by Sarah McEvoy
“I have to keep it locked, you understand. Some of these eggs are really valuable.”
The psychiatrist narrowed his eyes. “Are you playing games with me?”
“Would I do such a thing? Here we are. This one’s not valuable at all really, but it’s still one of my favourites.” He reached into the imaginary box and brought out a cupped hand, giving a curiously skilful illusion that there was an object in it which weighed perhaps two hundred grammes. “Green onyx. See the veining? Lovely, isn’t it?”
“What is the point of all this?” demanded the psychiatrist angrily. “Are you really insane, or are you just trying to convince me you are?”
“Oh, really, Alberto, I’m saner than you are,” Uldar assured him. “Honestly. Now, this one’s very fragile, so I’m not going to let you touch it. It’s a real egg, or it was – the inside has been blown out, of course. Hand-painted, as you can see, but what really distinguishes it is the way the gold leaf has been applied. Someone must have had an amazingly steady hand. Let’s put that one back quickly – I don’t want it to get broken. Ah yes, this one here is carved rosewood. I wonder how they managed to polish right down inside the carving? Some form of chemical process, I imagine, but very clever nonetheless. Oh, and this one is valuable. A genuine Fabergé egg, which apparently used to belong to Catherine the Great – have you heard of her? I suppose you probably haven’t, given that the study of history isn’t exactly encouraged these days. A Russian empress, she was. She certainly had excellent taste in objets d’art. Oh, no, that’s French, isn’t it?” His brown eyes twinkled mischievously. “I shouldn’t say that. It’ll get me an extra hour on the torture machines.”
“It’s a phrase which is perfectly acceptable in Terran English,” snarled the psychiatrist, “and don’t try to convince me you don’t know that. You are deliberately trying to provoke me.”
“Not me, old chap. You’re provoking yourself,” replied Uldar mildly. “Now, this one…”
The psychiatrist stood up abruptly. “I think I’ve heard quite enough. Reluctant as I am to do so given your level of intelligence, I’m going to have to recommend you for complete mental reprogramming. I don’t see any possible alternative.”
Uldar’s eyebrows shot up. “Don’t you think that’s a little disproportionate? Essentially, what you’ve just said is that you’re going to recommend the erasure of my entire personality, memories, everything that makes me the person I am, simply in order to eradicate an interest in old languages? I don’t know about you, but that strikes me as just a touch extreme when I really think about it.”
The psychiatrist gritted his teeth. “Listen,” he said stiffly. “You should realise as well as I do that it’s the thin end of the wedge. The moment we start allowing people to learn languages, the next thing they’ll be wanting to do is teach them to others. Then there’ll be all sorts of separatist nationalist groups springing up who want to learn the language of the race they were descended from, and before we know it there’ll be tribes again. Groups of people with individual cultures, people who don’t understand one another and don’t want to make the effort, people who, in the end, won’t even bother to speak Terran English. It’ll set the Galaxy back to the bad old days before we had proper space travel. Surely you can see that?”
“Dear me,” replied Uldar, very seriously. “Yes, I do see your point. And then we’d have to have language lessons in schools, wouldn’t we? So that people could understand one another.” He smiled again. “And how immeasurably that would broaden our appreciation of our own language! You know, Alberto, I’ve studied Italian, French, German and Russian. Italian and French are quite similar to each other, but very different from Terran English. The other two are different again. When you really get to understand how another language works, it highlights things in your own language that you’d never even have thought of if you hadn’t had the comparison. Why do we put things a certain way? We don’t know, we just do, because that’s how our language operates. Other languages work differently. Take the subjunctive, for example. In Terran English it’s pretty vestigial, but in French it’s used quite a lot, and in Italian even more. In Italian you don’t say ‘I believe he’s in the house’, you say ‘I believe he should be in the house’. It’s like the hedgehog, I suppose. A different way of looking at things.”
“Language is just a useful tool,” replied the psychiatrist. “It’s not intended to be appreciated.”
Uldar shrugged. “Why not? Language is a wonderful thing. Incidentally, you haven’t finished looking at the eggs. I’ve got several more I’d like to show you.”
“Don’t be ridiculous!” snapped the psychiatrist. “The eggs are not real.”
Uldar looked him straight in the eye. “Oh, but they are,” he assured him gently. “My eggs are beautiful. So they are, in fact, the only thing round here that is real.”
“You’re insane,” retorted the psychiatrist, but he did not seem quite convinced.
“Alberto, Alberto, if you’ll just calm down a little and listen to me, I will explain,” said Uldar. “You ought to do something about that temper of yours, you know. They say it’s bad for the blood pressure. Now sit down again, and if it makes you happy I will close the box and put it away. Satisfied?”
“Do you absolutely have to go through this charade?” hissed the psychiatrist. “I’ve heard enough. I’m going.”
“Without an explanation? Dear me. I thought you had come specifically to assess my sanity? You ought at least to listen to what I have to say about the eggs.”
“It doesn’t matter. I can write exactly what I like in my report on you. You’re in no position to challenge it.” He took a step towards the door.
“Of course you can,” agreed Uldar. “It’s your privilege. You can write down a whole complicated tissue of lies, and there isn’t a thing I can do about it.” He paused. “But, just for your own satisfaction, wouldn’t you like to hear the truth? I’m sure it’s something of a rare bird under the current administration.”
The psychiatrist turned suspiciously. “What exactly do you mean by that?”
“Just what I said. Governments invariably tell lies. This one exists by them. That’s common knowledge, but only someone in my position, who has nothing left to lose, can afford to say it aloud.”
“No. I meant, why do you think it would satisfy me to hear about your damned eggs?”
“Because otherwise,” explained Uldar, with disarming honesty, “you’ll spend the rest of your life wondering why that silly old fool was going on about a box of imaginary eggs. Am I right?”
“Oh, so you admit they’re imaginary?” demanded the psychiatrist, triumphantly. “A moment ago, you said they were real.”
“They are both. Sit down, Alberto, and I’ll tell you what I mean. Whether or not you choose to put it in your report is entirely up to you.”
The psychiatrist frowned, but he walked back up to the bed and sat down again. “Why does that not worry you?” he asked. “You know very well I have the power to have you reprogrammed.”
“Of course. What is the only thing I have to lose? My life. If I go through the reprogramming, isn’t that just the same thing? I, as a person, will be effectively dead. Something else will carry on living in my body, but it won’t be me. So it makes no difference to me whether you reprogram me or execute me. I’m an old man, Alberto, or at least I’m getting that way. I’ve had an interesting life. You wouldn’t exactly be cutting me off in my prime. And, of course, after that, there’d be nothing more you could do to me. Why should I spoil whatever is left of my life by fretting about it?”
“You were going to tell me about the eggs,” the psychiatrist reminded him, with a shade of uneasiness. There was something about this gentle elderly man which was starting to prey on his nerves.
“So I was. I do apologise,” replied Uldar contritely. “Well, Alberto, let me tell you about my u
sual day. I am woken up at five in the morning by a guard, and then I am taken to the gym for an hour’s exercise before breakfast. Breakfast is reasonably nutritious but, naturally, extremely boring. After that I am brought back here for a little while, and then I am taken for a stint on the torture machines. I know you would prefer to call them Pavlovian stimulators, but I’m afraid I have always called a spade a spade. Sometimes I get lunch, but if I am considered to be particularly intransigent I am deprived of it as an extra punishment. It makes very little difference, since it’s hardly a gourmet’s delight. The afternoon is more varied; sometimes I have to go back on the machines, but at other times I am made to watch instructive viewchips to make me aware how wonderful the current regime is, or else I spend the whole afternoon in here. Dinner is at half past six, and again, the less said about it the better. The evenings are my own, but, you understand, I am not given anything to occupy myself with. I believe I am expected to meditate on my shortcomings.” He smiled. “However, since I already know very well what those are and my opinion on them is quite at variance with that of the administration here, I have found another way to occupy myself. I created the eggs.”
The psychiatrist frowned. “The eggs,” he repeated, almost to