The Languages of Pao

"Paonese: I am your Panarch. I am Beran, son to Aiello, scion of the ancient Panasper Dynasty. Many years I have lived in exile, growing to my maturity. Bustamonte has served as Ayudor. He has made mistakes--now I have come to supersede him. I hereby call on Bustamonte to acknowledge me, to make an orderly transfer of authority. Bustamonte, speak!"

Bustamonte had already spoken. A dozen neutraloids ran forward with rifles, knelt, aimed. Lances of white fire raced up to converge on the figure in black. The figure seemed to shatter, to explode; the crowd gasped in shock.

The fire-lances turned against the black rectangle, but this appeared impervious to the energy. Bustamonte swaggered truculently forward. "This is the fate meted to idiots, charlatans and all those who would violate the justice of the government. The impostor, as you have seen..."

Beran's voice came down from the sky. "You shattered only my image, Bustamonte. You must acknowledge me: I am Beran, Panarch of Pao."

"Beran does not exist!" roared Bustamonte. "Beran died with Aiello!"

"I am Beran. I am alive. Here and now you and I will take truth-drug, and any who wishes may question us and bring forth the truth. Do you agree?"

Bustamonte hesitated. The crowd roared. Bustamonte turned, spoke terse orders to one of his ministers. He had neglected to turn off his microphone; the words were heard by three million people. "Call for police-craft. Seal this area. He must be killed."

The crowd-noise rose and fell, and rose again, at the implicit acknowledgement. Bustamonte tore off the microphone, barked further orders. The minister hesitated, seemed to demur. Bustamonte turned, marched to the black saloon. Behind came his retinue, crowding into the craft.

The crowd murmured, and then as if by a single thought, decided to leave Festival Field. In the center, at the most concentrated node, the sense of constriction was strongest. Faces twisted and turned; from a distance the effect was rapid pale twinkling.

A milling motion began. Families were wedged apart, pushed away from each other. Then shouts and calls were the components of a growing hoarse sound. The fear became palpable; the pleasant field grew acrid with the scent.

Overhead the black rectangle disappeared, the sky was clear. The crowd felt exposed; the shoving became trampling; the trampling became panic.

Overhead appeared the police craft. They cruised back and forth like sharks; the panic became madness; screams became a continuous shrieking. But the crowd at the periphery was fleeing, swarming along the various roads and lanes, dispersing across the fields. The police craft swept back and forth indecisively; then turned and departed the scene.

Beran seemed to have shrunk, collapsed in on himself. He was pallid, bright-eyed with horror. "Why could we not have foreseen such an event? We are as guilty as Bustamonte!"

"It serves no purpose to become infected with emotion," said Palafox.

Beran made no response. He sat crouched, staring into space.

The countryside of South Minamand fell astern. They crossed the long narrow Serpent and the island Fraevarth with its bone-white villages, and swept out over the Great Sea of the South. Then the moors and the Sgolath crags, then around Mount Droghead to settle on the desolate plateau.

In Palafox's rooms they drank spiced tea, Palafox sitting in a tall-backed chair before a desk, Beran standing glumly by a window.

You must steel yourself to unpleasant deeds," said Palafox. "There will be many more before the issues are resolved."

"What advantage to resolve issues, if half the people of Pao are dead?" asked Beran bitterly.

"All persons die. A thousand deaths represent, qualitatively, no more than one. Emotion increases merely in one dimension, that of intensity, but not of multiplicity. We must fix our minds on the final..." Palafox stopped short, tilted his head, listened to the speaker concealed inside his aural passages. He spoke in a tongue unknown to Beran; there was the inner reply, to which Palafox responded curtly. Then he sat back, regarding Beran with a kind of contemptuous amusement. "Bustamonte is settling your qualms for you. He has thrown a blockade around Pon. Mamarone was advancing across the plateau."

Beran asked in puzzlement, "How does he know that I am here?"

Palafox shrugged. "Bustamonte's spy service is efficient enough, but he vitiates it by his arrogant stupidity. His tactics are inexcusable. He attacks when clearly his best policy is compromise."

"Compromise? On what basis?"

"He might undertake a new contract with me, in return for the delivery of your person to the Grand Palace. He could thereby prolong his reign."

Beran was astounded. "And you would accede to this bargain?"

Palafox displayed wonder of his own. "Certainly. How could you think otherwise?"

"But your commitment to me--that means nothing?"

"A commitment is good only so long as it is advantageous."

"This is not always true," said Beran in a stronger voice than he had heretofore employed. "A person who fails one commitment is not often entrusted with a second."

" 'Trust'? What is that? The interdependence of the hive; a mutual parasitism of the weak and incomplete."

"It is likewise a weakness," retorted Beran in fury, "to take advantage of trust in another--to accept loyalty, then fail to return it."

Palafox laughed in real amusement. "Be that as it may, the Paonese concepts of 'trust,' 'loyalty,' 'good faith' are not a part of my mental equipment. We dominie of Breakness Institute are individuals, each his own personal citadel. We expect no sentimental services derived from clan loyalty or group dependence; nor do we render any. You would do well to remember this."

Beran made no reply. Palafox looked at him curiously. Beran had stiffened, seemed lost in thought. In fact, a curious event had occurred inside his mind; there had been a sudden instant of dizziness, a whirl and a jerk which seemed to bypass an entire era of time, and he was a new Beran, like a snake sloughed of an old skin.

The new Beran turned slowly, inspected Palafox with dispassionate appraisal. Behind the semblance of agelessness, he saw a man of great age, with both the strengths and weaknesses of age.

"Very well," said Beran. "I necessarily must deal with you on this same basis."

"Naturally," said Palafox, but nonetheless with a trace of irritation. Then once more his eyes went vague; he tilted his head, listening to the inaudible message.

He rose to his feet, beckoned. "Come. Bustamonte attacks us."

They went out on a roof-top, under a transparent dome.

"There..." Palafox pointed to the sky "...Bustamonte's miserable gesture of ill-will."

A dozen of the Mamarone sky-sleds showed as black rectangles on the streaked gray sky. Two miles away a transport had settled and was exuding a magenta clot of neutraloid troops.

"It is well that this episode occurred," said Palafox. "It may dissuade Bustamonte from another like impertinence." He tilted his head, listening to the inner sound. "Now--observe our deterrent against molestation!"

Beran felt, or perhaps heard, a pulsating whine, so shrill as to be only partially in perception.

The sky-sleds began to act peculiarly, sinking, rising, jostling. They turned and fled precipitously. At the same time, there was excitement among the troops. They were in disarray, flourishing their arms, bobbing and hopping. The pulsating whine died; the Mamarone collapsed on the ground.

Palafox smiled faintly. "They are unlikely to annoy us further."

"Bustamonte might try to bomb us."

"If he is wise," said Palafox negligently, "he will attempt nothing so drastic. And he is wise at least to that extent."

"Then what will he do?"

"Oh--the usual futility's of a ruler who sees his regnum dwindling..."

Bustamonte's measures in truth were stupid and harsh. The news of Beran's appearance flew around the eight continents, in spite of Bustamonte's efforts to discredit the occurrence. The Paonese, on the one hand drawn by their yearning for the traditional, on the other repelled by Bustamonte's sociological novelties, reacted in the customary style. Work slowed, halted. Cooperation with civil authority ceased.

Bustamonte attempted persuasion, grandiose promises and amnesties. The disinterest of the population was more insulting than a series of angry demonstrations. Transportation came to a standstill, power and communications died, Bustamonte's personal servants failed to report for work.

A Mamarone, impressed into domestic service, scalded Bustamonte's arms with a hot towel: this was the trigger which exploded Bustamonte's suppressed fury. "I have sung to them! They shall now sing in their turn!"

At random he picked half a hundred villages. Mamarone descended upon these communities and were allowed complete license.

Atrocity failed to move the population--already an established principle of Paonese history. Beran, learning of the events, felt all the anguish of the victims. He turned on Palafox, reviled him.

Palafox, unmoved, commented that all men die, that pain is transitory and in any event the result of faulty mental discipline. To demonstrate, he held his hand in a flame; the flesh burnt and crackled; Palafox watched without concern.

"These people lack this discipline--they feel pain!" cried Beran.

"It is indeed unfortunate," said Palafox. "I wish pain to no man, but until Bustamonte is deposed--or until he is dead--these episodes will continue."

"Why do you not restrain these monsters?" raged Beran. "You have the means."

"You can restrain Bustamonte as readily as I."

Beran replied with fury and scorn. "I understand you now. You want me to kill him. Perhaps you have planned this entire series of events. I will kill him gladly! Arm me, tell me his whereabouts--if I die, at least there shall be an end to all."

"Come," said Palafox; "you receive your second modification."

Bustamonte was shrunken and haggard. He paced the black carpet of the foyer, holding his arms stiff, fluttering his fingers as if to shake off bits of grit.

The glass door was closed, locked, sealed. Outside stood four black Mamarone.

Bustamonte shivered. Where would it end? He went to the window, looked out into the night. Eiljanre spread ghostly white to all sides. Three points on the horizon glowed angry maroon where three villages and those who had dwelt there felt the weight of his vengeance.

Bustamonte groaned, chewed his lip, fluttered his fingers spasmodically. He turned away from the window, resumed his pacing. At the window there was a faint hiss which Bustamonte failed to notice.

There was a thud, a draft of air.

Bustamonte turned, froze in his tracks. In the window stood a glaring-eyed young man, wearing black.

"Beran," croaked Bustamonte. "Beran!"

Beran jumped down to the black carpet, came quietly forward. Bustamonte tried to turn, tried to scuttle and dodge. But his time had come; he knew it, he could not move.

Beran raised his hand. From his finger darted blue energy.

The affair was accomplished. Beran stepped over the corpse, unsealed the glass doors, flung them aside.

The Mamarone looked around, sprang back, squinted in wonder.

"I am Beran Panasper, Panarch of Pao."

CHAPTER XVI

PAO CELEBRATED the accession of Beran in a frenzy of joy. Everywhere, except in the Valiant camps, along the shore of Zelambre Bay, at Pon, there was rejoicing of so orgiastic a nature as to seem non-Paonese. In spite of a vast disinclination, Beran took up residence in the Grand Palace and submitted to a certain degree of the pomp and ritual expected of him.

His first impulse was to undo all Bustamonte's acts, to banish the entire ministry to Vredeltope, the penal isle in the far north. Palafox, however, counseled restraint. "You act emotionally--there is no point in discarding the good with the bad."

"Show me something good," responded Beran. "I might then be less determined."

Palafox thought a moment, seemed to be on the point of speaking, hesitated, then said, "For instance: the Ministers of Government."

"All cronies of Bustamonte's. All nefarious, all corrupt."

Palafox nodded. "This may be true. But how do they comport themselves now?"

"Ha!" Beran laughed. "They work night and day, like wasps in autumn, convincing me of their probity."

"And so they perform efficiently. You would only work confusion in de-robing the lot. I advise you to move slowly--discharge the obvious sycophants and time-servers, bring new men into the ministry only whenever opportunity presents itself."

Beran was forced to admit the justice of Palafox's remarks. But now he sat back in his chair--the two were taking a lunch of figs and new wine on the palace roof garden--and seemed to brace himself. "These are only the incidental alterations I wish to make. My main work, my dedication, is to restore Pao to its former condition. I plan to disperse the Valiant camps to various parts of Pao, and do something similar with the Technicant installations. These persons must learn Paonese, they must take their places in our society."

"And the Cogitants?"

Beran rapped his knuckles on the table. "I want no second Breakness on Pao. There is scope for a thousand institutes of learning--but they must be established among the Paonese people. They must teach Paonese topics in the Paonese language."

"Ah yes," sighed Palafox. "Well, I expected nothing better. Presently I will return to Breakness, and you may restore Nonamand to the shepherds and furze-cutters."

Beran concealed his surprise at Palafox's docility. "Evidently," he said at last, "you plan something quite different. You assisted me to the Black Throne only because Bustamonte would not cooperate with you."

Palafox smiled to himself as he peeled a fig. "I plan nothing. I merely observe and, if requested to do so, advise. Whatever is to occur stems from plans long ago formulated and given momentum."

"It may become necessary to frustrate these plans," said Beran.

Palafox ate his fig without concern. "You are naturally at liberty to make such attempts."

During the next few days Beran pondered at great length. Palafox seemed to regard him as a predictable quantity, one which would automatically react in a direction favorable to Palafox. This consideration moved him to caution and he delayed immediate action against the three non-Paonese enclaves.

Bustamonte's splendid harem he sent packing, and began the formation of his own. It was expected of him; a Panarch without suitable concubines would be regarded with suspicion.

Beran felt no disinclination on this score; and since he was young, well-favored, and a popular hero, his problem was not so much one of seeking as of selection.

However, the affairs of state left him little time for personal indulgence. Bustamonte had overcrowded the penal colony on Vredeltope, with criminals and with political offenders mingled indiscriminately. Beran ordered an amnesty for all except confirmed felons. In the latter part of his reign, Bustamonte likewise had raised taxes until they approached those of Aiello's reign, with peculant officials absorbing the increment. Beran dealt decisively with these, setting the peculators to unpleasant types of menial labor, with earnings applied to their debts.

One day, without warning, a red, blue and brown corvette dropped down from space. The sector monitor issued the customary challenge; the corvette, disdaining response other than to break out a long serpent-tongue banderole, landed with insolent carelessness on the roof of the Grand Palace.

Eban Buzbek, Hetman of the Batmarsh Brumbos, and a retinue of warriors debarked. Ignoring the palace preceptors, they marched to the great throne room, called loudly for Bustamonte.

Beran, arrayed in formal black, entered the hall.

By this time Eban Buzbek had heard a report of Bustamonte's death. He gave Beran a hard quizzical stare, then called to an interpreter. "Inquire if the new Panarch acknowledges me his overlord."

To the interpreter's timid question, Beran made no reply.

Eban Buzbek barked out, "What is the new Panarch's reply?"

The interpreter translated.

"In truth," said Beran, "I have no reply ready. I wish to reign in peace, still I feel that the tribute to Batmarsh has been paid long enough."

Eban Buzbek roared a quick gust of laughter when he heard the interpreter's translation. "This is not the manner in which realities arrange themselves. Life is a pyramid--only one may stand at the top. In this case it is I. Immediately below are others of the Brumbo Clan. In the remaining levels I have no interest. You must win the stage to which your prowess entitles you. My mission here is to demand more money from Pao. My expenses are increasing--therefore, the tribute must increase. If you agree, we part in amity. If not, my restive clansmen will visit Pao and you will regret your obstinacy."

Beran said, "I have no alternative. Under protest I pay you your tribute. I will say also that you would profit more as a friend to us than as an overlord."

In the Batch tongue the word "friend" could only be interpreted as "companion-in-arms." Upon receiving Beran's reply, Eban Buzbek laughed. "Paonese as companions-at-arms? They who turned up their rumps for a kicking when so ordered? Better warriors are the Dinghals of Fire Planet, who march behind a shield of their grandmothers. No--we Brumbos have no need of such an alliance."

Retranslated into Paonese, the words became what seemed a series of gratuitous insults. Beran swallowed his wrath. "Your money shall be transmitted to you." He bowed stiffly, turned, strode from the room. One of the warriors, deeming his conduct disrespectful, leapt forward to intercept him. Beran's hand came up, his finger pointed--but again he restrained himself. The warrior somehow sensed that his doom had been close at hand, and stood back.

Beran left the hall unmolested.

Beran, trembling with anger, went to the quarters of Palafox, who displayed no great interest at the news. "You acted correctly," he said. "It is hopeless quixotry to defy such experienced warriors."

Beran assented gloomily. "No question but what Pao needs protection against brigands... Still, we are well able to afford the tribute, and it is cheaper than maintaining a large military establishment."

Palafox agreed. "The tribute is a decided economy."

Beran searched the long lean face for the irony he suspected, but finding none, took his leave.

The next day, after the Brumbos had departed, he called for a map of Shraimand, and studied the disposition of the Valiant camps. They occupied a strip along the coast ten miles wide by a hundred long, although the hinterland area had been depopulated another ten miles in anticipation of their increase.

Recalling his term of duty at Deirombona, Beran remembered the ardent young men and women, the tense faces, the steady undeviating expressions, the dedication to glory...He sighed. Such traits had their uses.

He called Palafox to him, and began arguing heatedly, although Palafox had said nothing. "Theoretically, I agree to the need for an army, and also an efficient industrial establishment. But Bustamonte's procedure is cruel, artificial, disruptive!"

Palafox spoke gravely. "Suppose that by some miracle you were able to recruit, train and indoctrinate a Paonese army--then what? Whence will come their weapons? Who will supply warships? Who will build instruments and communications equipment?"

"Mercantil is the present source of our needs," Beran said slowly. "Perhaps one of the out-cluster worlds might supply us."

"The Mercantil will never conspire against the Brumbos," said Palafox. "And to procure merchandise from an out-cluster world, you must pay in suitable exchange. To acquire this foreign exchange, you must engage in trading."

Beran gazed bleakly from the window. "When we have no cargoships, we can not trade."

"Precisely true," said Palafox, in high good humor. "Come, I would show you something of which you are perhaps not aware."

In a swift black torpedo, Palafox and Beran flew to Zelambre Bay. In spite of Beran's questions, Palafox said nothing. He took Beran to the eastern shore, to an isolated area at the root of Maesthgelai Peninsula. Here was a group of new buildings, stark and ugly. Palafox landed the boat, took Beran inside the largest. They stood before a long cylinder.

Palafox said, "This is the secret project of a group of advanced students. As you have deduced, it is a small space-ship. The first, so I believe, ever built on Pao."

Beran surveyed the vessel without comment. Clearly Palafox was playing him as a fisherman plays a fish.

He went closer to the ship. The finish was rough, the detailing crude; the general impression, however, was one of rugged serviceability. "Will it fly?" he asked Palafox.

"Not now. But undoubtedly it shall--in another four or five months. Certain delicate components are on order from Breakness. Aside from these, it is a true Paonese production. With such a fleet of ships you may make Pao independent of Mercantil. I do not doubt that you will find sufficient trade, since the Mercantil screw the maximum advantage from any transaction."

"Naturally, I am--gratified," said Beran reluctantly. "But why was this work held secret from me?"

Palafox held up his hand and spoke in a soothing voice. "There was no attempt to keep you from knowledge. This is one project of many. These young men and women attack the problems and lacks of Pao with tremendous energy. Every day they undertake something new."

Beran grunted skeptically. "As soon as possible, these isolated groups shall be returned into the main current of Paonese life."

Palafox demurred. "In my opinion, the time is hardly ripe for any dilution of Technicant enthusiasm. Admittedly there was inconvenience to the displaced population, but the results seem to vindicate the conception."

Beran made no reply. Palafox signaled to the quietly observing group of Technicants. They came forward, were introduced, showed mild surprise when Beran spoke to them in their own language, and presently conducted him through the ship. The interior reinforced Beran's original conception of rough but sturdy serviceability. And when he returned to the Grand Palace it was with an entirely new set of doubts and speculations in his mind. Could it be possible that Bustamonte had been right, and he, Beran, wrong?

CHAPTER XVII

A YEAR WENT BY. The prototype space-ship of the Technicants was completed, tested and put into service as a training ship. On plea of the Technicant Coordinating Council, public funds were diverted to a large-scale ship-building program.

Valiant activity proceeded as before. A dozen times Beran decided to curtail the scope of the camps, but on each occasion the face of Eban Buzbek appeared to his mind's-eye and his resolve diminished.

The year saw great prosperity for Pao. Never had the people fared so well. The civil service was uncharacteristically self-effacing and honest; the taxes were light; there was none of the fear and suspicion prevalent during Bustamonte's reign. In consequence the population lived with almost non-Paonese gusto. The neolingual enclaves, like tumors, neither benign nor malignant, were not forgotten, but tolerated. Beran paid no visit to the Cogitant Institute at Pon; he knew however that it had expanded greatly: that new buildings were rising, new halls, dormitories, workshops, laboratories--that the enrollment increased daily, derived from youths arriving from Breakness, all bearing an unmistakable resemblance to Lord Palafox, and from other youths, rather younger, graduating from the Institute crèches--children of Palafox and children of his children.

Another year passed, and down from space came the gay-colored corvette of Eban Buzbek. As before, it ignored the challenge of the monitor, and landed on the roof-deck of the Grand Palace. As before, Eban Buzbek and a swaggering retinue marched to the great hall, where they demanded the presence of Beran. There was a delay of ten minutes, during which the warriors stamped and jingled impatiently.

Beran entered the room, and halted, surveying the clansmen, who turned cold-eyed faces toward him.

Beran came forward. He made no pretense of cordiality. "Why do you come to Pao this time?"

As before, an interpreter transferred the words into Batch.

Eban Buzbek sat back into a chair, motioned Beran to another nearby. Beran took the seat without comment.

"We have heard unpleasant reports," said Eban Buzbek, stretching forth his legs. "Our allies and suppliers, the artifactors of Mercantil, tell us that you have lately sent into space a fleet of cargo-vessels--that you bargain and barter, and eventually bring back to Pao great quantities of technical equipment." The Batch warriors moved behind Beran; they towered over his seat.

He glanced over his shoulder, turned back to Eban Buzbek. "I cannot understand your concern. Why should we not trade where we will?"

"Sufficient should be the fact that it is contrary to the wish of Eban Buzbek, your liege-lord."

Beran spoke in a conciliatory voice. "But you must remember that we are a populous world. We have natural aspirations..."

Eban Buzbek leaned forward; his hand rang on Beran's cheek. Beran fell back into the chair, stunned by surprise, face white but for the red welt. It was the first blow he ever had received, his first contact with violence. The effect was peculiar--it was a shock, a stimulus, not altogether unpleasant, the sudden opening of a forgotten room. Eban Buzbek's voice sounded almost unheard: "...your aspirations must at all times be referred to Clan Brumbo for judgment."

One of the warriors of the retinue spoke. "Only small persuasion is needed to convince the ocholos."

Beran's eyes once more focused on the broad red face of Eban Buzbek. He raised himself in his seat. "I am happy you are here, Eban Buzbek. It is better that we talk face to face. The time has come when Pao pays no further tribute to you."

Eban Buzbek's mouth opened, curved into a comical grimace of surprise.

"Furthermore, we shall continue to send our ships across the universe. I hope you will accept these facts in good spirit and return to your world with peace in your heart."

Eban buzbek sprang to his feet. "I will return with your ears to hang in our Hall of Arms."

Beran rose, backed away from the warriors. They advanced with grinning deliberation. Eban Buzbek pulled a blade from his belt. "Bring the rascal here." Beran raised his hand in a signal. Doors slid back on three sides; three squads of Mamarone came forward, eyes like slits. They carried halberds with cusped blades a yard long, mounted with flame sickles.

"What is your will with these jackals?" the sergeant rasped.

Beran said, "Subaqueation. Take them to the ocean."

Eban Buzbek demanded the sense of the comments from the interpreter. On hearing it, he sputtered, "This is a reckless act. Pao shall be devastated! My kinsmen will leave no living soul in Eiljanre. We shall sow your fields with fire and bone!"

"Will you then go home in peace and bother us no more?" Beran demanded. "Come, the choice is yours. Death--or peace."

Eban Buzbek looked from right to left; his warriors pressed close together, eyeing their black adversaries.

Eban Buzbek sheathed his blade with a decisive snap. He muttered aside to his men. "We go," he said to Beran.

"Then you choose peace?"

Eban Buzbek's mustaches quivered in fury. "I choose--peace."

"Then throw down your weapons, leave Pao and never return."

Eban Buzbek, wooden-faced, divested himself of his arms. His warriors followed suit. The group departed, herded by the neutraloids. Presently the corvette rose from the palace, darted up and away.

Minutes passed; then Beran was called to the telescreen.

Eban Buzbek's face glowed, glistening with hate. "I left in peace, young Panarch, and you shall have peace-only so long as it takes to bring the clansmen back to Pao. Not only your ears but your head will be mounted among our trophies."

Beran said, "Come at your own risk."

Three months later the Batch clansmen attacked Pao. A fleet of twenty-eight warships, including six round-bellied transports, appeared in the sky. The monitors made no attempt either to challenge or defend, and the Batch warships slid contemptuously down into the atmosphere.

Here they were attacked by rocket-missiles, but counter-missiles harmlessly exploded the barrage.

In tight formation, they settled toward north Minamand and landed a score of miles north of Eiljanre. The transports debarked a multitude of clansmen mounted on air-horses. They darted high into the air, dashing, cavorting, swerving in a fine display of braggadocio.

A school of anti-personnel missiles came streaking for them, but the defenses of the ships below were alert, and anti-missiles destroyed the salvo. However, the threat was sufficient to hold the riders close to the flotilla.

Evening came, and night. The riders wrote vain-glorious slogans in the sky with golden gas, then retired to their ships, and there was no further activity.

Another set of events had already occurred on Batmarsh: No sooner had the twenty-eight ship flotilla set forth for Pao, when another ship, cylindrical and sturdy, evidently converted from a cargo-carrier, dropped down into the dank forested hills at the south end of the Brumbo domain. A hundred young men disembarked. They wore ingenious segmented suits of transpar, which became streamlined shells when the wearer's arms hung by his sides. Anti-gravity mesh made them weightless, electric jets propelled them with great speed.

They flew low over the black trees, along the bottom of the wild valleys. Lake Chagaz glimmered ahead, reflecting the glowing constellations of the cluster. Across the lake was the stone and timber city Slagoe, with the Hall of Honors looming tall over the lesser buildings.

The flyers swooped like hawks to the ground. Four ran to the sacred fire, beat down the aged fire-tenders, quenched the blaze except for a single coal which they packed in a metal pouch. The remainder had continued past up the ten stone steps. They stunned the guardian vestals, charged into the tall smoky-beamed hall.

Down from the wall came the tapestry of the clan, woven with hair from the head of every Brumbo born to the clan. Helter-skelter into bags and gravity boxes went the trophies, the sacred fetishes: old armor, a hundred tattered banners, scrolls and declamations, fragments of rock, bone, steel and charcoal, vials of dried black blood commemorating battles and Brumbo valor.

When Slagoe at last awoke to what was taking place, the warriors were in space, bound for Pao. Women, youths, old men, ran to the sacred park, crying and shouting.

But the raiders had departed, taking with them the soul of the clan, all the most precious treasure.

On dawn of the second day the raiders brought forth crates and assembled eight battle-platforms, mounting generators, anti-missile defenses, dynamic stings, pyreumators and sonic ear-blasters.

Other Brumbo bravos came forth on air-horses, but now they rode in strict formation. The battle platforms raised from the ground and exploded. Mechanical moles, tunneling through the soil, had planted mines to the bottom of each raft.

The air-cavalry milled in consternation. Without protection they were easy targets for missiles--cowardly weapons by the standards of Batmarsh.

The Valiant Myrmidons likewise disliked missiles. Beran had insisted on every possible means to minimize bloodshed, but when the battle-rafts were destroyed, he found it impossible to restrain the Myrmidons. In their transpar shells they darted into the sky and plunged down at the Brumbo cavalry. A furious battle swirled and screamed over the pleasant countryside.

There was no decision to the battle. Myrmidons and Brumbo air-horsemen fell in equal numbers, but after twenty minutes, the air-horsemen suddenly disengaged and plunged to the ground, leaving the Myrmidons exposed to a barrage of missiles. The Myrmidons were not taken entirely unawares, and dove headfirst for the ground. Only a few laggards--perhaps twenty--were caught and exploded.

The horsemen retreated under the shadow of their ships; the Myrmidons withdrew. They had been fewer than the Brumbos; nevertheless, the clansmen had given way, puzzled and awed by the ferocity of the resistance.

The remainder of the day was quiet, likewise the next day, while the Brumbos sounded and probed under the hulls of their ships to disengage any mines which might have been planted.

This accomplished, the fleet rose into the air, lumbered out over the Hylanthus Sea, crossed the isthmus just south of Eiljanre, settled on the beach within sight of the Grand Palace.

The next morning the Brumbos came forth on foot, six thousand men guarded by anti-missile defenders and four projectors. They moved cautiously forward, directly for the Grand Palace.

There was no show of resistance, no sign of the Myrmidons. The marble walls of the Grand Palace rose over them. There was motion on top; down rolled a rectangle of black, brown and tawny cloth. The Brumbos halted, staring.

An amplified voice came from the palace. "Eban Buzbek--come forth. Come inspect the loot we have taken from your Hall of Honors. Come forth, Eban Buzbek. No harm shall come to you."

Eban Buzbek came forth, called back through an amplifier. "What is this fakery, what cowardly Paonese trick have you contrived?"

"We possess all your clan treasures, Eban Buzbek: that tapestry, the last coal of your Eternal Fire, all your heraldry and relicts. Do you wish to redeem them?"

Eban Buzbek stood swaying as if he would faint. He turned and walked unsteadily back to his ship.

An hour passed. Eban Buzbek and a group of noblemen came forth. "We request a truce, in order that we may inspect these articles you claim to have in your possession."

"Come forward, Eban Buzbek. Inspect to your heart's content."

Eban Buzbek and his retinue inspected the articles. They spoke no word--the Paonese who conducted them made no comment.

The Brumbos silently returned to their ships.

A nunciator called, "The time is at hand! Coward Paonese--prepare for death!"

The clansmen charged, driven by the most violent emotion. Halfway across the beach they were met by the Myrmidons, and engaged in hand to hand combat, with swords, pistols and bare hands.

The Brumbos were halted; for the first time their battlelust met another more intense. They knew fear, they fell back, they retreated.

The voice from the Grand Palace called out, "You cannot win, Eban Buzbek, you cannot escape. We hold your lives, we hold your sacred treasures. Surrender now or we destroy both."

Eban Buzbek surrendered. He bent his head to the ground before Beran and the Myrmidon captain, he renounced all claim to Paonese overlordship, and kneeling before the sacred tapestry swore never more to molest or plan harm against Pao. He was then permitted the treasures of his clan, which the sullen clansmen carried aboard the flotilla, and departed Pao.

CHAPTER XVII

TIME AFTER TIME Pao traced its orbit around Auriol, marking off five complex and dramatic years. For Pao at large they were good years. Never had living been so easy, hunger so rare. To the normal goods produced by the planet was added a vast variety of imports from far-off worlds. To every corner of the cluster the Technicant ships plied, and many a commercial battle was waged between Mercantili and Technicants. As a result, both enterprises expanded their services, and sought farther afield for trade.

The Valiants likewise became more numerous, but on a restricted basis. There was no further recruiting from the population at large, and only a child of Valiant father and mother could be received into the caste.

At Pon, the Cogitants increased in numbers, but even more slowly than the Valiants. Three new Institutes were established in the misty hills, and high upon the most remote crag of all Pao, Palafox built a somber castle.

The Interpreter Corps was now largely derived from the Cogitants; in fact, the Interpreters might be said to be the operative function of the Cogitants. Like the other groups, the Interpreters had expanded both in numbers and importance. In spite of the separation of the three neolinguistic groups, from each other and from the Paonese population, there was a great deal of interchange. When an Interpreter was not at hand, the business might be transacted in Pastiche--which by virtue of its relative universality, was understood by a large number of persons. But when communication of any precision was necessary, an Interpreter was called for.

So the years passed, fulfilling all the changes conceived by Palafox, initiated by Bustamonte, and reluctantly supported by Beran. The fourteenth year of Beran's reign saw the high-tide of prosperity and well-being.

Beran had long disapproved of the Breakness concubinage system, which had taken unobtrusive but firm root at the various Cogitant Institutes.

Originally there had been no lack of girls to indenture themselves for eventual financial advantage, and all the sons and grandsons of Palafox--not to speak of Palafox himself--maintained large dormitories in the neighborhood of Pon. But when prosperity came to Pao, the number of young women available for indenture declined, and presently peculiar rumors began to circulate. There was talk of drugs, hypnotism, black magic.

Beran ordered an investigation of the methods by which the Cogitants secured women for indenture. He realized he would be treading on sensitive toes--but he did not suspect the response would be so instant and so direct. Lord Palafox himself came to Eiljanre.

He appeared one morning on an upper terrace of the palace where Beran sat contemplating the sea. At the sight of the tall spare frame, the angular features, Beran reflected how little this Palafox differed, even to the cloak of heavy brown cloth, the gray trousers, the peaked cap with a sharp bill, from the Palafox he had first seen so many years before. How old was Palafox?

Palafox wasted no time in preliminary small-talk. "Panarch Beran, an unpleasant situation has arisen, concerning which you will wish to take steps."

Beran nodded slowly. "What is this 'unpleasant situation'?"

"My privacy has been invaded. A clumsy gang of spies dogs my footsteps, annoys the women in my dormitory with impertinent surveillance. I beg that you discover who has ordered this persecution and punish the guilty party:"

Beran rose to his feet. "Lord Palafox, as you must know, I personally ordered the investigation."

"Indeed? You; astonish me, Panarch Beran! What could you hope to learn?"

"I expected to learn nothing. I hoped you would interpret the act as a warning, and make such changes in your conduct as the fact of the investigation would suggest. Instead you have chosen to contend the issue, which may make for difficulty."

"I am a Breakness Dominie. I act directly, not through devious hints." Palafox's voice was like iron, but the statement had not advanced his attack.

Beran, a student of polemics, sought to maintain his advantage. "You have been a valuable ally, Lord Palafox. In recompense, you have received what amounts to control over the continent of Nonamand. But this control is conditional upon the legality of your acts. The indenture of willing females, while socially offensive, is not a crime. However, when these females are unwilling..."

"What basis do you have for these remarks?"

"Popular rumor."

Palafox smiled thinly. "And if by chance you could verify these rumors, what then?"

Beran forced himself to stare into the obsidian gaze. "Your question has no application. It refers to a situation already of the past."

"Your meaning is obscure."

"The way to counter these rumors," said Beran, "is to bring the situation into the open. Henceforth, women willing to indenture themselves will appear at a public depot here in Eiljanre. All contracts will be negotiated at this depot, and any other traffic is declared a crime equivalent to kidnapping."

Palafox was silent several seconds. Then he asked softly, "How do you propose to enforce this decision?"

" 'Enforce'?" asked Beran in surprise. "On Pao it is not necessary to enforce the orders of the government."

Palafox curtly inclined his head. "The situation, as you say, is clarified. I trust neither of us will have cause for complaint." He took his departure.

Beran drew a deep breath, leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes. He had won a victory--to a certain degree. He had asserted the authority of the state and had wrung tacit acknowledgement of this authority from Palafox.

Beran was clever enough not to gloat. He knew that Palafox, utterly secure in his solipsism, probably felt nothing of the emotional umbra surrounding the occurrence, considered the defeat no more than a momentary irritation. Indeed, there were two highly significant points to consider: first, something in Palafox's manner which suggested that, in spite of his anger, he had been prepared to accept at least temporary compromise. 'Temporary' was the key word. Palafox was a man biding his time.

Second, there was the phrasing of Palafox's last sentence: "I trust that neither of us shall have cause for complaint." Implicit was an assumption of equal status, equal authority, equal weight, indicating the presence of a disturbing ambition.

To the best of Beran's recollection Palafox had never so spoken before. Religiously he had maintained the pose of a Breakness dominie, temporarily on Pao as an advisor. Now it seemed as if he regarded himself a permanent inhabitant, with a proprietary attitude to boot.

Beran contemplated the events leading to the present tangle. For five thousand years Pao had been homogeneous, a planet directed by tradition, somnolent in an ageless tranquillity. Panarchs succeeded each other, dynasties came and went, but the blue oceans and green fields were eternal. The Pao of these times had been easy prey for corsairs and raiders, and there had been much poverty.

The ideas of Lord Palafox, the ruthless dynamism of Bustamonte, in a single generation had changed all. Now Pao was prosperous and sent its merchant fleet cruising throughout the star-system. Paonese traders out-bargained the Mercantil, Paonese warriors out-fought the clansmen of Batmarsh, Paonese intellectuals compared favorably with the so-called wizards of Breakness.

But--these men who excelled, who out-traded, out-fought, out-produced, out-thought their planetary neighbors--were close to ten thousand and all had Palafox either for sire or grandsire. Palafoxians: A better name for these people!

The Valiants and the Technicants, what of them? Their blood was pure Paonese, but they lived as far from the stream of Paonese tradition as the Brumbos of Batmarsh or the Mercantil.

Beran jumped to his feet. How could he have been so blind, so negligent? These men were not Paonese, no matter how well they served Pao: they were aliens, and it was questionable where their ultimate loyalties lay.

The divergence between Valiant, Technicant and basic Paonese had gone too far. The trend must be reversed, the new groups assimilated.

Now that he had defined his ends, it was necessary to formulate the means. The problem was complex; he must move cautiously. First of all--to establish the agency where women could present themselves for indenture. He would give Palafox no "cause for complaint."

CHAPTER XIX

AT THE EASTERN outskirts of Eiljanre, across the old Rovenone Canal, lay a wide commons, used principally for the flying of kites and festival mass-dancing. Here Beran ordered the erection of a large tent-pavilion, where women wishing to hire themselves to the Cogitants might exhibit themselves. Wide publicity had been given the new agency, and also to the edict that all private contracts between women and Cogitant would henceforth be illegal and felonious.

The opening day arrived. At noon Beran went to inspect the pavilion. On the benches sat a scattered handful of women, a miserable group by any standards, unlovely, harassed, peaked--perhaps thirty in all.

Beran stared in surprise. "Is this the lot of them?"

"That is all, Panarch!"

Beran rubbed his chin ruefully. He looked around to see the man he wished least to see, Palafox.

Beran spoke first, with some effort. "Choose, Lord Palafox. Thirty of Pao's most charming women await your whim." Palafox replied in a light voice. "Slaughtered and buried, they might make acceptable fertilizer. Other than that, I see no possible use for them."

Implicit in the remark was a challenge: failure to recognize and answer it was to abandon the initiative. "It appears, Lord Palafox," said Beran "that indenture to the Cogitants is as objectionable to the women of Pao as I had supposed. The very dearth of persons vindicates my decision." And Beran contemplated the lonely pavilion.

There was no sound from Palafox, but some intuition flashed a warning to Beran's mind. He turned his head, and his startled eyes saw Palafox, face like a death-mask, raising his hand. The forefinger pointed; Beran flung himself flat. A blue streak sizzled over head. He pointed his hand; his own finger-fire spat forward, ran up Palafox's arm, through the elbow, the humerus and out the shoulder.

Palafox jerked his head up, mouth clenched, eyes rolled back like a maddened horse. Blood sizzled and steamed where the mangled circuits in his arm had heated, fused and broken.

Beran pointed his finger once more; it was urgent and advisable to kill Palafox; more than this, it was his duty. Palafox stood watching, the look in his eyes no longer that of a human being; he stood waiting for death.

Beran hesitated, and in this instant, Palafox once more became a man. He flung up his left hand; now Beran acted and again the blue fire-pencil leapt forth; but it impinged on an essence which the left hand of Palafox had flung forth, and dissolved.

Beran drew back. The thirty women had flung themselves quaking and whimpering to the floor; Beran's attendants stood lax and limp. There was no word spoken. Palafox backed away, out the door of the pavilion; he turned and was gone.

Beran could find no energy to pursue. He returned to the palace, closed himself in his private rooms. Morning became the gold Paonese afternoon, day faded into evening.

Beran roused himself. He went to his wardrobe, dressed in a suit of skin-tight black. He armed himself with knife, hammer-beam, mind-blinder, swallowed a pellet of nerve-tonic, then unobtrusively made his way to the roof-deck.

He slipped into an air-car, wafted high into the night and flew south.

The dreary cliffs of Nonamand rose from the sea with phosphorescent surf at the base and a few wan lights flickering along the top. Beran adjusted his course over the dark upland moors toward Pon. Grim and tense he sat, riding with the conviction that doom lay before him.

There: Mount Droghead, and beyond, the Institute! Every building, every terrace, walk, out-building and dormitory was familiar to Beran: the years he had served here as interpreter would now stand him in good stead.

He landed the car out on the moor, away from the field, then activating the anti-gravity mesh in his feet, he floated into the air and leaning forward, drifted over the Institute.

He hovered high in the chill night wind, surveying the buildings below. There--Palafox's dormitory, and there, through the triangular translux panels, a glow of light.

Beran alighted on the pale rock-melt of the dormitory roof. The wind swept past, droning and whistling; there was no other sound.

Beran ran for the roof door. He burnt out the seal with a flicker of finger-fire, slid the door back, entered the hall.

The dormitory was silent; he could hear neither voice nor movement. He set out down the corridor with long swift steps.

The top floor was given over to the day rooms, and was deserted. He descended a ramp, turned to the right, toward the source of the light he had seen from above. He stopped outside a door, listened. No voices--but a faint sense of motion within: a stir, a shuffle.

He touched the latch. The door was sealed.

Beran readied himself. All must go swiftly. Now! Flick of fire, door free, door aside--stride forward! And there in the chair beside the table, a man.

The man looked up, Beran stopped short. It was not Palafox; it was Finisterle.

Finisterle looked at the pointed finger, then up to Beran's face. "What do you do here?" His exclamation was in Pastiche, and in this tongue Beran replied.

"Where is Palafox?"

Finisterle laughed weakly, let himself sink back into the chair. "It seems as if I nearly met the fate of my sire."

Beran came a step closer. "Where is Palafox?"

You are too late. Palafox is gone to Breakness."

"Breakness!" Beran felt limp and tired.

"He is broken, his arm is a shred. No one here can repair him." Finisterle appraised Beran with cautious interest. "And this the unobtrusive Beran--a demon in black!"

Beran slowly seated himself. "Who could do it but I?" He glanced suddenly at Finisterle. "You are not deceiving me?"

Finisterle shook his head. "Why should I deceive you?"

"He is your sire!"

Finisterle shrugged. "This means nothing, either to sire or to son. A man, no matter how remarkable, has only a finite capability. It is no longer a secret that Lord Palafox has succumbed to the final sickness, he is an Emeritus. The world and his brain are no longer separate--to Palafox they are one and the same."

Beran rubbed his chin, frowned. Finisterle leaned forward. "Do you know his ambition, do you understand his presence on Pao?"

"I guess, but I do not know."

"Some weeks ago he gathered together his sons. He spoke to us, explained his ambition. He claims Pao as a world of his own. Through his sons, his grandsons, and his own capabilities, he will outbreed the Paonese, until eventually there will be only Palafox and the seed of Palafox on Pao."

Beran rose heavily to his feet.

"What will you do now?" asked Finisterle.

"I am Paonese," said Beran. "I have been passive in the Paonese fashion. But I have also studied at Breakness Institute, and now I shall act. And if I destroy what Palafox has worked so long to build--perhaps he will not return." He looked around the room. "I will start here, at Pon. You all may go where you will--but go you must. Tomorrow the Institute will be destroyed."

Finisterle leapt to his feet, restraint forgotten. "Tomorrow? That is fantastic! We can not leave our research, our library, our precious possessions!"

Beran went to the doorway. "There will be no more delay. You certainly have the right to remove your personal property. But the entity known as the Cogitant Institute will vanish tomorrow."

Esteban Carbone, Chief Marshal of the Valiants, a muscular young man with an open pleasant face, was accustomed to rise at dawn for a plunge into the surf.

On this morning he returned naked, wet and breathless from the beach, to find a silent man in black awaiting him.

Esteban Carbone halted in confusion. "Panarch, as you see, I am surprised. Pray excuse me while I clothe myself."

He ran to his quarters, and presently reappeared in a striking black and yellow uniform. "Now, Supremacy, I am ready to hear your commands."

"They are brief," said Beran. "Take a warship to Pon, and at twelve noon, destroy Cogitant Institute."

Esteban Carbone's amazement reached new heights. "Do I understand you correctly, Supremacy?"

"I will repeat: take a warship to Pon, destroy Cogitant Institute. Explode it to splinters. The Cogitants have received notice--they are now evacuating."

Esteban Carbone hesitated a perceptible instant before replying. "It is not my place to question matters of policy, but is this not a very drastic act? I feel impelled to counsel careful second thought."

Beran took no offense. "I appreciate your concern. This order, however, is the result of many more thoughts than two. Be so good as to obey without further delay."

Esteban Carbone touched his hand to his forehead, bowed low. "Nothing more need be said, Panarch Beran." He walked into his quarters, spoke into a communicator.

At noon precisely, the warship hurled an explosive missile at the target, a small cluster of white buildings on the plateau behind Mount Droghead. There was a dazzle of blue and white, and Cogitant Institute was gone.

When Palafox heard the news, his face suffused with dark blood; he swayed back and forth. "So does he destroy himself," he groaned between his teeth. "So should I be satisfied--but how bitter the insolence of this young coxcomb!"

The Cogitants came to Eiljanre, settling in the old Beauclare Quarter, south of the Rovenone. As the months passed they underwent a change, almost, it seemed, with an air of joyous relief. They relaxed the doctrinaire intensity which had distinguished them at the Institute, and fell into the ways of a bohemian intelligentsia. Through some obscure compulsion, they spoke little or no Cogitant, and likewise, disdaining Paonese, conducted all their affairs in Pastiche.

CHAPTER XX

BERAN PANASPER, Panarch of Pao, sat in the rotunda of the pink-colonnaded lodge on Pergolai, in the same black chair where his father Aiello had died.

The other places around the carved ivory table were vacant; no one was present but a pair of black-dyed neutraloids, looming outside the door.

There was motion at the door, the Mamarone's challenge in voices like ripping cloth. Beran identified the visitor, signaled the Mamarones to open.

Finisterle entered the room, gravely deigning no notice of the hulking black shapes. He stopped in the center of the room, inspected Beran from head to foot. He spoke in Pastiche, his words wry and pungent as the language itself. "You carry yourself like the last man in the universe."

Beran smiled wanly. "When today is over, for better or worse, I will sleep well."

"I envy no one!" mused Finisterle. "Least of all, you."

"And I, on the other hand, envy all but myself," replied Beran morosely. "I am truly the popular concept of a Panarch--the overman who carries power as a curse, delivers decisions as other men hurl iron javelins...And yet I would not change--for I am sufficiently dominated by Breakness Institute to believe that no one but myself is capable of disinterested justice."

"This credence which you deprecate may be no more than fact."

A chime sounded in the distance, then another and another.

"Now approaches the issue," said Beran. "In the next hour Pao is ruined or Pao is saved." He went to the great black chair, seated himself. Finisterle silently chose a seat down near the end of the table.

The Mamarone flung back the fretwork door; into the room came a slow file--a group of ministers, secretaries, miscellaneous functionaries: two dozen in all. They inclined their heads in respect, and soberly took their places around the table.

Serving maidens entered, poured chilled sparkling wine.

The chimes sounded. Once more the Mamarone opened the door. Marching smartly into the room came Esteban Carbone, Grand Marshal of the Valiants, with four subalterns. They wore their most splendid uniforms and helms of white metal which they doffed as they entered. They halted in a line before Beran, bowed, stood impassively.

Beran had long realized this moment must come.

He rose to his feet, returned a ceremonious greeting. The Valiants seated themselves with rehearsed precision.

"Time advances, conditions change," said Beran in an even voice, speaking in Valiant. "Dynamic programs once valuable become harmful exaggerations when the need has passed Such is the present situation on Pao. We are in danger of losing our unity.

"I refer in part to the Valiant camp. It was created to counter a specific threat. The threat has been rebuffed; we are at peace. The Valiants, while retaining their identity, must now be reintegrated into the general population.

"To this end, cantonments will be established among all the eight continents and the larger isles. To these cantonments the Valiants shall disperse, in units of fifty men and women. They shall use the cantonment as an organizational area and shall take up residence in the countryside, recruiting locally as becomes necessary. The areas now occupied by the Valiants will be restored to their previous use." He paused, stared from eye to eye.

Finisterle, observing, marveled that the man he had known as a moody hesitant youth should show such a strong face of decision.

"Are there any questions or comments?" asked Beran.

The Grand Marshal sat like a man of stone. At last he inclined his head. "Panarch, I hear your orders, but I find them incomprehensible. It is a basic fact that Pao requires a strong arm of offense and defense. We Valiants are that arm. We are indispensable. Your order will destroy us. We will be diluted and dispersed. We will lose our esprit, our unity, our competitively."

"I realize all this," said Beran. "I regret it. But it is the lesser of the evils. The Valiants henceforth must serve as a cadre, and our military arm will once again be truly Paonese."

"Ah, Panarch," spoke the Grand Marshal abruptly, "this is the crux of the difficulty! You Paonese have no military interest, you..."

Beran held up his hand. "We Paonese," he said in a harsh voice. "All of us are Paonese."

The Grand Marshal bowed. "I spoke in haste. But, Panarch, surely it is clear that dispersion will lessen our efficiency! We must drill together, engage in exercises, ceremonies, competitions..."

Beran had anticipated the protest. "The problems you mention are real, but merely pose logistical and organizational challenges. I have no wish to diminish either the efficiency or the prestige of the Valiants. But the integrity of the state is at stake, and these tumor-like enclaves, benign though they be, must be removed."

Esteban Carbone stared glumly at the ground a moment, then glanced left and right at his aides for support. The faces of both were bleak and dispirited.

"A factor you ignore, Panarch, is that of morale," Carbone said heavily. "Our effectiveness..."

Beran interrupted briskly. "These are problems which you, as Grand Marshal, must solve. If you are incapable, I will appoint someone else. There will be no more discussion--the basic principle as I have outlined it must be accepted. You will confer with the Minister of Lands over details."

He rose to his feet, bowed in formal dismissal. The Valiants bowed, marched from the room.

As they left a second group entered, wearing the simple gray and white of the Technicants. They received, in general, the same orders as the Valiants, and put forward the same protests. "Why need the units be small? Surely there is scope on Pao for a number of industrial complexes. Remember that our efficiency depends on a concentration of skill. We cannot function in such small units!"

"Your responsibility is more than the production of goods. You must educate and train your fellow Paonese. There will undoubtedly be a period of confusion, but eventually the new policy will work to our common benefit."

The Technicants departed as bitterly dissatisfied as the Valiants.

Later in the day Beran walked along the beach with Finisterle, who could be trusted to speak without calculation as to what Beran might prefer to hear. The quiet surf rolled up the sand, retreated into the sea among glistening bits of shell, fragments of bright blue coral, strands of purple kelp.

Beran felt limp and drained after the emotional demands which had been made upon him. Finisterle walked with an air of detachment, and said nothing until Beran asked directly for his opinions.

Finisterle was dispassionately blunt. "I think that you made a mistake in issuing your orders here on Pergolai. The Valiants and Technicants will return to familiar environments. The effect will be that of returning to reality, and in retrospect the instructions will seem fantastic. At Deirombona and at Cloeopter, the orders would have had more direct reference to their subject."

"You think I will be disobeyed?"

'The possibility appears strong."

Beran sighed. "I fear so myself. Disobedience may not be permitted. Now we must pay the price for Bustamonte's folly."

"And my sire, Lord Palafox's ambition," remarked Finisterle.

Beran said no more. They returned to the pavilion and Beran immediately summoned his Minister of Civil Order.

"Mobilize the Mamarone, the entire corps."

The Minister stood stupidly. "Mobilize the Mamarone? Where?"

At Eiljanre. Immediately."

Beran, Finisterle and a small retinue flew down out of the cloudless Paonese sky to Deirombona. Behind them, still beyond the horizon, came six sky-barges, bearing the entire Mamarone corps, growling and mumbling to each other.

The air-car grounded. Beran and his party alighted, crossed the vacant plaza, passed under the Stele of Heroes, and entered the long low structure which Esteban Carbone used for his headquarters, as familiar to Beran as the Grand Palace at Eiljanre. Ignoring startled expressions and staccato questions, he walked to the staff room, slid back the door.

The Grand Marshal and four other officers looked up in an irritation which changed to guilty surprise.

Beran strode forward, impelled by an anger which overrode his natural diffidence. On the table lay a schedule entitled: Field Exercises 262: Maneuver of Type C Warships and Auxiliary Torpedo-Units.

Beran fixed Esteban Carbone with a lambent glare. "Is this the manner in which you carry out my orders?"

Carbone, after his initial surprise, was not to be intimidated.

"I plead guilty, Panarch, to delay. I was certain that after consideration you would understand the mistake of your first command..."

"It is no mistake. Now--at this very moment--I order you: implement the instructions I gave you yesterday!"

The men stared eye to eye, each determined to pursue the course he deemed vital, neither intending to yield.

"You press us hard," said the Marshal in a glacial voice. "Many here at Deirombona feel that we who wield the power should enjoy the fruits of power--so unless you wish to risk..."

"Act!" cried Beran. He raised his hand. "Or I kill you now!"

Behind him there was sudden movement, a spatter of blue light, a hoarse cry, a clatter of metal. Wheeling, Beran saw Finisterle standing over the body of a Valiant officer. A hammer-gun lay on the floor; Finisterle held a smoking energy-needle.

Carbone struck out with his fist, hit Beran hard on the jaw. Beran toppled back upon the desk. Finisterle turned to shoot, but was forced to hold his fire for the confusion.

A voice cried, "To Eiljanre! Death to the Paonese tyrants!"

Beran rose to his feet, but the Marshal had departed. Nursing his sore jaw, he spoke into a shoulder microphone; the six sky-barges, now above Deirombona, swooped down to the square; the monstrous black Mamarone poured forth.

"Surround the corps headquarters," came Beran's orders. "Allow neither entrance nor exit."

Carbone had broadcast orders of his own; from nearby barracks came hasty sounds, and into the plaza poured groups of Valiant warriors. At sight of the neutraloids they stopped short.

Squad leaders sprang forward; the Valiants became a disciplined force instead of a mob. For a space there was silence, while Mamarone and Myrmidon weighed each other.

At the necks of the squad leaders vibrators pulsed. The voice of Grand Marshal Esteban Carbone issued from a filament. "Attack and destroy. Spare no one, kill all."

The battle was the most ferocious in the history of Pao. It was fought without words, without quarter. The Myrmidons outnumbered the Mamarone, but each neutraloid possessed three times the strength of an ordinary man.

Within the headquarters Beran called into his microphone.

"Marshal, I beseech you, prevent this spilling of blood. It is unnecessary, and good Paonese will die!"

There was no response. In the plaza only a hundred feet separated Mamarone from Myrmidon; they stood almost eye to eye, the neutraloids grinning in humorless rancor, contemptuous of life, unconscious of fear; the Myrmidons seething with impatience and verve, anxious for glory. The neutraloids, behind their screens and with backs against the wall of the corps headquarters, were secure from small weapons; however, once they should move away from the wall, their backs would be vulnerable.

Suddenly they dropped the screens; their weapons poured death into the nearby ranks: a hundred men fell in an instant. The screens returned into place and they took the retaliating fire without casualty.

The gaps in the front line were filled instantly. Horns blew a brilliant fanfare; the Myrmidons drew scimitars and charged against the black giants.

The neutraloids dropped the screens, the weapons poured out death, a hundred, two hundred warriors were killed. But twenty or thirty sprang across the final few yards. The neutraloids drew their own great blades, hacked, hewed; there was the flash of steel, hisses, hoarse calls, and again the Mamarone stood free. But while the shields had been down, lances of fire from the rear ranks of the Myrmidons found targets, and a dozen neutraloids were fallen.

Stolidly the black ranks closed. Again the Myrmidon horns sounded, again the charge, and again the hack and splinter of steel. It was late afternoon; ragged clouds low in the west veiled the sun, but an occasional beam of orange light played across the battle, glowing on the splendid fabrics, reflecting from glistening black bodies, shining dark on spilled blood.

Within the staff headquarters Beran stood in bitter frustration. The stupidity, the arrogance of these men! They were destroying the Pao he had hoped to build--and he, lord of fifteen billion, could find insufficient strength to subdue a few thousand rebels.

In the plaza the Myrmidons at last split the neutraloid line into two, battered back the ends, bunched the giant warriors into two clots.

The neutraloids knew their time had come, and all their terrible detestation for life, for men, for the universe boiled up and condensed in a clot of pure fury. One by one they succumbed, to a thousand hacks and cuts. The last few looked at each other, and laughed, inhuman hoarse bellows, and presently they too died, and the plaza was quiet except for subdued sobbing. Then behind, by the Stele, the Valiant women set up a chant of victory, forlorn but exulting, the survivors of the battle, gasping and sick, joined the paean.

Within the building Beran and his small company had already departed, flying back to Eiljanre in the air-boat. Beran sat steeped in misery. His body shook, his eyes burnt in their sockets, his stomach felt as if it were caked with lye. Failure, the breaking of his dreams, the beginning of chaos!

He thought of Palafox's tall spare form, the lean face with the wedge-shaped nose and opaque black eyes. The image carried such intensity of emotion to become almost dear to him, something to be cherished from all harm, except that destruction which he himself would deal.

Beran laughed aloud. Could he enlist the aid of Palafox?

With the last rays of sunset flickering over the roofs of Eiljanre, he arrived at the Palace.

In the great hall sat Palafox, in his usual gray and brown, a wry sad smile on his mouth, a peculiar shine to his eyes.

Elsewhere in the hall sat Cogitants, Palafox's sons for the most part. They were subdued, grave, respectful. As Beran came into the room, the Cogitants averted their eyes.

Beran ignored them. Slowly he approached Palafox, until they stood only ten feet apart.

Palafox's expression changed no whit; the sad smile trembled on his mouth; the dangerous shine glittered in his eyes.

It was clear to Beran that Palafox had completely succumbed to the Breakness syndrome. Palafox was an Emeritus.

CHAPTER XXI

PALAFOX SALUTED Beran with a gesture of apparent affability; but there was no corresponding change in his expression. "My wayward young disciple! I understand that you have undergone serious reverses."

Beran came forward another step or two. He need only raise his hand, point, expunge this crafty megalomaniac. As he marshaled himself to act, Palafox uttered a soft word, and Beran found himself seized by four men strange to him, wearing garments of Breakness. While the Cogitants looked on soberly these men flung Beran flat on his face, opened his clothes, touched metal to his skin. There was an instant of piercing pain, then numbness along his back. He heard the click of tools, felt the quiver of manipulation, a wrench or two, and then they were done with him.

Pale, shaken, humiliated, he regained his feet, rearranged his garments.

Palafox said easily, "You are careless with the weapon provided you. Now it is removed and we can talk with greater relaxation."

Beran could find no answer. Growling deep in his throat, he marched forward, stood before Palafox.

Palafox smiled slightly. "Once again, Pao is in trouble. Once again, it is Lord Palafox of Breakness to whom appeals are made."

"I made no appeals," said Beran in a husky voice.

Palafox ignored him. "Ayudor Bustamonte once needed me. I aided him, and Pao became a world of power and triumph. But he who profited--Panarch Beran Panasper--broke the contract. Now, again the Paonese government faces destruction. And only Palafox can save you."

Realizing that exhibitions of rage merely amused Palafox, Beran forced himself to speak in a voice of moderation. "Your price, I assume, is as before? Unlimited scope for your satyriasis?"

Palafox grinned openly. "You express it crudely but adequately. I prefer the word 'fecundity.' But such is my price."

A Cogitant came into the room, approached Palafox, spoke a word or two in Breakness. Palafox looked to Beran. "The Myrmidons are coming. They boast that they will burn Eiljanre, destroy Beran and set forth to conquer the universe. This, they claim, is their destiny."

"How will you deal with the Myrmidons?" asked Beran tartly.

"Easily," said Palafox. "I control them because they fear me. I am the most highly modified man on Breakness, the most powerful man ever to exist. If Esteban Carbone fails to obey me, I will kill him. To their plans for conquest I am indifferent. Let them destroy this city, let them destroy all the cities, as many as they will." His voice was rising--he was becoming excited. "So much the easier for me, for my seed! This is my world, this is where I shall live magnified by a million, a billion sons. I shall fructify a world; there never shall have been so vast a siring! In fifty years the planet will know no name other than Palafox, you shall see my face on every face. The world will be I, I will be the world!"

The black eyes glowed like opals, pulsing with fire. Beran became infected with the madness; the room was unreal, hot gases swirled through his mind. Palafox, losing the appearance of a man, took on various semblance's in rapid succession: a tall eel, a phallus, a charred post with knotholes for eyes, a black nothingness.

"A demon!" gasped Beran. "The Evil Demon!" He lunged forward, caught Palafox's arm, hurled Palafox stumbling to the floor.

Palafox struck with a thud, a cry of pain. He sprang to his feet holding his arm--the same arm that Beran had wounded before--and he looked an Evil Demon indeed.

"Now is your end, gad-fly!" He raised his hand, pointed his finger. From the Cogitants came a mutter.

The finger remained pointed. No fire leapt forth. Palafox's face twisted in passion. He felt his arm, inspected his finger.

He looked up, calm once more, signaled to his sons. "Kill this man, here and now. No longer shall he breathe the air of my planet."

There was dead silence. No one moved. Palafox stared incredulously; Beran looked numbly about him. Everywhere in the room faces turned away, looking neither toward Beran nor Palafox.

Beran suddenly found his voice. He cried out hoarsely, "You talk madness!" He turned to the Cogitants. Palafox bad spoken in Breakness, Beran spoke in Pastiche.

"You Cogitants! Choose the world you would live in! Shall it be the Pao you know now, or the world this Emeritus proposes?"

The epithet stung Palafox; he jerked in anger, and in Breakness, the language of insulated intelligence, he barked, "Kill this man!"

In Pastiche, language of the Interpreters, a tongue used by men dedicated to human service, Beran called, "No! Kill this senile megalomaniac instead!"

Palafox motioned furiously to the four men of Breakness--those who had de-energized Beran's circuits. His voice was deep and resonant. "I, Palafox, the Great Sire, order you, kill this man!"

The four came forward.

The Cogitants stood like statues. Then they moved as if at a single decision. From twenty parts of the room streaks of flame leapt forth. Transfixed from twenty directions, eyes bulging, hair fluffing into a nimbus from the sudden charge, Lord Palafox of Breakness died.

Beran fell into a chair, unable to stand. Presently he took a deep breath, staggered to his feet. "I can say nothing to you now--only that I shall try to build the sort of world that Cogitants as well as Paonese can live in with satisfaction."

Finisterle, standing somberly to the side, said, "I fear that this option, admirable as it is, lies not entirely in your hands."

Beran followed his gaze, through the tall windows. High up in the sky appeared bursts of colored fire, spreading and sparkling, as if in celebration for some glory.

"The Myrmidons," said Finisterle. "They come for vengeance. Best had you flee while there is yet time. They will show you no mercy."

Beran made no answer.

Finisterle took his arm. "You accomplish nothing here but your own death. There is no guard to protect you--we are all at their mercy."

Beran gently disengaged himself. "I shall remain here; I shall not flee."

"They will kill you!"

Beran gave the peculiar Paonese shrug. "All men die."

"But you have much to do, and you can do nothing dead! Leave the city, and presently the Myrmidons will tire of the novelty and return to their games."

"No," said Beran. "Bustamonte fled. The Brumbos pursued him, ran him to the ground. I will no longer flee anyone. I will wait here with my dignity, and if they kill me, so shall it be."

An hour passed, the minutes ticking off slowly, one by one. The warships dropped low, hovered only yards from the ground. The flagship settled gingerly upon the palace deck.

Within the great hall Beran sat quietly on the dynastic Black Chair, his face drawn with fatigue, his eyes wide and dark. The Cogitants stood in muttering groups, watching Beran from the corners of their eyes.

From far off came a whisper of sound, a deep chant, growing louder, a chant of dedication, of victory, sung to the organic rhythm of pumping heart, of marching feet.

The chant swelled, the door burst open: into the great hall marched Esteban Carbone, the Grand Marshal. Behind him came a dozen young Field Marshals, and behind these, ranks of staff officers.

Esteban Carbone strode up to the Black Chair and faced Beran.

"Beran," spoke Esteban Carbone, "you have done us unforgivable injury. You have proved a false Panarch, unfit to govern the planet Pao. Therefore we have come in force to pull you down from the Black Chair and to take you away to your death."

Beran nodded thoughtfully, as if Esteban Carbone had come urging a petition.

"To those who wield the power shall go the direction of the state: this is the basic axiom of history. You are powerless, only we Myrmidons are strong. Hence we shall rule, and I now declare that Grand Marshal of the Myrmidons shall now and forever function as Panarch of Pao."

Beran said no word; indeed, there was no word to be said.

"Therefore, Beran, arise in what little dignity you retain, leave the Black Chair and walk forth to your death."

From the Cogitants came an interruption. Finisterle spoke out angrily. "One moment; you go too far and too fast."

Esteban Carbone swung about. "What is this you say?"

"Your thesis is correct: that he who wields power shall rule--but I challenge that you wield power on Pao."

Esteban Carbone laughed. "Is there anyone who can deter us in any course we care to pursue?"

"That is not altogether the point. No man can rule Pao without consent of the Paonese. You do not have that consent."

"No matter. We shall not interfere with the Paonese. They can govern themselves--so long as they supply us our needs. "

"And you believe that the Technicants will continue to supply you with tools and weapons?"

"Why should they not? They care little who buys their goods."

"And who shall make your needs known to them? Who will give orders to the Paonese?"

"We shall, naturally."

"But how will they understand you? You speak neither Technicant nor Paonese, they speak no Valiant. We Cogitants refuse to serve you."

Esteban Carbone laughed. "This is an interesting proposition. Are you suggesting that Cogitants, by reason of their linguistic knack, should therefore rule the Valiants?"

"No. I point out that you are unable to rule the planet Pao, that you cannot communicate with those you claim to be your subjects."

Esteban Carbone shrugged. "This is no great matter. We speak a few words of Pastiche, enough to make ourselves understood. Soon we will speak better, and so shall we train our children."

Beran spoke for the first time. "I offer a suggestion which perhaps will satisfy the ambitions of everyone. Let us agree that the Valiants are able to kill as many Paonese as they desire, all those who actively oppose them, and so may be said to exercise authority. However, they will find themselves embarrassed: first, by the traditional resistance of the Paonese to coercion, and secondly, by inability to communicate either with the Paonese or the Technicants."

Carbone listened with a grim face. "Time will cure these embarrassments. We are the conquerors, remember."

"Agreed," said Beran in a tired voice. "You are the conquerors. But you will rule best by disturbing the least. And until all Pao shares a single language, such as Pastiche, you cannot rule without great disturbance."

"Then all Pao must speak one language!" cried Carbone. "That is a simple enough remedy! What is language but a set of words? This is my first command: every man, woman and child on the planet must learn Pastiche."

"And in the meantime?" inquired Finisterle.

Esteban Carbone chewed his lip. "Things must proceed more or less as usual." He eyed Beran. "Do you, then, acknowledge my power?"

Beran laughed. "Freely. In accordance with your wish, I hereby order that every child of Pao: Valiant, Technicant, Cogitant and Paonese, must learn Pastiche, even in precedence to the language of his father."

Esteban Carbone stared at him searchingly, and said at last, "You have come off better than you deserve, Beran. It is true that we Valiants do not care to trouble with the details of governing, and this is your one bargaining point, your single usefulness. So long as you are obedient and useful, so long may you sit in the Black Chair and call yourself Panarch." He bowed, turned on his heel, marched from the hall.

Beran sat slumped in the Black Chair. His face was white and haggard, but his expression was calm.

"I have compromised, I have been humiliated," he said to Finisterle, "but in one day I have achieved the totality of my ambitions. Palafox is dead, and we are embarked on the great task of my life--the unifying of Pao."

Finisterle handed Beran a cup of mulled wine, drank deep from a cup of his own. "Those strutting cockerels! At this moment they parade around their stele, beating their chests, and at any instant..." He pointed his finger at a bowl of fruit. Blue flame lanced forth; the bowl shattered.

"It is better that we allowed them their triumph," said Beran. "Basically, they are decent people, if naive, and they will cooperate much more readily as masters than as subjects. And in twenty years..."

He rose to his feet; he and Finisterle walked across the hall, looked out over the roofs of Eiljanre. "Pastiche--composite of Breakness, Technicant, Valiant, Paonese. Pastiche--the language of service. In twenty years, everyone will speak Pastiche. It will fertilize the old minds, shape the new minds. What kind of world will Pao be then?"

They looked out into the night, across the lights of Eiljanre, and wondered.