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Professor Playfair paused a moment, as if deliberating whether it was worth trying to keep up the pretence. Then he huffed. ‘Don’t act so shocked. You know what runs this tower. You knew the balance of power had to shift, you knew we had to do something about the deficit—’
‘But to declare war on innocent people—’
‘Don’t pretend this is where you’ll draw the line,’ he said. ‘You were just fine with everything else – it’s not as if China has much to offer the world apart from its consumers. Why wouldn’t we—’ He stopped. He seemed to have realized his mistake, that he’d just validated their story.
It was too late. The atmosphere in the tower changed. The scepticism evaporated. Irritation turned to a dawning realization that this was not a farce, not a bout of hysteria, but something real.
The real world so seldom interfered with the tower. They didn’t know what to do with it.
‘We use the languages of other countries to enrich this one.’ Robin gazed around the tower as he spoke. He was not trying to convince Professor Playfair, he reminded himself; he had to appeal to the room. ‘We take so much knowledge that isn’t ours. The least we can do is stop this from happening. It’s the only ethical thing.’
‘Then what are you planning?’ asked Matthew Houndslow. He didn’t sound hostile; only tentative, confused. ‘It’s in Parliament’s hands now, as you said, so how—’
‘We go on strike.’
Yes, he was on solid footing now; here was a question to which he knew the answer. He lifted his chin, tried to inject his voice with all the authority of Griffin and Anthony. ‘We shut down the tower. From this day forward, no clients enter the lobby. No one creates, sells, or maintains silver bars. We deny Britain all translation services until they capitulate – and they will capitulate, because they need us. They need us more than anything. That’s how we win.’ He paused. The room was silent. He couldn’t tell if he’d convinced them, couldn’t tell if he was looking at expressions of grudging realization or incredulity. ‘Look, if we all just—’
‘But you’d need to secure the tower.’ Professor Playfair gave a short, mean laugh. ‘I mean, you’d have to subdue all of us.’
‘I suppose we do,’ said Victoire. ‘I suppose we’re doing that right now.’
Next came a very funny pause as it slowly dawned upon a building of Oxford scholars that whatever came next was a matter of force.
‘You.’ Professor Playfair pointed to the student nearest the door. ‘Go and get the constables, let them in—’
The student didn’t move. He was a second year – Ibrahim, Robin recalled, an Arabic scholar from Egypt. He seemed incredibly young, a baby-faced boy; were second years always that young? Ibrahim glanced to Robin and Victoire, then back at Professor Playfair, frowning. ‘But, sir...’
‘Don’t,’ Professor Craft told him, just as a pair of third years broke suddenly for the exit. One shoved Ibrahim against a shelf. Robin hurled a silver bar at the door. ‘Explodere, explode.’ A great, horrible noise filled the lobby; this time a screeching howl. The third years scrambled away from the door like frightened rabbits.
Robin pulled another silver bar from his front pocket and waved it above his head.
‘I killed Richard Lovell with this.’ He couldn’t believe these words were coming out of his mouth. This was not him speaking; this was the ghost of Griffin, the braver, madder brother, reaching through the underworld to pull his strings. ‘If anyone takes a step towards me, and if anyone tries to call for help, I’ll destroy them.’
They all looked so terrified. They believed him.
That worried him. This had all been too easy. He’d been sure he would face more resistance, but the room seemed utterly subdued. Even the professors did not move; indeed, Professors Leblanc and De Vreese huddled together under a table, as if bracing for cannon fire. He could tell them to dance a jig, to rip the pages out of their books one by one, and they would obey.
They would obey because he threatened violence.
He couldn’t remember why the thought of acting had scared him so before. Griffin was right – the obstacle was not the struggle, but the failure to imagine it was possible at all, the compulsion to cling to the safe, the survivable status quo. But the whole world was off its hinges now. Every door was wide open. They’d moved past the realm of ideas now, into the realm of action, and this was something Oxford students were wholly unprepared for.
‘For God’s sake,’ snapped Professor Playfair. ‘Someone apprehend them.’
A handful of graduate fellows stepped forward, looking uncertain. All Europeanists, all white. Robin cocked his head. ‘Well, come on.’
What happened next was not dignified, would never be shelved next to great epics of valour and bravery. For Oxford’s scholars were sheltered and coddled, armchair theorists who wrote of blood-stained battlefields with smooth and delicate hands. The seizure of Babel was a clumsy, silly clash of the abstract and the material. The fellows approached the table, reaching with hesitant arms. Robin kicked them away. And it felt like kicking at children, for they were too fearful to be vicious, and they weren’t nearly desperate or angry enough to really hurt him. They seemed unsure of what they even wanted to do – pull him down, grab his legs, or simply graze his ankles – and so his retaliatory blows were, similarly, perfunctory. They were playing at a fight, all of them, amateur actors given a stage direction: struggle.
‘Victoire!’ he shouted.
One of the scholars had climbed up onto the table behind her. She spun around. The scholar hesitated a moment, looked her up and down, then threw a punch. But he hit like he only knew about the action in theory, like he only knew of its component parts – plant feet, draw arm back, extend fist. He’d misjudged his distance – the effect was nothing more than a light pat on Victoire’s shoulder. She struck out with her left foot. He doubled over his shins, whining.
‘Stop!’
The fracas ceased. Somehow, Professor Playfair had acquired a gun.
‘Stop this silliness.’ He pointed it at Robin. ‘Stop this right now.’
‘Go ahead,’ Robin breathed. He had no idea where this ridiculous fount of courage came from, but he felt not a shred of fear. The gun, somehow, seemed more abstract than real, the bullet wholly incapable of touching him. ‘Go ahead, I dare you.’
