The Languages of Pao

Chapter II

Pergolai, an islet in the Jhelianse Sea between Minamand and Dronamand, had been pre-empted and converted into an Arcadian retreat by Panarch Aiello Panasper. Every trace of former habitancy had been removed; forests had been transplanted into the old paddies, wildflowers seeded, a stream diverted to form a chain of ponds. At the head of a meadow bordered by Paonese bamboo and tall myrrh trees stood Aiello’s lodge, an airy structure of white glass, carved stone and polished wood. The plan was simple: a residential tower, a service wing, and an octagonal pavilion with a pink marble dome. Here in the pavilion, at a carved ivory table, sat Aiello to his midday repast, wearing the Utter Black of his position. He was a large man, small-boned, well-fleshed. His silver-gray hair shone fine as a baby’s; he had a baby’s clear skin and wide unwinking stare. His mouth drooped, his eyebrows arched high, conveying a perpetual sense of sardonic and skeptical inquiry.

To the right sat his brother Bustamonte, bearing the title Ayudor—a smaller man, with a shock of coarse dark hair, quick black eyes, knobs of muscles in his cheeks. Bustamonte was energetic beyond the usual Paonese norm. He had toured two or three nearby worlds, returning with a number of alien enthusiasms which had gained him the dislike and distrust of the Paonese population.

On Aiello’s other side sat his son, Beran Panasper, the Medallion. He was a thin child, hesitant and diffident, with fragile features and long black hair, resembling Aiello only in his clear skin and wide eyes.

Across the table sat a score of other men: functionaries of the government, petitioners, three commercial representatives from Mercantil, and a hawk-faced man in brown and gray who spoke to no one. With greater or less appetite they devoted themselves to food served in mother-of-pearl tureens by small sober-faced girls. Aiello was attended by special maids wearing long gowns striped with black and gold. Each dish served him was first tasted by Bustamonte—a custom residual from times when assassination was the rule rather than the exception. Another manifestation of this ancient caution could be found in the three Mamarone standing vigilant behind Aiello. These were enormous creatures tattooed dead-black—neutraloids with reservoirs of synthetic hormones in place of their procreative glands. They wore magnificent turbans of cerise and green, tight pantaloons of the same colors, chest emblems of white silk and silver, and carried shields of refrax to be locked in front of the Panarch in the event of danger.

Aiello morosely nibbled his way through the prolonged meal and finally indicated that he was ready to conduct the business of the day.

Vilnis Therobon, wearing the ocher and purple of Public Welfare, arose and came to stand before the Panarch. He stated his problem: the cereal farmers of the South Impland savannahs were beset by drought; he, Therobon, wished to bring water from across the Central Impland watershed, but had been unable to work out a satisfactory arrangement with the Minister of Irrigation. Aiello listened, asked a question or two, then, in a brief sentence, authorized a water-purification plant at the Koroi-Sherifte Isthmus, with a ten-thousand mile pipe-line network to take the water where needed.

The Minister of Public Health spoke next. The population of Dronamand’s central plain had expanded past available housing. To build new dwellings would encroach upon land assigned to food production, and would hasten the famine already threatening. Aiello, munching a crescent of pickled melon, advised transportation of a million persons weekly to Nonamand, the bleak southern continent. In addition, all infants arriving to parents with more than two children should be subaqueated. These were the classical methods of population control; they would be accepted without resentment.

Young Beran watched with fascination, awed by the vastness of his father’s power. He was seldom allowed to witness state business, for Aiello disliked children and showed only small concern for the upbringing of his son. Recently the Ayudor Bustamonte had interested himself in Beran, talking for hours on end, until Beran’s head grew heavy and his eyes drooped. They played odd games which bewildered Beran and left with him a peculiar uneasiness. And of late there had been blank spaces in his mind, lapses of memory.

As Beran sat now at the ivory table in the pavilion, he held a small unfamiliar object in his hand. He could not recall where he had found it, but it seemed as if there were something he must do. He looked at his father, and felt a sudden hot panic. He gasped, clamped his teeth on his lower lip. He whispered feverishly to himself, Why should I do that, why do I feel this way? He found no answer. There was a roiling inside his head, a series of strains which left him dizzy. Bustamonte was looking at him, frowning. Beran felt awkward and guilty. He made a great effort, pulled himself erect in his chair. He must watch and listen, as Bustamonte had instructed him. Furtively he inspected the object he held in his hand. It was at once familiar and strange. As if in recollection from a dream, he knew he had use for this object—and again came the wave of panic.

Beran tasted a bit of toasted fish-tail, but as usual lacked appetite. He felt the brush of eyes; someone was watching him. Turning his head, he met the gaze of the hawk-faced stranger in brown and gray. The man had an arresting face, long and thin with a high forehead, a wisp of mustache, a nose like the prow of a ship. His hair was glossy black, thick and short as fur. His eyes were set deep; his gaze, dark and magnetic, awoke all of Beran’s uneasiness. The object in his hand felt heavy and hot. He wanted to fling it down, but could not. His fingers refused to relax their grip. He sat sweating and miserable.

The last man to be heard was Sigil Paniche, business representative from Mercantil, the planet of a nearby sun. Paniche was a thin man, quick and clever, with copper-colored skin and burnished hair, which he wore wound into knobs and fastened with turquoise clasps. He was a typical Mercantil, a salesman and trader, as essentially urban as the Paonese were people of soil and sea. His world sold to the entire cluster; Mercantil space-barges roved everywhere, delivering machinery, vehicles, air-craft, communication equipment, tools, weapons, power-generators, returning to Mercantil with food-stuffs, luxury hand-crafts and whatever raw material might be cheaper to import than to synthesize.

Bustamonte whispered to Aiello, who shook his head. Bustamonte whispered more urgently; Aiello turned him a slow caustic side-glance. Bustamonte sat back sullenly.

At a signal from Aiello, the captain of the Mamarone guard addressed the table in his soft scraped-steel voice. “By the Panarch’s order, all those who have completed their business will depart.” Chairs slid softly on the marble floor. The ministers arose, spread their arms in the Paonese gesture of respect, and departed.

Across the table, only Sigil Paniche, his two aides, and the stranger in brown and gray remained.

The Mercantil moved to a chair opposite Aiello; he bowed, seated himself, his aides coming to stand at his back.

Panarch Aiello spoke an off-hand greeting; the Mercantil responded in broken Paonese.

Aiello toyed with a bowl of brandied fruit, appraising the Mercantil. “Pao and Mercantil have traded for many centuries, Sigil Paniche.”

The Mercantil bowed. “We fulfill the exact letter of our contracts—this is our creed.”

Aiello laughed shortly. The Mercantil looked at him in surprise, but said nothing. “Trade with Pao has enriched you.”

“We trade with twenty-eight worlds, Supremacy.”

Aiello leaned back in his chair. “There are two matters I wish to discuss with you. You have just heard our need for water on Impland. We require an installation to demineralize an appropriate quantity of ocean-water. You may refer this matter to your engineers.”

“I am at your orders, sir.”{The Paonese and Mercantil languages were as disparate as the two ways of living. The Panarch, making the statement, ‘There are two matters I wish to discuss with you’, used words which, accurately rendered, would read: Statement-of-importance (a single word in Paonese)—in a state of readiness—two; ear—of Mercantil—in a state of readiness; mouth—of this person here—in a state of volition. The italicized words represent suffixes of condition.

The necessary paraphrasing makes the way of speaking seem cumbersome. But the Paonese sentence, ‘Rhomel-en-shrai bogal-Mercantil-nli-en mous-es-nli-ro.’ requires only three more phonemes than, “There are two matters I wish to discuss with you.”

The Mercantil express themselves in neat quanta of precise information. ‘I am at your orders, sir.’ Literally translated this is: I—Ambassador—here-now gladly-obey the just-spoken-orders of-you—Supreme Royalty—here-now heard and understood.}

Aiello spoke in a level emotionless voice, almost casual. “We have ordered from you, and you have delivered, large quantities of military equipment.”

Sigil Paniche bowed agreement. With no outward sign or change he suddenly seemed uneasy. “We fulfilled the exact requirements of your order.”

“I cannot agree with you,” Aiello responded.

Sigil Paniche became stiff; his words were even more formal than before. “I assure Your Supremacy that I personally checked delivery. The equipment was exactly as described in order and invoice.”

Aiello went on in his coldest tones. “You delivered sixty-four* barrage monitors, 512 patrol flitters, a large number of multiple resonators, energetics, wasps and hand-weapons. These accord with the original order.”{The Paonese number system is based on the number 8. Hence, a Paonese 100 is 64, 1000 is 512, etc.}

“Exactly, sir.”

“However, you knew the purpose behind this order.”

Sigil Paniche bowed his copper-bright head. “You refer to conditions on the planet Batmarsh.”

“Just so. The Dolberg dynasty has been eliminated. A new dynasty, the Brumbos, have assumed power. New Batch rulers customarily undertake military ventures.”

“Such is the tradition,” agreed the Mercantil.

“You have supplied these adventurers with armament.”

Sigil Paniche once again agreed. “We sell to any who will buy. We have done so for many years—you must not reproach us for this.”

Aiello raised his eyebrows. “I do not do so. I reproach you for selling us standard models while offering the Brumbo Clan equipment against which you guarantee we will be powerless.”

Sigil Paniche blinked. “What is the source of your information?”

“Must I divest myself of every secret?” inquired Aiello, curling his lip.

“No, no,” exclaimed Paniche. “Your allegations, however, seem mistaken. Our policy is absolute neutrality.”

“Unless you can profit by double-dealing.”

Sigil Paniche drew himself erect. “Supremacy, I am official representative of Mercantil on Pao. Your statements to me, therefore, must be regarded as formal insults.”

Aiello appeared to be faintly surprised. “Insult a Mercantil? Preposterous!”

Sigil Paniche’s skin burnt vermilion.

Bustamonte whispered in Aiello’s ear. Aiello shrugged, turned back to the Mercantil. His voice was cool, his words carefully measured. “For the reasons I have stated, I declare that the Mercantil contract has not been fulfilled. The merchandise will not perform its function. We will not pay.”

Sigil Paniche affirmed, “The delivered articles meet the contractual specifications!” By his lights nothing more need be said.

“But they are useless to our need, a fact known on Mercantil.”

Sigil Paniche’s eyes gleamed. “No doubt Your Supremacy has considered the long-range effects of such a decision.”

Bustamonte could not restrain a retort. “Better had the Mercantil consider the long-range effect of double-dealing.”

Aiello made a small gesture of annoyance, and Bustamonte sat back.

Sigil Paniche looked over his shoulder to his two subordinates; they exchanged emphatic whispers. Then Paniche asked, “May I inquire as to what ‘long-range effects’ the Ayudor alluded?”

Aiello nodded. “I direct your attention to the gentleman at your left hand.”

All eyes swung to the stranger in brown and gray. “Who is this man?” Sigil Paniche asked sharply. “I do not recognize his clothes.”

Aiello was served a bowl of green syrup by one of the black and gold-clad maidens. Bustamonte dutifully sampled a spoonful. Aiello drew the bowl close to him, sipped. “This is Lord Palafox. He is here to offer us advice.” He sipped once more from the bowl, pushed it aside. The maiden quickly removed it.

Sigil Paniche surveyed the stranger with cold hostility. His aides muttered to each other. Bustamonte sat slumped into his seat, as if disassociating himself from whatever understanding existed between Aiello and the stranger.

“After all,” said Aiello, “if we can not rely upon Mercantil for protection, we must seek elsewhere.”

Sigil Paniche once more turned to whisper with his counselors. There was a hushed argument; Paniche snapped his fingers in emphasis, the counselors bowed and became silent. Paniche turned back to Aiello. “Your Supremacy naturally will act as he thinks best. I must point out that the products of Mercantil are surpassed nowhere.”

Aiello glanced at the man in brown and gray. “I am not disposed to dispute this point. Lord Palafox might have something to say.”

Palafox, however, shook his head.

Paniche motioned to one of his subordinates, who advanced reluctantly. “Allow me to display one of our new developments.” The counselor handed him a case, from which Paniche withdrew a pair of small transparent hemispheres.

The neutraloid bodyguards, at the sight of the case, had leapt in front of Aiello with their refrax shields; Sigil Paniche grimaced painfully. “No need for alarm—there is no danger here.”

He displayed the hemispheres to Aiello, then placed them over his eyes. “Our new optidynes! They function either as microscope or telescope! The enormous range of their power is controlled by the ocular muscles and the eyelids. Truly marvellous! For instance —” he turned, looked out the window of the pavilion “—I see quartz crystals in the stones of the sea-wall. A gray chit stands under that far funella bush.” He turned his gaze to his sleeve. “I see the threads, the fibers of the threads, the laminae of the fibers.”

He looked at Bustamonte. “I note the pores of the Ayudor’s estimable nose. I observe several hairs in his nostril.” He glanced at the Medallion, carefully avoiding the solecism of staring at Aiello. “The brave lad is excited. I count his pulse: one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, eleven, twelve, thirteen … He holds a tiny object between his fingers, no larger than a pill.” He turned, inspected the man in gray. “I see …” he stared; then with a sudden gesture, removed the optidynes from his eyes.

“What did you see?” Bustamonte inquired.

Sigil Paniche studied the tall man in perturbation and awe. “I saw his sign. The tattoo of a Breakness wizard!”

The words seemed to arouse Bustamonte. He glared in accusation at Aiello, gave Palafox a look of loathing, then glowered down at the carved ivory of the table.

“You are correct,” said Aiello. “This is Lord Palafox, Dominie of Breakness Institute.”

Sigil Paniche bowed his head frigidly. “Will your Supremacy allow me a question?”

“Ask what you will.”

“What does Lord Palafox do here on Pao?”

Aiello said blandly, “He came at my behest. I need expert advice. Certain of my confidants —” he glanced rather contemptuously toward Bustamonte “—feel that we can buy Mercantil co-operation. He believes that for a price you will betray the Brumbos of Batmarsh in the same way you have already betrayed us.”

Sigil Paniche said in a brittle voice, “We deal in all types of merchandise. We can be engaged for special research.”

Aiello twisted his pink mouth into a sneer of repugnance. “I would rather deal with Lord Palafox.”

Paniche could hardly contain his anger. “Why are you telling me this?”

“I would not have your syndics think that their treachery goes unnoticed.”

Sigil Paniche made a great effort. “I urge you to reconsider. In no way have we cheated you. We delivered exactly what was ordered. Mercantil has served you well in the past—we hope to serve you in the future. If you deal with Breakness, think what the bargain entails!”

“I have made no bargains with Lord Palafox,” said Aiello, with a swift glance toward the man in brown and gray.

“Ah, but you will—and, if I may speak openly …” He waited.

“Speak,” said Aiello.

“… to your eventual dismay.” He became emboldened. “Never forget, Supremacy, that they build no weapons on Breakness. They make no application of their science.” He looked to Palafox. “Is this not true?”

“Not altogether,” replied Palafox. “A Dominie of the Institute is never without his weapons.”

“And Breakness manufactures weapons for export?” Paniche persisted.

“No,” answered Palafox with a slight smile. “It is well-known that we manufacture only knowledge and men.”

Sigil Paniche turned to Aiello. “Only weapons can guard you against the fury of the Brumbos. Why not examine, at least, some of our new products?”

“This can do no harm,” Bustamonte urged. “And perhaps we will not require Palafox after all.”

Aiello turned him a peevish glance, but Sigil Paniche already was displaying a globe-shaped projector with a hand grip. “This is one of our most ingenious developments.”

The Medallion Beran, watching in absorption, felt a sudden quiver, a pang of indescribable alarm. Why? How? What? He half-raised in his seat, then, turning his head, met Bustamonte’s eyes. They were bright with meaning. Beran’s mind filled with dread. He must leave the pavilion, he must go! But he could not move from his seat. He bowed his head, waited.

Paniche was directing his tool toward the pink marble dome. “Observe, if you will.” The top half of the room went black, as if concealed by a black shutter, as if snatched from existence. “The device seeks out, attracts and absorbs energy of the visual phase,” explained the Mercantil. “It is invaluable for the confusion of an adversary.”

Beran turned his head, looked helplessly toward Bustamonte.

“Now notice!” cried Sigil Paniche. “I turn this knob here …” He turned the knob; the room was blotted out entirely.

Bustamonte’s cough was the only sound to be heard.

Then there was a hiss of surprise, a rustle of movement, a choking sound.

Light returned to the pavilion. A great horrified gasp sounded; all eyes went to the Panarch. He lay back into his pink silk divan. His leg jerked up, kicked, set dishes and flagons on the table rattling.

“Help, doctor!” cried Bustamonte. “To the Panarch!”

Aiello’s fists beat a spasmodic tattoo on the tabletop; his eyes went dim, his head fell forward in the complete lassitude of death.

The doctors gingerly examined Aiello, a gross hulk with arms and legs sprawled in four directions. Beran, the new Panarch, Deified Breath of the Paonese, Tyrant-Absolute of Eight Continents, Ocean-Master, Suzerain of the System and Acknowledged Leader of the Universe (among his other honorary titles), sat fidgeting, evidencing neither comprehension nor grief. The Mercantil stood in a taut group, muttering to each other; Palafox, who had not moved from his seat at the table, watched with completely impassive features.

Bustamonte, now Ayudor-Senior, lost no time in asserting the authority which, as regent for the new Panarch, he might be expected to employ. He waved his hand; a squad of Mamarone leapt to stations surrounding the pavilion.

“None will leave,” declared Bustamonte, “until these tragic circumstances are clarified.” He turned to the doctors. “Have you determined the cause of death?”

The first of the three doctors bowed. “The Panarch succumbed to poison. It was administered by a sting-missile, thrust into the left side of his throat. The poison …” He consulted the dials, the shadow-graphs and color-wheels of an analyzer into which his colleagues had inserted samples of Aiello’s body-fluids. “The poison appears to be a mepothanax derivative, extin most probably.”

“In that case,” spoke Bustamonte, and his gaze swung from the huddle of Mercantil traders to the grave Lord Palafox, “the crime was committed by someone in this room.”

Sigil Paniche diffidently approached the corpse. “Allow me to examine this sting.”

The chief doctor indicated a metal plate. Here rested the black sting with its small white bulb.

Sigil Paniche’s face was strained. “This object is that which I glimpsed in the hand of the Medallion, no more than a few moments ago.”

Bustamonte succumbed to rage. His jowls went pink, his eyes swam with fire. “This accusation from you—a Mercantil swindler!—is a horror of impertinence, an epic of cruelty! You accuse the lad of killing his father?”

Beran began to whimper; his head wobbled from side to side. “Quiet,” hissed Bustamonte. “The nature of the deed is clear!”

“No, no,” protested Sigil Paniche, and all the Mercantil stood blanched and helpless.

“There is no room for doubt,” Bustamonte stated inexorably. “You came to Pergolai aware that your duplicity had been discovered. You were resolved to evade the penalties.”

“This is nonsense!” cried the Mercantil. “How could we plan so idiotic an act?”

Bustamonte ignored the protest. In a voice of thunder he continued. “The Panarch would not be mollified. You hid yourself in darkness, you killed the great leader of the Paonese!”

“No, no!”

“But you will derive no benefit from the crime! I, Bustamonte, am even less placable than Aiello! As my first act I pronounce judgment upon you.”

Bustamonte held up his arm, palm outward, fingers clenched over thumb—the traditional death-signal of the Paonese. He called to the commander of the Mamarone. “Subaqueate these creatures!” He glanced into the sky; the sun was low. “Make haste, before sundown!”

Hurriedly, for a Paonese superstition forbade killing during the hours of darkness, the Mamarone carried the traders to a cliff overlooking an arm of the sea. Their feet were thrust into ballasted tubes, they were flung out through the air. They struck the water, sank, and the surface was calm as before.

Twenty minutes later, by order of Bustamonte, the body of Aiello was brought forth. Without ceremony it was weighted and cast after the Mercantil. Once again the sea showed a quick white blossom of foam; once again it rolled quiet and blue.