Free Island in the Sea of Time by S. M. Stirling Page B

the island, that should be no problem—metal tools, anything like that. Bits of glass would probably do, wire . . .”
    “I’m putting you in charge of it,” Cofflin said. “Incidentally, you’re going.” Arnstein yelped. “You’re the closest thing to an expert on dealing with primitives we have.”
    “But I won’t even be able to talk to them!” Arnstein protested.
    “I thought you knew ancient languages?”
    “I know Latin, which isn’t spoken yet, and Greek , classical Greek, and I’ve read Homer and looked at the Linear B stuff. But even the classical period’s seven hundred years in the future! Homeric Greek is to classical what Shakespeare’s English is to ours, and Mycenaean is five hundred years before that, call it Chaucerian. And they won’t be speaking Greek on the shores of the English Channel, anyway.”
    “Neither will anyone else be able to talk to the locals, will they?” Cofflin said.
    “Not unless we have a Lithuanian,” Arnstein admitted. The others looked at him. “Lithuanian is a very conservative language,” he said. “About like Sanskrit, which is being spoken in northwestern India at this date. Indo-European languages should be spreading through western Europe about now, defining now as being the last millennium and a half or so, unless you believe Colin Renfrew’s nonsense . . . sorry, academic squabble. But someone who spoke it would probably be able to pick up any of the early versions of Indo-European fairly quickly, other things being equal.” He shrugged. “But how likely are we to find—”
    Doreen Rosenthal cleared her throat, twisting a lock of hair around a finger. “My mother came from Vilnus. I speak it,” she said.
    Martha Stoddard looked up from her notepad. “There’s a fairly good languages section at the Athenaeum,” she noted. “And I know at least one retired linguist on island. Speaking of which, Jared, we’re going to be doing a fair bit of research on one thing and t’other. Old-style ways of doing, and such.” She frowned. “Plus we ought to print out some things on CD-ROM, right now, while we can.”
    “Good idea, Martha. You’re in charge of research projects, of course.” Cofflin turned his head to the manager of the Nantucket Electric Company. “Fred, how are we fixed for energy?”
    “I’ve got about one month’s fuel,” he said. “Fuel barge was tied up at the . . . Event, topping up to take us through to the switchover to the mainland cable. According to the gas stations and boating people, there’s enough gasoline for, say, two weeks at normal usage. After that, well, we might be able to get those windmills going again. Remember that wind-farm idea?” Everyone nodded. The tall frames of the wind generators still stuck up out of fields around the town. “That would give us, oh, five, eight percent of our usual output indefinitely.”
    Cofflin nodded. “We’re closing down all private autos as of now,” he said. “Official use, ambulances, fire engines, and Angelica’s tractors only. The trawlers have first priority. How many bicycles do we have?”
    “About thirty-five hundred, counting private, in the rental places, and in the stores.”
    “Good, that’ll help.” One advantage of being a tourist trap. “Fred, you get together with Doc Coleman, and we’ll arrange an essential-uses-only electricity schedule. That ought to stretch the fuel oil. The rest of us will have to go to bed with the sun until we get whale-oil lanterns. Next . . .”
    It was a relief to be finally doing something.
     
    “We’re working like slaves ! ” the man complained.
    He was thirty-something, and from the look of his jeans and plaid shirt, wealthy. Certainly coof—that New York accent was a dead giveaway. Not liking the work much, from the way he straightened and rubbed at his back and threw down his billhook.
    I can’t blame him , Angelica Brand thought. This is something out of a made for-TV special. She was a farmer from