Snubnose, the grown-up physicist, asked himself that question.
In his physics it was the denominator of velocity; squared, the denominator of acceleration. In old texts—incomplete, variously translated, little understood—it was called a dimension when multiplied by an imaginary number. But imaginary numbers had no place in physics. So it had been decided in 1480 DRC, at the historic conference of scientists, kingsmen, and godsmen. Imaginary numbers, with some other concepts, had been declared metaphysics and had been turned over to the godsmen. Just as neuroses, because of their traditional origin in sexual impulses, had been taken away from the psychologists and assigned to the kingsmen.
Snubnose remembered how Crookback had catechized the pair of them, Bump-arch and him, on the Principles. How did that one go? "Science appertains only to matter itself; not to the mysteries of matter or the desires of matter. The mysteries of matter belong to the gods, and the desires of matter belong to the king."
Or something like that.
He hadn't been quick with his lessons, like Bump-arch. His friend had scoffed at the Principles when alone with him, but had learned them by heart after a couple of offhand readings. Snubnose would sweat and sweat and think he had them, but when the time came to recite, the words would fly out the window into the fresh-smelling air.
Old Crookback had got so disgusted with him once that he had put him on bread and water. And then Bump-arch had sneaked out over the city wall and had caught a rabbit in a homemade trap and had talked one of the women of the settled Bowmen into cooking it for them. Gods, that had tasted good at midnight....
The circle of scientists was getting noisy. Snubnose's nearest neighbors were loudly rehashing the latest Private Law marriage. Snubnose wondered suddenly, why didn't the demonstration start? The Grandmaster had said, "Time." Was there trouble?
In the center of the Field, while Bump-arch stood apart, the dignitaries were carrying on one of those exasperating public wrangles, obvious but inaudible. The godsman was doing most of the talking, waving a plump arm. The Grandmaster looked unhappy, the kingsman looked important, and Crookback looked polite.