The Book of the Ler

by M. A. Foster

  “As one researcher subjectively described it, the light of Monsalvat possessed a most peculiar quality—piercingly clear, yet also possessed of a sense of fluidity apparent to the eye, the presence of a medium, something more than just air. Rays and beams slanted through the layers of sky, with its stirred curds and streamers of clouds, and always there was subliminally the sense of constant change, ferment, activity, that eventually began to wear upon the nerves. ‘One was always looking around, over one’s shoulder, behind. The background was never still long enough for one to be sure there was not some activity transpiring against it.’ ”

  Meure yawned and turned the page. There was more, a section delving into planetary features at a highly technical level. Meure found most of it indigestible. He glanced through the data, nodded to himself. Nothing about Monsalvat was extraordinary at all; he could summarize it easily; a little larger than average, a bit lighter in mass. Monsalvat was a watery world of stormy oceans and a planet of pedestrian proportions. There were no great ranges of high mountains, although lower ranges were common. The oceans were deep, but not abysmally so. So far, it sounded pleasant, perhaps a resort world. A place of relaxation, retreat from more pressing affairs. He turned the page.

  Here was a section, extracted from some other tome, on the history of the planet and this he read more closely.

  “. . . in 9223, the Klesh People, who were Humans who had been artifically racialized into a number of pure strains by a long-degenerate splinter faction of Ler, were removed from the planet Dawn and transported to Monsalvat, which had been reserved for them alone. At the time, they were considered too divergent culturally from the common Human institutions to mix freely, and were to be segregated in the system of Monsalvat to allow them time to adjust. Since no one could be considered wise enough to select among the various breeds and races of Klesh, they were left to fend for themselves, under a planetary governorship which was to maintain order and encourage peaceful habits.

  “. . . The history of the settlement on Monsalvat can only, in retrospect, be regarded as one of the great failures of mankind. Nothing in human or Ler history compares to it. Governor after Governor, administration after administration, all were posted to Monsalvat, with the same result: while learning the rudiments of survival, the Klesh also grew ever more recalcitrant and barbaric with the years. In time, they came to regard themselves as a destiny-blighted race, fit for nothing save the endless skirmishes, enslavements, crudities, and general barbarisms upon the surface of a planet far removed from their origins.

  “. . . All Klesh, whatever their type, possessed a curious view which they never gave up; none ever longed for the planet Dawn. Moreover, there was no memory whatsoever of their condition before Dawn. No folktales, no legends, nothing. The Warriors of Dawn had utterly erased their connections to the past. The result was a ferocious longing for the future, a detestation of all Ler, and a contempt for the rest of humanity. Aside from these qualities, the average Klesh may also be distinguished by his dislike (at best) of all other Klesh breeds not his own.

  “. . . It had been assumed that the isolation of Monsalvat would keep cultural shock to a minimum, and that general regulations would prohibit unscrupulous traders from capitalizing on their needs for the artifacts of civilized society. After a time, however, the regulations fell into disuse; Monsalvat was too far out, and the (here the text had not reproduced correctly, and a section was blotted out) . . . approaches too dangerous, and the Klesh themselves remained too faction-ridden to assemble the organization necessary for their own move into space.

  “In the meanwhile, the various Klesh types flourished and declined, intermingled and crossbred, died out and were reconstituted in the eternal ferment of the planet. The number of surviving Original Breeds (the Klesh word is Radah), of course, declined exponentially through time, but new breeds were constantly arising in the flux, to produce in turn even more varieties than there were in the beginning (it was said that there were over 500 types of Klesh when the ships were loaded on Dawn). All, of course, claim equal merit. This process has continued to the present time. Curiously, little, if any, homogenization has occurred on Monsalvat. The culture—if it can be called that—of Monsalvat at the least agrees upon one point: that racial purity is the utmost aim, and that mixed men are to be avoided as pariahs.

  “. . . In 9403, the Arbitrator’s post fell vacant and was not filled. Within the year, the tiny enclave of civilized society was inside an armed perimeter, and the Governorship was effectively at an end. By 9405, all remaining Humans were off Monsalvat. It may be added here that the surviving members of the mission were rescued by armed warship, an astounding turn of events not seen since the Tau Ceti Crisis of 5225.

  “. . . Traders, explorers, various academic bodies continued to make sporadic visits from time to time, but, over the years, these contacts became even more hazardous, and in consequence, the visits declined. Monsalvat is no longer a port of call. Now and again some ship passes by, perhaps a rare landing is attempted; the results of these brief visits tell the same tale—the Klesh seem to have stabilized as to number of types, but the life there is as hazardous as it ever was. Conditions remain chaotic, if not anarchic.”

  There was a simple map, followed by another section discussing the various Klesh types, their numbers, locations, habits. This information was wryly preceded by a caveat that it was sadly outdated and would probably no longer be true, for anyone foolish enough to attempt a landing on Monsalvat. Meure read the descriptions with amazement and wonder, made fearful by the range of variation among creatures very like himself, ultimately sprung from the same soil. Humans, he reminded himself, now showed little more variation than the Ler. But there, he read of races on Monsalvat whose members were well over two meters in height; others were hardly more than a meter. Some were so pale and unpigmented that their veins lent a bluish tinge to the skin: others were colored a dull carbon-black. Some were hairy enough to be considered furred; others were totally hairless. Every conceivable variation occurred on Monsalvat. Some persisted, none seemed to gain any permanent advantage, and none seemed able to dominate any major section of either of the four continents.

  Meure placed the papers on a nearby shelf and turned out the light, pulling the covers up. Monsalvat! He had forgotten it, of course. It had been a tiny datum in the history courses in school, something to forget. The place where men still had races, a concept so savage and barbaric he found he could not imagine it. And they were going there, directly there, not just visiting, but for a purpose. Meure felt sleep coming, and did not resist, despite the feeling of apprehension that had entered his mind.

  Sleep was not peaceful. He tossed and turned in the compartment, certain he was disturbing the others. But all remained quiet and dark, and each time he went back to the uneasy sleep. Finally, he began to dream. At the first, there were merely disconnected fragments, symbols, images. They would flit into view, and then vanish, permutating into something, someone else.

  Then, quite easily and unexpectedly, the transformation took place and his dream became coherent, as vivid as reality. He was in a palace. That was clear. Not very luxurious, he thought curiously, but he knew that to be a subconscious comment. It was a palace, all right. A place of stone, great dark stones, heavy and massive, cut and dressed and fitted together without mortar. It was a palace, and it was his. He could move at will. But he also knew it to be a prison in some subtle sense. There was one of whom he was aware who served, but who was to be feared. Meure knew this, but did not comprehend. He was pacing back and forth in an anteroom. Then, shifting, he was in a deep vault under the palace, or fortress. There was light from pitch torches set in crude metal sockets bolted to the stone walls. He paused uncertainly . . . he was about to do something. Something he feared, something . . . dishonor-able, so it seemed. Something his mind would not form an image of. He feared unknowns, and alternatives surrounded him. But there was a horrible bright emotion of triumph mixed with the fear and
the horror, a feeling of a revenge to come, an emotion so raw and direct that Meure almost woke up. He returned to the dream, sensing that he was losing it. He held something in his hand, something cold and metallic and sharp, almost cutting his hand, so tightly did he grip it. He set a dead-fall in a doorway, then stepped within. Inside was an ornate mirror, and he turned and looked in the mirror, as if for a last look. A block of stone was poised to fall over the doorway. He looked, and the image would not form. He tried harder, he had to see, in the dim red light, what he looked like. And at last, something cleared, and Meure felt himself floating upward into wakefulness. But he could see the face in the mirror, he could see: it was the face of a stranger, an utter stranger. It was a sharp, harsh face, full of lines around the eyes and mouth, framed in curly red hair and marked by a neatly trimmed full beard and mustache, the same wild red color as the hair. A hard face, angular and bony, but small, too. The eyes were squinting to see in the light, but there was a leer of triumph, too, an evil smile. Clenched teeth gleamed.

  Meure Schasny awoke in a clammy sweat, eyes staring. Something with the eyes! He had looked from the mirror, downward . . . he could not remember. The thread had broken. For an instant, fully awake, he felt an odd paradox often noted by persons who have had an especially vivid, enigmatic dream, an oracular dream: that the memory upon awakening was stronger than the dream-experience itself. The red-haired man, the harsh, sharp face of a roughneck, a brawler. Familiarity hovered close, immanent. Meure almost knew the man. A shivering sense of unreality passed over him, as a chill: he knew the man—he was the man. And yet at the same time, he wasn’t. He was also himself. He felt as if he could almost remember a name . . . Meure Schasny had never personally known a red-haired man in his entire life. The sense of immediacy began to fade. Meure heard small noises from the other parts of the communal cabin. The others, they were now rising, up and about.

  Meure did not think of himself as overly introspective, and he filled his time with things to do, reasoning that the curious dream was no more than that; a curious dream, and that his attention to it would wane after a time. He did not speak of it to anyone. Not Halander: he would think Meure a mooncalf. Not Ingraine Deffy, who had already put on one of the overshirts in the locker. Not Audiart . . . not yet, at any rate. Certainly not to any of the Ler present. They were polite enough, but also very distant; Flerdistar and Clellandol were also occupied with one another in a way Meure did not understand, as if they were studiously avoiding one another. In any event, neither seemed interested in anything deeper than the most superficial contact with him.

  Day-cycles passed aboard the Ffstretsha. Audiart donned the Ler clothing, as being more comfortable. Halander followed, and then Meure, too. He visited the wardroom on the upper deck several times, once just wandering around. The view through the vision screens remained the same in general features as the first time he had seen through them: blackness, distant points of stars, slowly moving past, and in the rear screen, the ominous bulk of the cruiser Thlecsne, although at the last viewing it seemed that there was more of the rolling and pitching motion visible in the screens, and that the Thlecsne in particular seemed to be rolling rather heavily, almost laboring. . . . Meure did not understand how Spsom ships operated, so he admitted that he could not interpret the rolling motion as anything relevant to himself. But he kept thinking of the image in his mind of a ship, rolling and pitching on the heaving surface of a very rough sea.

  A change began to be visible among the Spsom as well. Meure’s first impression of them all alike had been one of relaxed competence, knowledgeable professionalism; they seemingly ran the smallish ship Ffstretsha without visible effort or interpersonal friction. The Captain reigned; the Astrogator flew; the Overseer kept the unseen slaves busy, and Vdhitz saw to the general functioning of the ship. To be sure, the change was subtle. But it did seem as if the crew were now in a hurry more than at first, that they were going to additional effort. The doorway into the bridge stayed closed more often, and then all the time. Then the wardroom was closed off. Vdhitz, when seen, seemed to be slightly in a hurry.

  And the dream remained in the back of Meure’s mind. After some time, several day cycles, he sought out Vdhitz in the Spsom’s usual location in the after part of the ship. No closed doors stopped him; he went farther and farther back. The curving passageway hid the view ahead, and grew narrower. At last, it opened up into a cramped circular chamber. There, Meure met a most curious scene.

  Vdhitz was bending over a still form lying on the floor, an odd shapeless form which Meure’s mind at first refused to resolve. Behind Vdhitz stood another similar creature, looking down, unmoving. Beside the creature was Zdrist the Overseer, bearing in one hand an odd device, part handle, part glove, open at irregular intervals, a handle for a thin rod; presumably a Spsom weapon, although Meure could not see what its function was. There were no openings, nor anything appearing to be a projecting device.

  The two creatures were apparently the natives of Vfzyekhr. The one standing was about half the height of a Spsom, completely covered with a deep pile of off-white, colorless dull fur. It had two legs, two arms, both short. It seemed to possess a head and neck, but he could make out no other features; the fur covered everything. After a moment, Meure could not be certain the creature was even facing him.

  He waited. Vdhitz stood, spoke quietly with Zdrist, who answered. Then, both spoke in an undertone with the remaining Vfzyekhr, who made only a slight rocking motion from side to side. Then the two Spsom conversed again. Vdhitz reached to the side, to a wall panel high up, touched a lighted button. At the back of the compartment, where Meure had not seen a door or any suggestion of one, an iris formed, and then opened to full dilation. The Vfzyekhr turned about and scampered up into the revealed silvery passageway beyond, apparently crossing the axis of the opening at a right angle, where it turned and waited. Zdrist manipulated the device on his hand, and removed it, handing it to the other Spsom. Vdhitz took the device, and Zdrist climbed into the opening with the Vfzyekhr. Vdhitz closed the opening; then caused another opening to form off to the left and low. Into this he thrust the still form lying on the floor. It was only when he had completely finished his task, including stowing the antennalike device, that he turned to face Meure.

  He said, “Eh hef been brectising specking. Yur speetsh. Eh hhowp it iss bbeter now, yis?”

  Meure unconsciously fell into the Spsom frontalized accent, “Oh yis, much better.”

  Vdhitz motioned with an ear-trumpet to the back of the compartment. “We lusst one of our Vfzyekhr now. Very bed, thet. Zdrist will now hef to hellip, in the tubes. If we lose the other one, Eh will hef to sweb them.”

  “What did the . . . ah, Vfzyekhr die of?”

  “It was hurrt, frem the worrk.”

  “Injured?”

  “Yis, yis, the word. Eendzhur’red. It is verry rough now, bed spess here, verry rough. Denjurous! End there iss a sterm now too.”

  Meure ventured, “I see motion in the screens in the wardroom; it seems rougher now than when we started. Is that what you mean? We can’t feel it in the ship.”

  “You will, soon. If it gets stronger. But wee egsbected something lek this. But not so rough.”

  “What do we do then? Turn back?”

  “The Kepiten will hef to speek with the Lirmen. Eh don’t know; they hef alreddy ped, end, eh, eh,” he laughed a short, barking chuckle. “Shchifr hess alreddy spendt dit. A SSpsomspi shipp iss elweys in debbit.” He reflected for a moment, then added, “Et’s thet Demm plenet Minsilvet, ef kurs. Thiss iss a pert of spess we evade, ehh, how you seyyit . . . lek the plegg!”

  The large, expressive eyes tracked off Meure for a moment, moved randomly, unfocused, as if Vdhitz were reflecting on some internal vision. At last the attention returned, and he added, “Spess iss net emmpity, end ets different from one pless to another; one pert iss smooth, enother reff, still enother full of udd mutions, whish we learn . . . Thiss pert sims to heff the werst of ehf�
�rrything.”

  After a time Meure asked, tentatively, “I wanted to ask you if Spsom ever had dreams.”

  “What iss ‘drim’ word signify?”

  “Visions when you sleep; you see them and live them, but it is all in your mind.”

  “Aha—sa. Mstli. Yis.” The Spsom said no more, and Meure could sense a subtle disapproval, as if dreams were an area Spsom did not discuss. Vdhitz added, almost off-hand, “You hedd one you den’t enderstend, eh?”

  Meure nodded. Vdhitz said, “Heppenz ell the temm in these parts. Ell peeples err trubbled by semething eround here, sem mere, sem less.”

  Meure started to speak, but Vdhitz motioned him to silence. “Tell me net of it. It iss fery bedd ferm among erselfs. You can tell it to the Liy, perhepps she will see into it end tell you whet she sees.”

  “The Liy Flerdistar?”

  “The semm. She does something lekk thet, su eh hear.”

  Then he turned away and became busy with indeterminate tasks, as if he found the subject distasteful and wished no more with it. He had recommended Meure to Flerdistar in the same way one would suggest a purveyor of a vice which one found distasteful. Meure, in his turn, did not wish to make the Spsom angry at him, and so turned and left, without pushing Vdhitz further on the subject.