“The what?—Never mind, I seize the idea, if not the idiom.” Though each was fluent in the other’s principal language, and their vocal organs were not very different, it was easiest for Desai to speak Anglic and Uldwyr Eriau. “You’ve tucked in plenty of food, for certain.”
“My particular vice, I fear,” Desai smiled. “Besides, more alcohol would muddle me. I haven’t your mass to assimilate it.”
“What matter if you get drunk? I plan to. Our job is done.” And then Uldwyr added: “For now.”
Shocked, Desai stared across the table.
Uldwyr gave him back a quizzical glance. The Merseian’s face was almost human, if one overlooked thick bones and countless details of the flesh. But his finely scaled green skin had no hair whatsoever, he lacked earflaps, a low serration ran from the top of his skull, down his back to the end of the crocodilian tail which counterbalanced his big, forward-leaning body. Arms and hands were, again, nearly manlike; legs and clawed splay feet could have belonged to a biped dinosaur. He wore black, silver-trimmed military tunic and trousers, colorful emblems of rank and of the Vach Hallen into which he was born. A blaster hung on his hip.
“What’s the matter?” he asked.
“Oh … nothing.” In Desai’s mind went: He didn’t mean it hostilely—hostilely to me as a person—his remark. He, his whole civilization, minces words less small than we do. Struggle against Terra is just a fact. The Roidhunate will compromise disputes when expediency dictates, but never the principle that eventually the Empire must be destroyed. Because we—old, sated, desirous only of maintaining a peace which lets us pursue our pleasures—we stand in the way of their ambitions for the Race. Lest the balance of power be upset, we block them, we thwart them, wherever we can; and they seek to undermine us, grind us down, wear us out. But this is nothing personal. I am Uldwyr’s honorable enemy, therefore his friend. By giving him opposition, I give meaning to his life.
The other divined his thoughts and uttered the harsh Merseian chuckle. “If you want to pretend tonight that matters have been settled for aye, do. I’d really rather we both got drunk and traded war songs.”
“I am not a man of war,” Desai said.
Beneath a shelf of brow ridge, Uldwyr’s eyelids expressed skepticism while his mouth grinned. “You mean you don’t like physical violence. It was quite an effective war you waged at the conference table.”
He swigged from his tankard. Desai saw that he was already a little tipsy. “I imagine the next phase will also be quiet,” he went on. “Ungloved force hasn’t worked too well lately. Starkad, Jihannath—no, I’d look for us to try something more crafty and long-range. Which ought to suit your Empire, khraich? You’ve made a good thing for your Naval Intelligence out of the joint commission on Talwin.” Desai, who knew that, kept silence. “Maybe our turn is coming.”
Hating his duty, Desai asked in his most casual voice, “Where?”
“Who knows?” Uldwyr gestured the equivalent of a shrug. “I have no doubt, and neither do you, we’ve a swarm of agents in Sector Alpha Crucis, for instance. Besides the recent insurrection, it’s close to the Domain of Ythri, which has enjoyed better relations with us than with you—” His hand chopped the air. “No, I’m distressing you, am I not? And with what can only be guesswork. Apologies. See here, if you don’t care for more ale, why not arthberry brandy? I guarantee a first-class drunk and—You may suppose you’re a peaceful fellow, Chunderban, but I know an atom or two about your people, your specific people, I mean. What’s that old, old book I’ve heard you mention and quote from? Rixway?”
“Rig-Veda,” Desai told him.
“You said it includes war chants. Do you know any well enough to put into Anglic? There’s a computer terminal.” He pointed to a corner. “You can patch right into our main translator, now that official business is over. I’d like to hear a bit of your special tradition, Chunderban. So many traditions, works, mysteries—so tiny a lifespan to taste them—”
It became a memorable evening.
Restless, Desai stirred in his chair.
He was a short man with a dark-brown moon face and a paunch. At fifty-five standard years of age, his hair remained black but had receded from the top of his head. The full lips were usually curved slightly upward, which joined the liquid eyes to give him a wistful look. As was his custom, today he wore plain, loosely fitted white shirt and trousers, on his feet slippers a size large for comfort.
Save for the communication and data-retrieval consoles that occupied one wall, his office was similarly unpretentious. It did have a spectacular holograph, a view of Mount Gandhi on his home planet, Ramanujan. But otherwise the pictures were of his wife, their seven children, the families of those four who were grown and settled on as many different globes. A bookshelf held codices as well as reels; some were much-used reference works, the rest for refreshment, poetry, history, essays, most of their authors centuries dust. His desk was less neat than his person.
I shouldn’t go taking vacations in the past, he thought. God knows the present needs more of me than I have to give.
Or does it? Spare me the ultimate madness of ever considering myself indispensable.
Well, but somebody must man this post. He happens to be me.
Must somebody? How much really occurs because of me, how much in spite of or regardless of? How much, and what, should occur? God! I dared accept the job of ruling, remaking an entire world—when I knew nothing more about it than its name, and that simply because it was the planet of Hugh McCormac, the man who would be Emperor. After two years, what else have I learned?
Ordinarily he could sit quiet, but the Hesperian episode had been too shocking, less in itself than in its implications. Whatever they were. How could he plan against the effect on these people, once the news got out, when he, the foreigner, had no intuition of what that effect might be?
He put a cigarette into a long, elaborately carved holder of landwhale ivory. (He thought it was in atrocious taste, but it had been given him for a birthday present by a ten-year-old daughter who died soon afterward.) The tobacco was an expensive self-indulgence, grown on Esperance, the closest thing to Terran he could obtain hereabouts while shipping remained sparse.
The smoke-bite didn’t soothe him. He jumped up and prowled. He hadn’t yet adapted so fully to the low gravity of Aeneas, 63 percent standard, that he didn’t consciously enjoy movement. The drawback was the dismal exercises he must go through each morning, if he didn’t want to turn completely into lard. Unfair, that the Aeneans tended to be such excellent physical specimens without effort. No, not really unfair. On this niggard sphere, few could afford a large panoply of machines; even today, more travel was on foot or animal back than in vehicles, more work done by hand than by automatons or cybernets. Also, in earlier periods—the initial colonization, the Troubles, the slow climb back from chaos—death had winnowed the unfit out of their bloodlines.
Desai halted at the north wall, activated its transparency, and gazed forth across Nova Roma.
Though itself two hundred Terran years old, Imperial House jutted awkwardly from the middle of a city founded seven centuries ago. Most buildings in this district were at least half that age, and architecture had varied little through time. In a climate where it seldom rained and never snowed; where the enemies were drought, cold, hurricane winds, drifting dust, scouring sand; where water for bricks and concrete, forests for timber, organics for synthesis were rare and precious, one quarried the stone which Aeneas did have in abundance, and used its colors and textures.
The typical structure was a block, two or three stories tall, topped by a flat deck which was half garden—the view from above made a charming motley—and half solar-energy collector. Narrow windows carried shutters ornamented with brass or iron arabesques; the heavy doors were of similar appearance. In most cases, the gray ashlars bore a veneer of carefully chosen and integrated slabs, marble, agate, chalcedony, jasper, nephrite, materials more exotic than that; and often there
were carvings besides, friezes, armorial bearings, grotesques; and erosion had mellowed it all, to make the old part of town one subtle harmony. The wealthier homes, shops, and offices surrounded cloister courts, vitryl-roofed to conserve heat and water, where statues and plants stood among fishponds and fountains.
The streets were cramped and twisted, riddled with alleys, continually opening on small irrational plazas. Traffic was thin, mainly pedestrian, otherwise groundcars, trucks, and countryfolk on soft-gaited Aenean horses or six-legged green stathas (likewise foreign, though Desai couldn’t offhand remember where they had originated). A capital city—population here a third of a million, much the largest—would inevitably hurt more and recover slower from a war than its hinterland.
He lifted his eyes to look onward. Being to south, the University wasn’t visible through this wall. What he saw was the broad bright sweep of the River Flone, and ancient high-arched bridges across it; beyond, the Julian Canal, its tributaries, verdant parks along them, barges and pleasure boats upon their surfaces; farther still, the intricacy of many lesser but newer canals, the upthrust of modern buildings in garish colors, a tinge of industrial haze—the Web.
However petty by Terran standards, he thought, that youngest section was the seedbed of his hopes: in the manufacturing, mercantile, and managerial classes which had arisen during the past few generations, whose interests lay less with the scholars and squirearchs than with the Imperium and its Pax.
Or can I call on them? he wondered. I’ve been doing it; but how reliable are they?
A single planet is too big for single me to understand.
Right and left he spied the edge of wilderness. Life lay emerald on either side of the Flone, where it ran majestically down from the north polar cap. He could see hamlets, manors, water traffic; he knew that the banks were croplands and pasture. But the belt was only a few kilometers wide.
Elsewhere reared worn yellow cliffs, black basalt ridges, ocherous dunes, on and on beneath a sky almost purple. Shadows were sharper-edged than on Terra or Ramanujan, for the sun was half again as far away, its disc shrunken. He knew that now, in summer at a middle latitude, the air was chill; he observed on the tossing tendrils of a rahab tree in a roof garden how strongly the wind blew. Come sunset, temperatures would plunge below freezing. And yet Virgil was brighter than Sol, an F7; one could not look near it without heavy eye protection, and Desai marveled that light-skinned humans had ever settled in lands this cruelly irradiated.
Well, planets where unarmored men could live at all were none too common; and there had been the lure of Dido. In the beginning, this was a scientific base, nothing else. No, the second beginning, ages after the unknown builders of what stood in unknowable ruins …
A world, a history like that; and I am supposed to tame them?
His receptionist said through the intercom, “Aycharaych,” pronouncing the lilting diphthongs and guttural ch’s well. It was programmed to mimic languages the instant it heard them. That gratified visitors, especially nonhumans.
“What?” Desai blinked. The tickler on his desk screened a notation of the appointment. “Oh. Oh, yes.” He popped out of his reverie. That being who arrived on the Llynathawr packet day before yesterday. Wants a permit to conduct studies. “Send him in, please.” (By extending verbal courtesy even to a subunit of a computer, the High Commissioner helped maintain an amicable atmosphere. Perhaps.) The screen noted that the newcomer was male, or at any rate referred to himself as such. Planet of origin was listed as Jean-Baptiste, wherever that might be: doubtless a name bestowed by humans because the autochthons had too many different ones of their own.
The door retracted while Aycharaych stepped through. Desai caught his breath. He had not expected someone this impressive.
Or was that the word? Was “disturbing” more accurate? Xenosophonts who resembled humans occasionally had that effect on the latter; and Aycharaych was more anthropoid than Uldwyr.
One might indeed call him beautiful. He stood tall and thin in a gray robe, broad-chested but wasp-waisted, a frame that ought to have moved gawkily but instead flowed. The bare feet each had four long claws, and spurs on the ankles. The hands were six-fingered, tapered, their nails suggestive of talons. The head arched high and narrow, bearing pointed ears, great rust-red eyes, curved blade of nose, delicate mouth, pointed chin and sharply angled jaws; Desaii thought of a Byzantine saint. A crest of blue feathers rose above, and tiny plumes formed eyebrows. Otherwise his skin was wholly smooth across the prominent bones, a glowing golden color.
After an instant’s hesitation, Desai said, “Ah … welcome, Honorable. I hope I can be of service.” They shook hands. Aycharaych’s was warmer than his. The palm had a hardness that wasn’t calluses. Avian, the man guessed. Descended from an analog of flightless birds.
The other’s Anglic was flawless; the musical overtone which his low voice gave sounded not like a mispronunciation but a perfection. “Thank you, Commissioner. You are kind to see me this promptly. I realize how busy you must be.”
“Won’t you be seated?” The chair in front of the desk didn’t have to adjust itself much. Desai resumed his own. “Do you mind if I smoke? Would you care for one?” Aycharaych shook his head to both questions, and smiled; again Desai thought of antique images, archaic Grecian sculpture. “I’m very interested to meet you,” he said. “I confess your people are new in my experience.”
“We are few who travel off our world,” Aycharaych replied. “Our sun is in Sector Aldebaran.”
Desai nodded. “M-hm.” His business had never involved any society in that region. No surprise. The vaguely bounded, roughly spherical volume over which Terra claimed suzerainty had a diameter of some 400 light-years; it held an estimated four million stars, whereof half were believed to have been visited at least once; approximately 100,000 planets had formalized relations with the Imperium, but for most of them it amounted to no more than acknowledgment of subordination and modest taxes, or merely the obligation to make labor and resources available should the Empire ever have need. In return they got the Pax; and they had a right to join in spatial commerce, though the majority lacked the capital, or the industrial base, or the appropriate kind of culture for that—Too big, too big. If a single planet overwhelms the intellect, what then of our entire microscopic chip of the galaxy, away off toward the edge of a spiral arm, which we imagine we have begun to be a little acquainted with?
“You are pensive, Commissioner,” Aycharaych remarked.
“Did you notice?” Desai laughed. “You’ve known quite a few humans, then.”
“Your race is ubiquitous,” Aycharaych answered politely. “And fascinating. That is my heart reason for coming here.”
“Ah … pardon me, I’ve not had a chance to give your documents a proper review. I know only that you wish to travel about on Aeneas for scientific purposes.”
“Consider me an anthropologist, if you will. My people have hitherto had scant outside contact, but they anticipate more. My mission for a number of years has been to go to and fro in the Empire, learning the ways of your species, the most numerous and widespread within those borders, so that we may deal wisely with you. I have observed a wonderful variety of life-manners, yes, of thinking, feeling, and perceiving. Your versatility approaches miracle.”
“Thank you,” said Desai, not altogether comfortably. “I don’t believe, myself, we are unique. It merely happened we were the first into space—in our immediate volume and point in history—and our dominant civilization of the time happened to be dynamically expansive. So we spread into many different environments, often isolated, and underwent cultural radiation … or fragmentation.” He streamed smoke from his nose and peered through it. “Can you, alone, hope to discover much about us?”
“I am not the sole wanderer,” Aycharaych said. “Besides, a measure of telepathic ability is helpful.”
“Eh?” Desai noticed himself switch over to thinking in Hindi. But what was he afraid of? Sensitivity
to neural emissions, talent at interpreting them, was fairly well understood, had been for centuries. Some species were better at it than others; man was among those that brought forth few good cases, none of them first-class. Nevertheless, human scientists had studied the phenomenon as they had studied the wavelengths wherein they were blind …
“You will see the fact mentioned in the data reel concerning me,” Aycharaych said. “The staff of Sector Governor Muratori takes precautions against espionage. When I first approached them about my mission, as a matter of routine I was exposed to a telepathic agent, a Ryellian, who could sense that my brain pattern had similarities to hers.”
Desai nodded. Ryellians were expert. Of course, this one could scarcely have read Aycharaych’s mind on such superficial contact, nor mapped the scope of his capacities; patterns varied too greatly between species, languages, societies, individuals. “What can you do of this nature, if I may ask?”
Aycharaych made a denigrating gesture. “Less than I desire. For example, you need not have changed the verbal form of your interior dream. I felt you do it, but only because the pulses changed. I could never read your mind; that is impossible unless I have known a person long and well, and then I can merely translate surface thoughts, clearly formulated. I cannot project.” He smiled. “Shall we say I have a minor gift of empathy?”
“Don’t underrate that. I wish I had it in the degree you seem to.” Inwardly: I mustn’t let myself fall under his spell. He’s captivating, but my duty is to be cold and cautious.
Desai leaned forward, elbows on desk. “Forgive me if I’m blunt, Honorable,” he said. “You’ve come to a planet which two years ago was in armed rebellion against His Majesty, which hoped to put one of its own sons on the throne by force and violence or, failing that, lead a breakaway of this whole sector from the Empire. Mutinous spirit is still high. I’ll tell you, because the fact can’t be suppressed for any length of time, we lately had an actual attack on a body of occupation troops, for the purpose of stealing their weapons. Riots elsewhere are already matters of public knowledge.
The Day of Their Return df-4 Page 2