by John Brunner
“Without it, would Chart have been attracted to Yan?” Jack snapped.
“If he had ever conceived the notion of performing for a non-human audience, he would have picked on Yan as a logical first choice,” Dr Lem insisted.
“More to the point,” Harriet put in, “it was Morag Feng who brought Chart here, not Marc. That’s what we have to reckon with.”
“Do you think she’s here for revenge?” Pedro asked.
“No. For something far more dangerous. Justification for her own stupidity.”
“There’s Kaydad’s house,” Dr Lem said, pointing. “And they’re expecting us.” The gloglobe at its door was green, to show that an appointment had been made with distinguished visitors, and casual callers should return at another time.
Vetcho was with the Speaker, which was to be expected. So was Goydel, which was not. With the utmost in stiff formality they welcomed the visitors and seated them on the traditional Yannish cushions. The atrium here was unique, so far as Dr Lem knew, and he had never liked it. Instead of a pool in the centre, or a statute, or a flowering bush, it had a well, about four metres by two and at least twelve deep, with neither rails nor even a kerb around it.
He tried to look at the wall-hung tapestries instead, woven of coloured reeds.
But all was not as it should be. He detected that as soon as he entered, because the air was full of the scent of sheyashrim, and he knew the others had noticed it as well. And then the Speaker’s matron offered, by way of refreshment, ghul-nut cordial.
It was delicious. But to a human it was poisonous. Even one cup induced stomach-cramps, and about three delirium.
A snub. A carefully weighed and deliberate snub.
The preliminaries took, for a group this size, around fifteen or twenty minutes. After that, when the matron withdrew, Kaydad should have broached the subject of his visitors’ business in their own language—Yannish having been used up to that point, a standard courtesy.
He stuck to Yannish.
As you like, Dr Lem sighed inwardly, and hoped that his own rather shaky command of the language would not lead to misunderstandings.
“This is the planet of the Yanfolk, not of humans, and we have altered certain of our customs to accord with those of your people,” he said. “There is a matter of considerable gravity to be discussed. So far as it is concerned, I am Elgadrin.” He employed the term normally rendered “Speaker”.
“While one would not wish to cast doubt upon the assertion of one making such an important statement…” That was Vetcho. He’d been afraid it might be. Vetcho was notoriously far more conservative and chauvinistic than Kaydad.
“One would draw to present-time attention the existence of a person bearing a title, namely ‘Warden’.”
“The office held by Warden Chevsky relates to affairs in the human enclave, not to relationships between our two species. Routine administrative matters can be dealt with by him for convenience. The matter being discussed is not routine.” Dr Lem wanted to wipe his face, but decided he should not do so. So far, though, he was making his points in good clear Yannish. If only he could keep up the standard…
He wished irrelevantly he hadn’t had to leave Pompy at home. But the Yanfolk had never, seemingly, kept pets, and inviting an animal to join the company was a grave insult.
“That matter being…?” Kaydad, now.
“The re-creation by Gregory Chart of the Mutine Age.”
The humans tensed. They had been prepared for a far longer session of preamble. Dr Lem could tell from their deliberately calm faces that they were worried about the impact of this blunt statement.
Eventually Kaydad said, his face as frozen as a stone mask, “That matter is undebatable.”
The word was far more forcible. It was in the philosophical negative mode, the mode of absolute denial reserved for such statements as universal categorical nulls.
“That it has no existence?” hazarded Dr Lem, groping among the shredded remains of his formal Yannish, which he had studied thoroughly during his first five or ten years on the planet, and lately neglected. “Or that it has no—uh—referents in speech?”
The two were clearly separable in this ancient, complex tongue.
“That it has no referents permitting argument,” Goydel said. The others signified concurrence.
“In other words,” Dr Lem said in his own language, “it’s going to be done whether or not we approve.”
Silence.
“I see,” he went on eventually. “It has therefore come to this: that the once-proud Yanfolk have so far despaired of recapturing their ancient glory, they must hire a human to help them.”
And waited. In memory he could hear Chart’s mocking voice saying that because he had spent so long among the Yanfolk he had forgotten how to frame an insult. That might be true in his own speech. In Yannish, however, he obviously knew very well how to be rude. He had never seen any of the Yanfolk so furious before. Goydel was trembling, his hands curled into fists. Kaydad was working his mouth as though trying to speak, and failing. Only Vetcho had enough command of his own body to rise, and he, the moment he was on his feet, flung out his arm towards the street door.
“Go!” he ordered. “Go!”
“Get up slowly,” Dr Lem muttered from the corner of his mouth. “Don’t hurry. Move as though you don’t give a damn for Yan or Yanfolk. Don’t say goodbye, just leave.”
The others, nervous, complied.
Rising himself, limbs stiff and awkward, Dr Lem said more loudly, “What a shame. When I first came here, I believed there to be a pride.” It was more than pride; it was that, plus amour propre, plus self-respect, plus a sense of honour, plus, plus, plus… “One sees now that this cannot be supported unless an alien expert is hired to underpin it. A shame. A considerable disappointment. Perhaps one will go look for a more rewarding planet.”
He had his back to the three Yanfolk by the time he concluded. Toshi and Harriet had passed through the exit, and Jack and Ducci were following. A hand fell on his thin shoulder. Perhaps it was the first time a Yannish hand had gripped a human in anger.
And in anger it certainly was. He was whipped around to confront Vetcho, dark eyes glazing in the pale mask-like upper portion of his face.
“Go or stay, as you wish!” he rasped. “You say we hired this human, this Gregory Chart? Deluded fool! We don’t understand your notion of ‘hiring’, paying someone to do what he doesn’t want! He came here to ask us for our help in planning something he desires to do! We have been pleased to grant it, because we have something you do not, something you never will have, and at long last one of you, one human, has recognised its genuine worth.”
In the doorway Pedro and Ducci had paused, ready to free Dr Lem by force if need be.
But Vetcho dropped his hand, breathing hard.
“It may take a thousand years for you to understand what we are, what we learned how to do,” he said. “Or you may never understand. Perhaps if you do you will not be so contemptuous, arrogant, overweening. We discovered our limitations long ago, and we decided to live within them. When, if ever, do you hope to achieve as much?”
He thrust Dr Lem through the door and slammed it behind him.
When they had gone fifty paces down the street Pedro cleared his throat.
“Oonagh and I,” he said, referring to his wife, “have been thinking about getting ourselves a go-board pattern. So we can keep out of the way while this—this performance lasts. Put the store on auto, of course.”
“It may last months,” Dr Lem said.
“I know.” Jack clenched his fists. “We’ve been thinking of closing the school, too—this will be no place for kids—but you can’t make the parents understand. Chevsky and his pals got to most of them at once. Biggest event in the history of Yan, of course your kids must witness it, something to talk about when they grow up!”
“We’ll have to recommend it formally,” Jack said. “Do you realise they’re already playing shrim
ashey, those kids?”
Hector Ducci said bluffly, “Of course! I recall Zepp playing it, years ago!”
“It was all right when it was just an excuse for some body contact and mutual exploration,” Toshi said. “But now they seem to feel the game doesn’t come out right unless at least one kid winds up unconscious.”
“I didn’t know about that!” Ducci exclaimed. “Did you, Yigael?”
“Naturally,” Dr Lem sighed. “So did Harriet, who has to dress the bruises afterwards. It’s most disturbing.”
“So are you going across the board too?”
“I don’t think so. I’m old. And—and I wouldn’t want to feel Chart had driven me off the planet where I’ve spent more than thirty years.”
In another few minutes they dispersed to their respective homes, having agreed gloomily that now there was absolutely no other course open except to file a direct request on Earth for intervention by the government. And they had already learned, via the informat, that there was at most a one in ten chance of any action. Earth was remote, uninterested, incapable of ruling any of its daughter worlds, content to remain on speaking terms with them.
“If worst comes to worst,” Jack said as they parted, “we shall have to send a delegate physically to Earth, to lobby the High Senate. That might help.”
It might… But, as he greeted the anxious Pompy, Dr Lem could not convince himself that it would.
He wandered on to his verandah, as his custom was, and stared around. There was a faint haze over the go-board; it was active again. No doubt from now on there would be hordes of people heading for Yan, hoping to see this unprecedented event, this performance by Chart for an alien species—
Behind him, a call on the communet. He picked the floating extension out of the air and found Ducci looking at him.
“Yigael, Marc Simon came home.”
“How do you know?” Last heard of, he had vanished into Chart’s ship, gone as completely as if he had been digested.
“I planted a remote alarm there, keyed to him. When I came in just now I found it signalling. He’s not alone, either. The other person’s female, but not Yannish. It definitely can’t be Shyalee.”
“Morag Feng?” Dr Lem tensed.
“I think that’s the likeliest. But I can’t pick up enough detail to be certain.”
“He’s not plugged into the communet there, is he? Can I call him over this remote of yours?”
“I’m afraid not. I could dispatch an extension if you like, but—”
“No,” Dr Lem said with sudden decision. “I’ll go call on him. If anyone might make Chart see reason, it would be one of those two.”
“You don’t have much chance of persuading Morag Feng!”
“I guess not.” Dr Lem tried not to sound as hopeless as he felt. “But perhaps Marc.”
XVI
“Shyalee?” Marc called. The house was in darkness—but of course on Yan it was never completely dark. There was always the shimmer of the Ring, even on a cloudy night.
He closed the street door behind him and advanced into the atrium. On his favourite stone seat overlooking the pool, a slim dark silhouette.
“Shyalee!” he cried.
“I’m sorry. No.” The figure rose slowly. “It’s Alice Ming.”
“What are you doing here?” He strode towards her. “And where is Shyalee?”
“I don’t know. But she won’t be back here, I’m certain.” Now Alice was in plain sight, her face grey in the silver radiance from the sky.
“I don’t understand!” Marc burst out.
“Harry quit me.” Alice’s voice sounded as though she had wept for a long time, until there were no tears left. “And Shyalee has quit you. I was told so. By Harry. Oh—I’m wrong. That was force of habit, of course, calling him Harry. He’s told me he is now Rayvor again, and will remain Rayvor permanently.”
The fountain plashed under the words, like the muttering of an idiot who has stumbled across a sound that especially pleases him and will not stop repeating it.
“But why?”
“Because of what they believe Chart is going to do, of course! They believe that he’s going to call back the dramaturges, re-create the golden age of Yan! They believe it’s going to be real, and they’ll have something real to be proud of!”
“Then they’re crazy,” Marc said slowly. “It will be what Chart’s work always is, an elaborate drama. And when the performance ends—”
“Not here,” Alice said. “Not on Yan. That’s the way it is among humans. But Harry—I mean Rayvor explained it to me. Carefully. Speaker Kaydad had called him in, and Shyalee, and told them just what the difference is.”
A huge growing coldness was forming in Marc’s belly. He said, “And…?”
“I didn’t understand.” Alice put her hand to her head and swayed a little. “He did tell me. He told me in Yannish, though. He said he never wanted to speak our language again. But the one thing he did say, over and over, was this: he said Chart would not be human when he finished. He said the greatest human artist was going to become an imitator of the Yanfolk. An ape, the other way around.”
“Who else have you told, Alice?” Marc said at last.
“No one. I thought perhaps you would be the—the likeliest to understand.” She checked, and gave him a curious stare. “Where have you been?”
“On a grand tour of the ancient relics with Chart and his mistress.”
“Is she—is she really the same Morag Feng who was here so long ago…?”
“Apparently.” Marc had been so preoccupied, he had almost forgotten what he knew of that stale scandal.
“And is she determined to revenge herself for what I did?”
“I don’t know.” His tone was curter than he had intended.
“You’re right,” Alice said, passing her hand through her hair. “I shouldn’t concern myself for something that can’t any longer be helped. The best we can hope for now is to pick up a few of the pieces afterwards… Why did you come home? Just before you arrived, I was telling myself it was stupid to sit here in the dark expecting you, because you’d have heard about Shyalee and you’d have gone to the enclave again.”
“I came back because Chart intends to take wilders and remove their brains, and programme them artificially to act out the rôle of dramaturges in his play.”
“But—but that would be horrible!” Alice cried. “They’re savages, but they’re—they’re living creatures! They’re not dummies!”
“They will be when Chart gets at them,” Marc said. “I was so revolted I told him to bring me home. I won’t have anything more to do with the man.” He shuddered. “And you know the worst thing? He literally didn’t seem to understand my objection! All the way from the wilder continent he kept demanding, over and over, what I was so annoyed about!”
He pulled himself together by main force. “Well, I guess there’s one obvious person we can go and talk to, and that’s Dr Lem. Come on.”
He put his arm around her and led her, quivering, out of the house.
“Aren’t you Dr Lem?”
The voice was unfamiliar. For an instant he thought the chubby brown man who had hailed him was freshly off the go-board; then he realised it was this Erik Svitra, who had in fact arrived the other day and been adopted—according to rumour, without noticeable enjoyment—by Warden Chevsky.
“Yes?” Dr Lem said, pausing as he was about to turn a corner.
Erik came scurrying up to him. “Sorry to bother you, doc, but as a matter of fact I was on my way to see you.” He swallowed hard. “I want to… Well, I want to apologise to someone. And I can’t think of anyone except you. I mean, I had just enough credit to get me off this planet, just enough for a short go-board, and I’m getting out, but when I was on my way to the board I thought hell, a lot of this is my fault… Have you seen what it’s like on the board right now? It’s just flashing and flashing. People are pouring in!”
Dr Lem stared at him in the light
of the nearby gloglobes. “Why are you leaving?” he demanded.
“Well, mainly I tipped off that news-machine, didn’t I? So lots of people are going to come here, wanting to have their heads blown apart by this performance of Chart’s, and—hell, doc! The whole idea simply scares me silly! I can’t explain. But I just thought, before I leave, I ought to tell someone I’m sorry, I didn’t realise what I was doing.”
He wrung his hands miserably. “Well, that’s all, I guess—”
“There he is!” A call from down the street. They both turned. Hurrying towards them were Marc and Alice, holding hands.
“Why, I was coming to call on you,” Dr Lem said gratefully. “Is that…?” Peering through the multicoloured twilight, he checked. “Oh, it’s Alice. Hello. Marc, I was coming to ask you—”
“Chart’s going to do a terrible thing,” Alice interrupted. “He’s going to kidnap wilders and pith them, turn them into puppets for him.”
Erik put his hand to his mouth. “These wilders—they’re like the cousins of the natives here in Prell? I saw about them on the ‘net; they got lots of recordings. But they’re intelligent, aren’t they? Got a language of a kind, got tools and things!”
He rounded on Dr Lem. “Say! They got laws against that, haven’t they?”
“As a matter of fact they have,” Dr Lem said. A great weight seemed to have dropped from him. “And oddly enough it was partly Chart’s doing that they were passed. Explorers from Hyrax, sent out by the Quains, had caused such a scandal by capturing and exhibiting non-human intelligent life-forms that when they’d been deposed the successor government found no opposition at all when they tried to put such crimes into the galactic common-statute list. It’s an offence on any inhabited planet to do what you just described. Here! Come on up to my place and let’s consult the communet.”