by Jack Vance
“A year.”
Beran stepped back, made a careful estimate of the situation. The plan seemed feasible; in any case, what could he lose? He glanced down at his clothes: typical Breakness wear. Retiring to a corner, he pulled off his blouse and singlet; by reversing their order, and allowing them to hang loose outside his trousers, he achieved an effect approximately Paonese.
He fell in at the end of the line. The youth ahead of him looked back curiously, but made no comment. Presently he came to the registration desk. The clerk was a young Institute don four or five years older than himself. He seemed bored with his task and barely glanced up when Beran came to the desk.
“Name?” asked the clerk in heavy Paonese.
“Ercole Paraio.”
The clerk broodingly scanned the list. “What are the symbols?”
Beran spelled forth the fictitious name.
“Strange,” muttered the clerk. “It’s not on the roster … Some inefficient fool …” His voice dwindled; he twitched the sheet. “The symbols again?”
Beran spelled the name, and the clerk added it to the registration manifest. “Very well — here is your pass-book. Carry it at all times on Breakness. You will surrender it when you return to Pao.”
Beran followed the others to a waiting vehicle, and in the new identity of Ercole Paraio, rode down the slope to a new dormitory. It seemed a fantastic hope … And yet — why not? The apprentice linguists had no reason to accuse him; their minds were occupied by the novelty of Breakness. Who would investigate Beran, the neglected ward of Palafox? No one. Each student of the Institute was responsible only to himself. As Ercole Paraio, he could find enough freedom to maintain the identity of Beran Panasper, until such time as Beran should disappear … and if his ploy were discovered, what then? What harm could come?
Beran, with the other apprentice linguists from Pao, was assigned a sleeping cubicle and a place at the refectory table. In the morning the lessons would begin.
The class was convocated the next morning in a bare stone hall roofed with clear glass. The wan sunlight slanted in, cut the wall with a division between light and shade.
A young Institute don named Finisterle, one of Palafox’s many sons, appeared to address the group. Beran had noticed him many times — in the corridors of the Institute, tall, even more gaunt than the Breakness norm, with Palafox’s prow-like nose and commanding forehead, but with brooding brown eyes and a dark-oak skin inherited from his nameless mother. He spoke in a quiet, almost gentle voice, looking from face to face, and Beran wondered whether Finisterle would recognize him, and if he did, what his reaction might be.
“In a sense, you are an experimental group,” said Finisterle. “It is necessary that many Paonese learn many languages swiftly. Training here on Breakness may be a means to this end.
“Perhaps in some of your minds is confusion. Why, you ask, must we learn three new languages?
“In your case, the answer is simple: you will be an elite managerial corps — you will coordinate, you will expedite, you will instruct.
“But this does not completely answer your question. Why, you ask, must anyone learn a new language? The response to this question is found in the science of dynamic linguistics. Here are the basic precepts, which I will enunciate without proof or argument, and which, for the time being at least, you must accept arbitrarily.
“Language determines the pattern of thought, the sequence in which various types of reactions follow acts.
“No language is neutral. All languages contribute impulse to the mass mind, some more vigorously than others. I repeat, we know of no ‘neutral’ language — and there is no ‘best’ or ‘optimum’ language, although Language A may be more suitable for Context X than Language B.
“In an even wider frame of reference, we note that every language imposes a certain world-view upon the mass mind. What is the ‘true’ world-picture? Is there a language to express this ‘true’ world-picture? First, there is no reason to believe that a ‘true’ world-picture, if it existed, would be a valuable or advantageous tool. Second, there is no standard to define the ‘true’ world-picture. ‘Truth’ is contained in the preconceptions of him who seeks to define it. Any organization of ideas whatever presupposes a judgment on the world.”
Beran sat listening in vague wonder. Finisterle spoke in Paonese, with very little of the staccato Breakness accent. His ideas were considerably more moderate and equivocal than any others that Beran had heard expressed around the Institute.
Finisterle spoke further, describing the routine of study, and as he spoke it seemed that his eyes rested ever more frequently and frowningly upon Beran. Beran’s heart began to sink.
But when Finisterle had finished his speech, he made no move to accost Beran, and seemed, rather, to ignore him. Beran thought perhaps he had gone unrecognized after all.
Beran tried to maintain at least the semblance of his former life at the Institute, and made himself conspicuous about the various studios, research libraries and classrooms, so that there should be no apparent diminution in his activity.
On the third day, entering a depiction booth at the library, he almost bumped into Finisterle emerging. The two looked eye to eye. Then Finisterle stepped aside with a polite excuse, and went his way. Beran, his face hot as fire, entered the booth, but was too upset to code for the film he had come to study.
Then the next morning, as luck would have it, he was assigned to a recitation class conducted by Finisterle, and found himself seated across a dark teak table from this ubiquitous son of Palafox.
Finisterle’s expression did not change; he was grave and polite when he spoke to Beran — but Beran thought he saw a sardonic spark in the other man’s eyes. Finisterle seemed too grave, too solicitous, too courteous.
Beran’s nerves could stand no further suspense. After the class he waited in his seat while the others departed.
Finisterle, likewise, had risen to leave. He lifted his eyebrows in polite surprise when Beran spoke to him. “You have a question, Student Paraio?”
“I want to know what you plan toward me. Why don’t you report me to Palafox?”
Finisterle made no pretense of incomprehension. “The fact that as Beran Panasper you attend the Institute, and as Ercole Paraio you study languages with the Paonese? What should I plan, why should I report you?”
“I don’t know. I wonder if you will.”
“I cannot understand how your conduct affects me.”
“You must know I am here as ward of Lord Palafox.”
“Oh indeed. But I have no mandate to guard his interests. Even,” he added delicately, “if I desired to do so.”
Beran looked his surprise. Finisterle went on in a soft voice. “You are Paonese; you do not understand us of Breakness. We are total individuals — each has his private goal. The Paonese word ‘co-operation’ has no counterpart on Breakness. How would I advance myself by monitoring your case to Sire Palafox? Such an act is irreversible. I commit myself without perceptible advantage. If I say nothing, I have alternate channels always open.”
Beran stammered, “Do I understand then, that you do not intend to report me?”
Finisterle nodded. “Not unless it reacts to my advantage. And this I can not envision at the moment.”
Chapter XII
A year passed — a year of anxiety, inward triumph, carefully stifled hope; a year of artifice, of intense study in which the necessity to learn seemed to kindle the powers of learning; a year during which Beran Panasper, the Paonese exile, was an attentive if irregular student at the Institute and Ercole Paraio, the Paonese apprentice linguist, made swift progress in three new languages: Valiant, Technicant and Cogitant.
To Beran’s surprise and to his great advantage, Cogitant proved to be the language of Breakness, modified considerably against the solipsism latent in the original tongue.
Beran thought it best not to display ignorance of current conditions on Pao, and restrained his questions. Nevertheles
s, by circuitous methods, he learned much of what was transpiring on Pao.
On sections of two continents, the Hylanth Littoral of Shraimand, and along the shores of Zelambre Bay on the north coast of Vidamand, dispossession, violence and the misery of refugee camps still continued. No one knew definitely the scope of Bustamonte’s plans — no doubt as Bustamonte intended. In both areas, the original population had been and were being disestablished, while the enclave of new speech expanded, a tide pressing against the retreating shores of the old Paonese customs. The areas affected were still comparatively small, and the new populations very young: children in the first and second octads of life, guided by a sparse cadre of linguists who under pain of death spoke only the new language.
In subdued voices the apprentices recalled scenes of anguish: the absolute passive obduracy of the population, even in the face of starvation; the reprisals, effected with true Paonese disregard for the individual life.
In other respects Bustamonte had proved himself a capable ruler. Prices were stable, the civil service was reasonably efficient. His personal scale of living was splendid enough to gratify the Paonese love of pomp, but not so extravagantly magnificent as to bankrupt the treasury. Only on Shraimand and Vidamand was there real dissatisfaction — and here of course dissatisfaction was a mild word for the sullen rancor, the pain and grief.
Of the infant societies which in due course would expand across the vacated lands, little was known and Beran found it hard to distinguish between speculation and fact.
A person born to the Paonese tradition inherited insensitivity toward human suffering — not so much callousness as an intuition of fate. Pao was a world of vast numbers and cataclysm automatically affected great masses of people. A Paonese hence might be touched by the plight of a bird with a broken wing, even as he ignored news of ten thousand drowning in a tidal wave.
Beran’s Paonese endowment had been modified by his education; for no one could regard the population of Breakness as anything other than a set of discrete units. Perhaps for this reason he was moved by the woe of Shraimand and Vidamand. Hate, an element hitherto foreign to his nature, began to find a place in his mind. Bustamonte, Palafox — these men had vast horrors to answer for!
The year moved to its completion. Beran, through a combination of natural intelligence, zeal and his prior knowledge of the Breakness language, achieved a creditable record as apprentice linguist, and likewise sustained something of his previous program. In effect Beran lived two distinct existences, each insulated from the other. His old life, as student at Breakness Institute, offered no problem, since no one spent an iota of attention on any but his own problems.
As an apprentice linguist, the situation was more difficult. His fellow students were Paonese, gregarious and inquisitive, and Beran won a reputation for eccentricity, for he had neither time nor inclination to join the spare time recreations.
In a jocular moment the students contrived a bastard mish-mash of a language, assembled from scraps of Paonese, Cogitant, Valiant, Technicant, Mercantil and Batch, with a syncretic syntax and heterogeneous vocabulary. This patchwork tongue was known as Pastiche.
The students vied in fluency and used it to the disapproval of the instructors, who felt that the effort might better be spent in their studies. The students, referring to the Valiants, the Technicants and the Cogitants, argued that in all logic and consistency the Interpreters should likewise speak a characteristic tongue — so why not Pastiche?
The instructors agreed in principle, but objected to Pastiche as a formless mélange, a hodge-podge without style or dignity. The students were unconcerned, but nevertheless made amused attempts to contrive style and dignity for their creation.
Beran mastered Pastiche with the others, but took no part in its formulation. With other demands on his attention, he had small energy for linguistic recreations. And ever as the time of return to Pao drew near, Beran’s nerves tautened, and his fear of apprehension increased. A year of hope blasted; how could he bear it?
One month remained, then a week, and the linguists spoke of nothing but Pao. Beran remained apart from the others, pale and anxious, gnawing his lips.
He met Finisterle in one of the dark corridors, and stopped short. Would Finisterle, now reminded, report him; would Finisterle set at nought his work of an entire year? But Finisterle walked past, gaze fixed on some inner image.
Four days, three days, two days — and then during the final recitations the instructor exploded a bombshell. The shock came with such sudden devastation that Beran was frozen in his seat and a pink fog blurred his vision.
“… you will now hear the eminent Dominie who initiated the program. He will explain the scope of your work, the responsibilities that are yours. Here is Lord Palafox.”
Palafox strode into the room, looking neither right nor left. Beran crouched helplessly in his seat, a rabbit hoping to evade the notice of an eagle.
Palafox bowed formally to the class, making a casual survey of faces. Beran sat with head ducked behind the youth ahead; Palafox’s eyes did not linger in his direction.
“I have followed your progress,” said Palafox. “You have done creditably. Your presence here on Breakness was frankly an experiment, and your achievements have been compared to the work of similar groups studying on Pao. Apparently the Breakness atmosphere is a stimulus — your work has been appreciably superior. I understand that you have even evolved a characteristic language of your own — Pastiche.” He smiled indulgently. “It is an ingenious idea, and though the tongue lacks elegance, a real achievement.
“I assume that you understand the magnitude of your responsibilities. You comprise nothing less than the bearings on which the machinery of Pao will run. Without your services, the new social mechanisms of Pao could not mesh, could not function.”
He paused, surveyed his audience; again Beran ducked his head.
Palafox continued in a slightly different tone of voice. “I have heard many theories to explain Panarch Bustamonte’s innovations, and they have been for the most part fallacious. The actuality is basically simple, yet grand in scope. In the past, Paonese society was a uniform organism with weaknesses that inevitably attracted predators. The new diversity creates strength in every direction, protects the areas of former weakness. Such is our design — but how well we succeed only the future can tell. You linguists will contribute greatly to any eventual success. You must school yourselves to flexibility. You must understand the peculiarities of each of the new Paonese societies, for your main task will be to reconcile conflicting interpretations of the same phenomena. In a large measure your efforts will determine the future of Pao.”
He bowed once more and marched for the door. Beran watched him approach with thumping heart. He passed an arm’s length away; Beran could feel the air of his passage. With the utmost difficulty, he prevented himself from hiding his face in his hands. Palafox’s head did not turn; he left the room without slackening his stride. Beran sagged sprawled out, his arms and legs limp. Palafox was not infallible — Palafox had not seen him.
On the day following, the class with great jubilation departed the dormitory and rode the air-bus to the terminal. Among them, concealed by his identity with the others, was Beran.
The class entered the terminal, filed toward the check-off desk. The line moved forward; his mates spoke their names, turned in their pass-books, received passage vouchers, departed through the gate into the waiting lighter. Beran came to the desk. “Ercole Paraio,” he said huskily, putting his passbook down.
“Ercole Paraio.” The clerk checked off the name, pushed across a voucher.
Beran took the voucher with trembling fingers, moved forward, walked as fast as he dared to the gate. He looked neither right nor left, afraid to meet the sardonic gaze of Lord Palafox.
He passed through the gate, into the lighter. Presently the port closed, the lighter rose from the rock-melt flat, swung to the blast of the wind. Up and away from Breakness, up to the orb
iting ship. And finally Beran dared hope that his plan of a year’s duration, his scheme to escape Breakness, might succeed.
The linguists transferred into the ship, the lighter fell away. A pulse, a thud — the voyage had begun.
Breakness astern, Pao ahead. Beran’s escape was reality. He had eluded the vigilance of the Institute, the outwardly insurmountable forces arrayed against him, the merest accident, a blind fluke … the simple wonder of it! But — Beran speculated — was that so incredible, really? Did not many of the great turning points in the history of civilizations, the great changes that shook established customs to their foundations, have their origin in some trivial incident — a shrewd man’s accidental, momentary carelessness, a breakdown or lapse of authority at some vital point? No, it was not too incredible. Many times before, a prisoner, with the lightning at his fingertips, had simply walked out, unobserved and unchallenged. It was one of the recurrent ironies of life.
Chapter XIII
The small white sun dwindled, became a single glitter in the myriad; the ship floated in black space, imperceptibly shifting through the stars of the cluster.
At last yellow Auriol grew bright, tended by blue-green Pao. Beran could not leave the bulls-eye. He watched the world expand, lurch from a disk to a sphere. He traced the configuration of the eight continents, put names to a hundred islands, located the great cities. Nine years had passed — almost half of his life; he could not hope to find Pao the world of his recollections. His perspectives had changed, and Pao had by no means enjoyed nine years of tranquillity. Still, the blue oceans, the verdant islands would be the same; the innumerable villages with whitewashed walls and brown tile roofs, the masses of people — to alter all these would require a greater power than Bustamonte’s.
What if his absence from Breakness Institute had been detected, what if Palafox had communicated with Bustamonte? It was an apprehension that Beran had toyed with all during the voyage. If it were accurate, then awaiting the ship would be a squad of Mamarone, and Beran’s homecoming would be a glimpse or two of the countryside, a lift, a thrust, the rushing air with cloud and sky whirling above, the wet impact, the deepening blue of ocean water as he sank to his death.
