The Languages of Pao

by Jack Vance

  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 overhead. 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. Far from making him uneasy, the prospect filled him with a ghastly exhilaration. Flying over the bleak moors, he felt like a man already dead, a ghost, a fleeting wraith.

  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 clenched his fists, beat them together. “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.”

  Beran slowly seated himself in a nearby chair, watching Finisterle all the while. “The death of Palafox is hardly to your advantage.”

  Finisterle made a non-committal gesture. “A man no matter how remarkable, has only a finite capability. It is no longer a secret that Lord Palafox has come to the margin, and indeed has passed beyond. He 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 heaved a deep sigh. “How long will he stay on Breakness?”

  “Who knows? His arm is mangled; there is much repair to be done.”

  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 into 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.

  Beran watched the warship, a ba
rrel-shaped black hulk, wallow up into the sky and head south. Then he went slowly to his air-car and returned to Eiljanre.

  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.

  Presently there was motion at the door, the Mamarone’s challenge in voices like ripping cloth. Beran identified the visitor, signaled the Mamarone 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, marvelled 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 competivity.”

  “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. Their faces 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 over-rode 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!”