milliways_bar | (no subject)

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Francesca spent all yesterday in the public library, only to find herself at a serious disadvantage, and not just because of time differentials. Today she comes downstairs with a couple of volumes in her arms and sets them on the Bar.

"Bar," she says, still feeling awkward about addressing a piece of wood, "would you do me the honour of producing Italian translations of these texts." When those appear, she glances towards the Observation Window, and hazards, "and maybe I could borrow a telescope?"

The telescope that appears is not the brass and lead affair she expects, but rather a curious black metal affair with strange rubbery attachments and odd looking accessories. Francesca almostasks for an earlier model, but pride gets in the way.

"Is there literature to explain this model?"

An instruction manual appears.

"...In Italian?"

That also appears.

So after a few minutes, Signorina Bruni is at the observation window, with a twenty first century telescope and an 18th century quill and ink well, examining books and the sky and taking extensive notes.

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He knows the ink and quill.

The clothes are familar, far closer to his own than anyone else's, except for Mercutio.

But, that...contraption.

Thoughtfully, after watching the young woman for a long moment,

"I think it wants to be cannon when it grows up."

She laughs shortly, in agreement about its absurdity.

"Maybe more deadly, if it is true that knowledge could be used as a weapon."

"Well, naturally it can used as such, and should be, and indeed has been."

Francesca beams with the simple pleasure of having found a mind she might enjoy conversing with, and stands up.

"I'm Francesca Bruni."

He gives her a short bow.

"Christopher Marlowe."

"Christopher..." Francesca looks up sharply, lookinghim over completely.

"The English playwright?"

He is, for the record, thirty-eight, and despite the general youthfulness of his round face, it shows.

He is very, very not the twenty-nine he was supposed to be when he was stabbed in that fight.

"Indeed."

Francesca doesn't quite have the historical knowledge to alert her to the descrepancy, and the sheer level of admiration in her face probably betrays that she's more focused on other things to worry about it anyway.

"I'm very much a fan of Edward the Second," she enthuses. "And Doctor Faustus, of course. I'm afraid I've only read translations, but I was working on the original English."

All of which is a relief - he gets tired of fielding questions of 'uhhh...aren't you dead?'. Well, that's what he gets for using his real name.

And Francesca gets a delighted grin.

"Translations? I was not aware that they made them."

"Not til nearly a century after your death, I'm afraid," she admits, before she realises what she said. "I'm sorry, I'm from 1753."

"I do seem to miss out on the interesting things. And I am from 1602."

Frances rather thought Marlowe had died before then, but she's not going to admit to her imperfect knowledge. Instead she sits, perfectly poised, hands clasped over her knee.

"What are you working on now?"

A crooked smile.

"Writer's block."

Francesca's mouth tries to smilein sympathy, but it'snot really something she understands.

"I hear that's a terrible afflication when it strikes."

"Moderately awful, but it does happen."

"And you you have plans for overcoming this problem?"

Later Francesca will realise how pushy she was towards one of her heroes. Right now, it just comes naturally.

The crooked smile stays, but it almost seems to soften. She reminds him of his sister Dorothy.

"Alas for your good opinion of me, no. In my defence, times have been trying lately so I've been letting things settle before trying to sharpen my mind, but...mostly just catching up on my reading."

"Oh?"

That's enough to catch Francesca's interest. After all, anything he reads is a recommendation.

"And what have you been reading recently, Signor Marlowe?"

"Sherlock Holmes." That wicked grin is back. "Written in the late...1800s, I think."

"I can't say I've heard of him," which is understandable given he won't be written for another century or so. "Is it good?"

"Very good. He is a character created by a man called Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Novels, really. All told from the point of view of his...roommate and assistant, I suppose you could call him, Watson. Apparently, in the future of law and justice, there are police and they investigate thefts and murders and such. Human, so falliable, so people can come to Holmes, either because the police haven't quite got it, or because they wish to escape such offical notice. It's all rather ridiculously addictive."

"So he pursues justice where the official channels fail?" Francesca guesses, thinking of the fallibility of the Doge's men.

It's lucky she hasn't caught up on the future of fiction yet, else she might get Sherlock Holmes confused with Mr. T.

"An interesting idea."

"Pretty much. And he's a genius, so he does things...eccentrically."

Which, as a fellow genius, Marlowe approves of.

"It's a nice break from all the science I devoured as soon as I arrived."

"At which stage I am currently," Francesca says with a gesture towards her telescope. "It's fascinating, all the advances that will bt made even in the next two hundred years."

"Oh, it is. It really, really is. The ideas, as well as all the facts. You could bury yourself in that, and never come out again."

Congratulations, Francesca, you are one of the few people to ever hear Marlowe speak with any degree of reverence.

It's a reverential experience in itself, and Francesca's eyes are wide with it.

"I don't think I'll ever have enough time to learn it all. It's hard to know where to start."

"I actually found it easier to start from my time, and work down. You can see the progression of thought more easily that way."

"I'm assuming so," Francesca admits. "But in which area? I started with astronomy because of the wonderful view, but from there even the rest of my own century seems to be filled with wonderous philosophical advances."

"Likewise. I hadn't finished reading Copernicus before, so astronomy seemed the natural course to take."

"Copernicus is already outdated by my time," Francesca says with a small smile. "Have you read the works of Gallieo Galliei?"

"He was next on my list."

"A remarkable genius," Francesca says. "And tried by the Church for heresy."

She expresses it as a recommendation.

"The Church is very possessive of intelligence."

"More like easily threatened by progression and knowledge."

"Only when they can't control it."

"And what is the use of intellect when it is tied down by the ropes of authority?" Francesca challenges.

"No, Signor Marlowe, the Church's control will have to be released before philosophy can truly advance."

He laughs.

"I'm not arguging for it, Signora, just explaining why is. The Church, the State, they seek control. It is in their nature. So we have to fight it."

The trouble with laughing at Francesca is she'll never believe you were laughing with her. Still, because he's agreeing with her, she only bristles a little.

"I can see we have much in common, Signor Marlowe."

Yes, she did just flatter herself. It's a vanity.

"At last! Too long I have been without the company of like-minds."

Francesca falters for only a second, and smiles again, warmly.

"Well, I am stuck in the Inn like so many people, so you may have to put up with my company for a while."

He raises an eyebrow.

"Put up with? Nonsense. So far, no one else I've talked to has been that interested in science."

Francesca ducks her head quickly, and smiles up.

And part of her wonders if this is how the virgin at the window makes Giovanni feel.

"It's a welcome change to meet anyone who thinks my views worth listening to," she admits.

He studies her for a moment.

"I suppose it must," he admits, and then shurgs carelessly. "But I have never paid that much attention to such things. My father's just a cobbler, when all is said and done, and I've spent far too long in the company of those who cannot get past it."

"Those people are as idiotic as the ones who say a woman can't be an academic," Francesca says proudly. "Believe me, Signor Marlowe, history will remember your genius."

A crooked smile.

"That I know. Still, gloating isn't very polite when done in company, so...seen anything interesting through that?" He gestures to the telescope.

She smiles brightly, and gestures him over.

"It's remarkable," she says. "The explosions when the stars die. There's so to learn just from the colours, but I'll need a lot of timewith the books."

He gestures, full and graceful and covering the whole window and, yes, he's an actor.

"We're at the End of the Universe. Time is had in plenty."

"So it would seem," Francesca says. "Come, let me show you what I know already..."

Which is probably best left to the world of fade.

And therefore...it is!

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