Flandry's Legacy: The Technic Civilization Saga

by Poul Anderson

  “I belong to the Simnon family.”

  “No. I knew that. I mean your—not your name, but what you do.”

  “I am a physician, of that rite which heals by songs as well as medicines.” (Tolteca wondered how much he was misunderstanding.) “I also have charge of a dike patrol and instruct youth at the college.”

  “Oh.” Tolteca was disappointed. “I thought—You are not in the government then?”

  “Why, yes. I said I am in the dike patrol. What else had you in mind? Instar employs no Year-King or—No, that cannot be what you meant. Evidently the meaning of the word ‘government’ has diverged in our language from yours. Let me think, please.” Dawyd knitted his brows.

  Tolteca watched him, as if to read what could not be said. The Gwydiona all had that basic similarity which results from a very small original group of settlers and no later immigration. The first expedition had reported a legend that their ancestors were no more than a man and two women, one blonde and one dark, survivors of an atomic blast lobbed at the colony by one of those fleets which went a-murdering during the Breakup. But admittedly the extant written records did not go that far back, to confirm or deny the story. Be the facts as they may, the human gene pool here was certainly limited. And yet—an unusual case—there had been no degeneracy: rather, a refinement. Early generations had followed a careful program of outbreeding. Now marriage was on a voluntary basis, but the bearers of observable hereditary defects—including low intelligence and nervous instability—were sterilized. The first expedition had said that such people submitted cheerfully to the operation, for the community honored them ever after as heroes.

  Dawyd was a pure caucasoid, which alone proved how old his nation must be. He was tall, slender, still supple in middle age. His yellow hair, worn shoulder length, was grizzled, but the blue eyes required no contact lenses and the sun-tanned skin was firm. The face, clean-shaven, high of brow and strong of chin, bore a straight nose and gentle mouth. His garments were a knee-length green tunic and white cloak, golden fillet, leather sandals, a locket about his neck which was gold on one side and black on the other. A triskele was tattooed on his forehead, but gave no effect of savagery.

  His language had not changed much from Anglic; the Lochlanna had learned it without difficulty. Doubtless printed books and sound recordings had tended to stabilize it, as they generally did. But whereas Lochlann barked, grunted, and snarled, thought Tolteca, Gwydion trilled and sang. He had never heard such voices before.

  “Ah, yes,” said Dawyd. “I believe I grasp your concept. Yes, my advice is often asked, even on worldwide questions. That is my pride and my humility.”

  “Excellent. Well, Sir Councillor, I—”

  “But councillor is no—no calling. I said I was a physician.”

  “Wait a minute, please. You have not been formally chosen in any way to guide, advise, control?”

  “No. Why should I be? A man’s reputation, good or ill, spreads. Finally others may come from halfway around the world, to ask his opinion of some proposal. Bear in mind, far-friend,” Dawyd added shrewdly. “Our whole population numbers a mere ten million, and we have both radio and aircraft, and travel a great deal between our islands.”

  “But then who is in charge of public affairs?”

  “Oh, some communities employ a Year-King, or elect presidents to hold the chair at their local meetings, or appoint an engineer to handle routine. It depends on regional tradition. Here in Instar we lack such customs, save that we crown a Dancer each winter solstice, to bless the year.”

  “That isn’t what I mean, Sir Physician. Suppose a—oh, a project, like building a new road, or a policy like, well, deciding whether to have regular relations with other planets—suppose this vague group of wise men you speak of, men who depend simply on a reputation for wisdom—suppose they decide a question, one way or another. What happens next?”

  “Then, normally, it is done as they have decided. Of course, everyone hears about it beforehand. If the issue is important, there will be much public discussion. But naturally men lay more weight on the suggestions of those known to be wise than on what the foolish or the uninformed may say.”

  “So everyone agrees with the final decision?”

  “Why not? The matter has been threshed out and the most logical answer arrived at. Oh, of course a few are always unconvinced or dissatisfied. But being human, and therefore rational, they accommodate themselves to the general will.”

  “And—uh—funding such an enterprise?”

  “That depends on its nature. A strictly local project, like building a new road is carried out by the people of the community involved, with feasting and merriment each night. For larger and more specialized projects, money may be needed, and then its collection is a matter of local custom. We of Instar let the Dancer go about with a sack, and everyone contributes as much as is reasonable.”

  Tolteca gave up for the time being. He was further along than the anthropologists of the first expedition. Except, maybe, that he was mentally prepared for some such answer as he’d received, and could accept it immediately rather than wasting weeks trying to ferret out a secret that didn’t exist. If you had a society with a simple economic structure (automation helped marvelously in that respect, provided that the material desires of the people remained modest) and if you had a homogeneous population of high average intelligence and low average nastiness, well, then perhaps the ideal anarchic state was possible.

  And it must be remembered that anarchy, in this case, did not mean amorphousness. The total culture of Gwydion was as intricate as any that men had ever evolved. Which in turn was paradoxical, since advanced science and technology usually dissolved traditions and simplified interhuman relationships. However . . .

  Tolteca asked cautiously, “What effect do you believe contact with other planets would have on your people? Planets where things are done in radically different ways?”

  “I don’t know,” replied Dawyd, thoughtful. “We need more data, and a great deal more discussion, before even attempting to foresee the consequences. I do wonder if a gradual introduction of new modes may not prove better for you than any sudden change.”

  “For us?” Tolteca was startled.

  “Remember, we have lived here a long time. We know the Aspects of God on Gwydion better than you. Just as we should be most careful about venturing to your home, so do I advise that you proceed circumspectly here.”

  Tolteca could not help saying, “It’s strange that you never built spaceships. I gather that your people preserved, or reconstructed, all the basic scientific knowledge of their ancestors. As soon as you had a large enough population, enough economic surplus, you could have coupled a thermonuclear powerplant to a gravity beamer and a secondary-drive pulse generator, built a hull around the ensemble, and—”

  “No!”

  It was almost a shout. Tolteca jerked his head around to look at Dawyd. The Gwydiona had gone quite pale.

  Color flowed back after a moment. He relaxed his grip on the steering rod. But his eyes were still stiffly focused ahead of him as he answered, “We do not use atomic power. Sun, water, wind, tides, and biological fuel cells, with electric accumulators for energy storage, are sufficient.”

  Then they were in the town. Dawyd guided the automobile through wide, straight avenues which seemed incongruous among the vine-covered houses and peaked red roofs, the parks and splashing fountains. There was only one large building to be seen, a massive structure of fused stone, rearing above chimneys with a jarring grimness. Just beyond a bridge which spanned the river in a graceful serpent shape, Dawyd halted. He had calmed down, and smiled at his guest. “My abode. Will you enter?”

  As they stepped to the pavement, a tiny scarlet bird flew from the eaves, settled on Dawyd’s forefinger, and warbled joy. He murmured to it, grinned half awkwardly at Tolteca, and led the way to his front door. It was screened from the street by a man-high bush with star-shaped leaves new for the spring season. Th
e door had a lock which was massive but unused. Tolteca recalled again that Gwydion was apparently without crime, that its people had been hard put to understand the concept when the outworlders interviewed them. Having opened the door, Dawyd turned about and bowed very low.

  “O guest of the house, who may be God, most welcome and beloved, enter. In the name of joy, and health, and understanding; beneath Ynis and She and the stars; fire, flood, fleet, and light be yours.” He crossed himself, and reaching drew a cross on Tolteca’s brow with his finger. The ritual was obviously ancient, and yet he did not gabble it, but spoke with vast seriousness.

  As he entered, Tolteca noticed that the door was only faced with wood. Basically it was a slab of steel, set in walls that were—under the stucco—two meters thick and of reinforced concrete. The windows were broad; sunlight streamed through them to glow on polished wood flooring, but every window had steel shutters. The first Namerican expedition had reported it was a universal mode of building, but had not been able to find out why. From somewhat evasive answers to their questions, the anthropologists concluded it was a tradition handed down from wild early days, immediately after the colony was hellbombed; and so gentle a race did not like to talk about that period.

  Tolteca forgot the matter when Dawyd knelt to light a candle before a niche. The shrine held a metal disc, half gold and half black with a bridge between, the Yang and Yin of immemorial antiquity. Yet it was flanked by books, both full-size and micro, that bore titles like Diagnostic Application of Bioelectric Potentials.

  Dawyd got up. “Please be seated, friend of the house. My wife went into the Night.” He hesitated. “She died, several years ago, and only one of my daughters is now unwedded. She danced for you this day, and thus is late coming home. When she arrives, we will take food.”

  Tolteca glanced at the chair to which his host had gestured. It was designed as rationally as any Namerican lounger, but made of bronze and tooled leather. He touched a fylfot recurring in the design. “I understand that you have no ornamentation which is not symbolic. That’s very interesting; almost diametrically opposed to my culture. Just as an example, would you mind explaining this to me?”

  “Certainly,” Dawyd answered. “That is the Burning Wheel, which is to say the sun, Ynis, and all suns in the universe. The Wheel also represents Time. Thermodynamic irreversibility, if you are a physicist,” he added with a chuckle. “The interwoven vines are crisflowers, which bloom in the first haygathering season of our year and are therefore sacred to that Aspect of God called the Green Boy. Thus together they mean Time the Destroyer and Regenerator. The leather is from the wild areas, which belongs to the autumnal Huntress Aspect, and when she is linked with the Boy it reminds us of the Night Faces and, simultaneously, that the Day Faces are their other side. Bronze, being an alloy, man-made, says by forming the framework that man embodies the meaning and structure of the world. However, since bronze turns green on corrosion, it also signifies that every structure vanishes at last, but into new life—”

  He stopped and laughed. “You don’t want a sermon!” he exclaimed. “Look here, do sit down. Go ahead and smoke. We already know about that custom. We’ve found we can’t do it ourselves—a bit of genetic drift; nicotine is too violent a poison for us but it doesn’t bother me in the least if you do. Coffee grows well on this planet, would you like a cup, or would you rather try our beer or wine? Now that we are alone for a while, I have about ten to the fiftieth questions to ask!”

  III

  Raven spent much of the day prowling about Instar, observing and occasionally, querying. But in the evening he left the town and wandered along the road which followed the river toward the sea dikes. A pair of his men accompanied him, two paces behind, in the byrnies and conical helmets of battle gear. Rifles were slung on their shoulders. At their backs the western hills lifted black against a sky which blazed and smouldered with gold. The river was like running metal in that light, which saturated the air and soaked into each separate grass blade. Ahead, beyond a line of trees, the eastern sky had become imperially violet and the first stars trembled.

  Raven moved unhurriedly. He had no fear of being caught in the dark, on a planet with an 83-hour rotation period. When he came to a wharf that jutted into the stream, he halted for a closer look. The wooden sheds on the bank were as solidly built as any residential house, and as handsome of outline. The double-ended fishing craft tied at the pier were graceful things, riotously decorated. They rocked a little as the water purled past them. A clean odor of their catches, and of tar and paint, drifted about.

  “Ketch rigged,” Raven observed. “They have small auxiliary engines, but I dare say those are used only when it is absolutely necessary.”

  “And otherwise they sail?” Kors, long and gaunt, spat between his front teeth. “Now why do such a fool thing, Commandant?”

  “It’s aesthetically more pleasing,” said Raven.

  “More work, though, sir,” offered young Wildenvey. “I sailed a bit myself, during the Ans campaign. Just keeping those damn ropes untangled—”

  Raven grinned. “Oh, I agree. Quite. But you see, as far as I can gather, from the first expedition’s reports and from talking to people today, the Gwydiona don’t think that way.”

  He continued, ruminatively, more to himself than anyone else, “They don’t think like either party of visitors. Their attitude toward life is different. A Namerican is concerned only with getting his work done, regardless of whether it’s something that really ought to be accomplished, and then with getting his recreation done—both with maximum bustle. A Lochlanna tries to make his work and his games approach some abstract ideal; and when he fails, he’s apt to give up completely and jump over into brutishness.

  “But they don’t seem to make such distinctions here. They say, ‘Man goes where God is,’ and it seems to mean that work and play and art and private life and everything else aren’t divided up; no distinction is made between them, it’s all one harmonious whole. So they fish from sailboats with elaborately carved figureheads and painted designs, each element in the pattern having a dozen different symbolic overtones. And they take musicians along. And they claim that the total effect, food gathering plus pleasure plus artistic accomplishment plus I don’t know what, is more efficiently achieved than if those things were in neat little compartments.”

  He shrugged and resumed his walk. “They may be right,” he finished.

  “I don’t know why you’re so worried about them, sir,” said Kors. “They’re as harmless a pack of loonies as I ever met. I swear they haven’t any machine more powerful than a light tractor or a scoop shovel, and no weapon more dangerous than a bow and arrow.”

  “The first expedition said they don’t even go hunting, except once in a while for food or to protect their crops,” Raven nodded. He went on for a while, unspeaking. Only the scuff of boots, chuckling river, murmur in the leaves overhead and slowly rising thunders beyond the dike, stirred that silence. The young five-pointed leaves of a bush which grew everywhere around gave a faint green fragrance to the air. Then, far off and winding down the slopes, a bronze horn blew, calling antlered cattle home.

  “That’s what makes me afraid,” said Raven.

  Thereafter the men did not venture to break his wordlessness. Once or twice they passed a Gwydiona, who hailed them gravely, but they didn’t stop. When they reached the dike, Raven led the way up a staircase to the top. The wall stretched for kilometers, set at intervals with towers. It was high and massive, but the long curve of it and the facing of undressed stone made it pleasing to behold. The river poured through a gap, across a pebbled beach, into a dredged channel and so to the crescent-shaped bay, whose waters tumbled and roared, molten in the sunset light. Raven drew his surcoat close about him; up here, above the wall’s protection, the wind blew chill and wet and smelling of salt. There were many gray sea birds in the sky.

  “Why did they build this?” wondered Kors.

  “Close moon. Big tides. St
orms make floods,” said Wildenvey.

  “They could have settled higher ground. They’ve room enough, for hellfire’s sake. Ten million people on a whole planet!”

  Raven gestured at the towers. “I inquired,” he said. “Tidepower generators in those. Furnish most of the local electricity. Shut up.”

  He stood staring out to the eastern horizon, where night was growing. The waves ramped and the sea birds mewed. His eyes were bleak with thought. Finally he sat down, took a wooden flute from his sleeve, and began to play, absentmindedly, as something to do with his hands. The minor key grieved beneath the wind.

  Kors’ bark recalled him to the world. “Halt!”

  “Be still, you oaf,” said Raven. “It’s her planet, not yours.” But his palm rested casually on the butt of his pistol as he rose.

  The girl came walking at an easy pace over the velvet-like pseudomoss which carpeted the diketop. She was some 23 or 24 standard years old, her slim shape dressed in a white tunic and wildly fluttering blue cloak. Her hair was looped in thick yellow braids, pulled back from her forehead to show a conventionalized bird tattoo. Beneath dark brows, her eyes were a blue that was almost indigo, set widely apart. The mouth and the heart-shaped face were solemn, but the nose tiptilted and faintly dusted with freckles. She led by the hand a boy of perhaps four, a little male version of herself, who had been skipping but who sobered when he saw the Lochlanna. Both were barefoot.

  “At the crossroads of the elements, greeting,” she said. Her husky voice sang the language, even more than most Gwydiona voices.

  “Salute, peacemaker.” Raven found it simpler to translate the formal phrases of his own world than hunt around in the local vocabulary.

  “I came to dance for the sea,” she told him, “but heard a music that called.”

  “Are you a shooting man?” asked the boy.

  “Byord, hush!” The girl colored with embarrassment.