Fletcher Pratt

by Alien Planet

  "Are you so steeped in ignorance then that you do not know that the wise scientists who control our great commonwealth are never unfair? They know that if the state furnished livings to artists many persons disinclined to labor would claim to be artists in order to obtain the benefits of idleness. We hold rightly that a genuine artist will be appreciated by other people who will show their appreciation by maintaining him. This method automatically starves out false artists and forces them to enter work."

  "But aren't there any artists who are genuinely good but are so far ahead of their times that they are not appreciated? We have them where I come from."

  "Child of another age, do you not know that under a true civilization such as that we have achieved all people are equal in artistic appreciation? If an artist is unable to earn his living by pleasing people, a poor artist he must be. I tell you this for your own good as well. You must please people. The future has no arts as distinct from the present."

  (What an ass, I thought. And this was a specimen of the Murasheman philosopher! ... And no wonder a people who regulated things in this way had no poetry. I wondered what their other arts were like.)

  "I see ..." I said, making a show of agreement. "How am I to get in touch with possible clients for my art?"

  "They will search you out," said the philosopher. "It is my recommendation that you give one or two performances at gatherings to spread the news of your arrival. I bid you farewell."

  And rising, he curtsied to me again with the stiff sweep .of a marionette and left. Half an hour later the television-phone announced that new clothes bearing my emblem were being sent to me, and the dumbwaiter, when opened, revealed them as exact duplicates of those I had been wearing, save that a series of concentric rings replaced the star on the shoulder.

  It was while Ashembe was giving me my lesson in Murasheman that evening that the first request for my artistic talents came. The television-phone gave a warning shout, and the panel slid back to show a circle of people seated in a room not unlike my own, one of whom I recognized as a member of the Scientific Board that had conducted my examination.

  I gave them some limericks and what I could remember of "Jabberwocky," remembering in time that the tensal Helmets the members of the board had worn caused them to memorize the other selections they had heard. As the panel slid into place before the picture of the curtseying group I turned to my friend:

  "I'm afraid I'm going to have difficulty if this keeps up," I told him. "I don't know so very much poetry, and they will use those tensals."

  A curious expression of surprise and horror spread over his face. "What's the matter?" I cried.

  "You are not then—inventing these poetry?"

  "Why, of course not. All I've done is recite some of the best poetry I knew."

  He placed his hands on my shoulders and looked at me gravely. "It is contrary to the regulations," he said, "but I am your friend and will say no more of this. I implore you not to reveal it to others."

  "Of course not if you think best. But why?"

  He glanced around as though somebody might overhear us and then shut off the television-phone before replying.

  "Those who create no new art themselves but use the arts others produce are not of the Thutiya Volva."

  "What are they then?"

  "Has none told you of the Thutiya Bunyo? They are the imitative artists who give nothing themselves to the world but only pass on what others have given them. They are of the lowest rank, below even the Biyamo, and their time is mostly devoted to ... despicable duties. If it were found out you had concealed that you were reciting the works of others, you would be sent to the farms." He shuddered. Then, after a moment, "Attempt to make new poetry—in Murasheman, if you can."

  I did try it, but without any great amount of success. Murasheman would be the easiest of languages for a good poet; it lacks in the harsh s and z sounds of English, replacing them with a vast number of labials. It is entirely-monosyllabic. Where a longer word appears it is due to the welding together of a number of monosyllables. "Ashembe," for instance, meaning "Glory of the time spirit," "ashem" being a compound word signifying "exaltation" (ash) "of heart," "em" and "be" being the word for "time spirit."

  Speaking of "be" reminds me of the type of philosophy that passes for a religion in Murashema. They appear to hold (that is, the Bodrog, Davex and Acle do) a belief in an amorphous entity they call "Beyarya," which may be rendered as "the first cause" or the "indestructible spirit of time" in the sense of a spirit of progress. Beyarya is not conceived of as having any interest in mortal affairs. The principal article in the Murasheman ethical code is that one must always tell the truth. They hold that all misconduct flows out of lies, either of omission or commission.

  Beyarya's part in the making of the universe is limited, in Murasheman thought, to having set in motion the chain of events which resulted in the formation of the Murashema and other solar systems. The Murashemans believe that all such systems are governed by a single set of physical laws which are unchanging throughout the universe.

  They believe that the thoughts and actions of men and animals (they deny the existence of a soul and hence make no difference between men and animals) are controlled by these laws, thus touching on the extreme mechanistic point of view.

  This is the Murasheman religion or philosophy in its purest and highest form. Naturally their conception of Beyarya as an impersonal and disinterested force precludes any religious worship or any ministers of religion. In the lower ranks of the people and particularly among the Biyamo and Thutiya Bunyo this religion is incrusted with a certain amount of anthropomorphism. There are numerous superstitions and a tendency to elevate certain heroes of the past to the rank of demigods or intercessors with the divine Beyarya, whom they regard as having a more personal interest in the doings of the individual.

  This philosophy, as I have said, underlies all Murasheman thought. Nevertheless they have philosophers who belong to the Davex class (intellectual workers) and who elaborate on the fundamental idea and apply its tenets in detail to the problems of the individual. The philosophers are very numerous; they are consulted on all knotty ethical points, and the more fashionable ones receive high prices in labor tickets above the fee the state pays them, though this practice is frowned upon by the scientific boards.

  Besides being philosophers, these professional philosophers are acute psychologists. Their mission is not merely to solve the ethical problems of the individual but his business problems as well; in fact, to furnish advice at every turn of his life. Every man and woman is compelled to consult them every so often, and if the records, which are kept in great detail, show that an individual has not had his regular philosophic (or rather psychological) examination, the Scientific Board sends one around.

  XVII

  THE CHAIN of circumstances that led up to the writing of this manuscript began in August of my year 5.

  Through Ashembe I had met another member of the artist caste—Tenengi Anyecso Thutiya Marog—and through him again I was invited to be present at a "gathering." A gathering is, I may explain, the Murasheman equivalent of any kind of more or less formal social evening on Earth; they are limited by custom to those of the same caste and class.

  It was held in a room larger than any of the apartments I had seen thus far, and the decorations on the walls were of animal motifs instead of the uniform geometrical patterns to be seen elsewhere. Instead of the conventional furniture it held only a number of low divans, about a foot high and nearly as wide as a double bed. A cleared space at the window held a dais, behind which the shutters of the room were drawn. It was the only place in Murashema where I had seen interior lighting. Three or four people were standing about talking as we entered, the shoulders of all bearing the concentric rings of the Thutiya Volva. I was introduced to each.

  One of them drew from his pocket a note-pad with a waxed surface on which he proceeded to draw a rapid and unflattering sketch of me, which emphasized my hair a
nd beard. I noted that he used an elongated and carefully trimmed index fingernail for the purpose.

  Commenting upon the sketch, I fell into conversation with him. His name, it appeared, was Ang Redike and he was one of those artists engaged in preparing the backgrounds and costumes for historical "movies" of the same character as those I had seen in the museum.

  "I am surprised," I told him, "that you still need to make them. I should think that in a civilization as standardized as yours everything of that kind would long since have become a mere process of mechanics."

  "That is true," he said, "but there are always more to be made. Events which may seem small have big consequences. Thus there are not yet showings of explorations in space by the Bodrog Fotas, but now that Ashembe has succeeded in finding mercury, that subject is important and must be illustrated."

  "And you sketch me for that?"

  He smiled and nodded. "We have no difficulty with most things of your world. Koumar Ashembe's reports are good. But your appearance is strange.... You must have many violent men there."

  "We have," I admitted briefly, and then to turn the subject, "Why haven't they shown interplanetary exploration before? I should think it would be of the utmost interest." He glanced about quickly, then regarded me for a moment with an intent scrutiny. Then, lowering his voice, "They were failures," he said briefly. "The suicide associations."

  "Suicide associations? What are they and what have they got to do with interstellar travel?"

  Again the apprehensive glance and then, taking me by the arm, Ang Redike led me to one of the divans at the side of the room. "It is not permitted to discuss the subject," he told me in a low tone, "but I will tell.... There are those who believe we have a dying world. They began to form the Associations of the Grehm (I can only translate this as "the hopeless," though it also signifies "the helpless") before the last revolution. They believe that we exist only for pleasure and that the final pleasure is death. They refuse to do labor, doing nothing but holding gatherings and carousing, and at each gathering some member of the Grehm is put to death."

  "Yes," I said, "go on.... Why are they so serious?"

  "Before the last revolution they had almost complete control. It was not discovered then that energy could be released with the mercury tube." He shuddered a little. "The Biyamo and Hetheleg got out of hand and gave themselves up to laziness and carousing. Idon city was ruined and several others. No work was done.... Then the scientific boards found the mercury tube and began to put down the Associations of the Grehm. They established the eugenic regulations then to prevent the Biyamo and Hetheleg from becoming too numerous and sent all the Grehm they could find to the farms."

  "But there are still some left, I take it?" I said.

  "Yes.... They influence the Biyamo and Hetheleg badly. We fear sometimes that all will cease work and civilization fall. Therefore the Scientific Board does not permit any exhibitions of scenes that do not end in success.... They make constant investigations through the philosophers in the Grehm." He shuddered again.

  "But I should think it would be easy—" I began. He stopped me with a gesture. Someone was approaching.

  Before the introduction could take place, however, there came the sound of a soft, sweet-toned bell from the upper end of the room. I looked up to see that it had gradually filled with people, men and women, all comparatively young and nearly all bearing the concentric rings of the Thutiya on their shoulders.

  The bells (I now perceived there was a series of them hanging from a rod) were being played by a performer with a small padded mallet; some subtle, wordless air, without melody, but singularly pleasing in its rapid changes of tempo and tone. A moment later a very soft wind instrument struck in, high-pitched and clear. As the two played their duet a man, standing at the side of the dais, stepped upon it and began to move through the complex figures of a dance. It was all new and rather wonderful to me, but I noted that Ang Redike was bored, and though the rest of the room were listening and watching, they were doing it with an air of politeness rather than with one of enjoyment.

  A few minutes later, as the performance finished on a series of repeated high notes from the wind instrument, one or two persons stood up and curtsied in acknowledgment, but most of the audience merely returned to their interrupted conversation. I turned to my companion.

  "They seemed good to me," I remarked.

  "Merely Thutiya Bunyo," he said disparagingly. "Wait till some of the Volva begin. Ah!"

  A short man, with a round, cherub-like countenance, was making his way to the dais, a painted box about the size of a suitcase in his hand. He looked about the room, nodded a greeting here and there, opened his box and sat down. Someone at the back turned out the lights, and before my eyes had gotten used to the dimness I saw a pale green, ghostly radiance begin to grow from the box. It rose like a note of music, becoming more and more brilliant, and then dying slowly away to an intense blue tone that seemed to penetrate the very walls. Then abruptly the blue was shattered by three vivid orange flashes, so bright they seemed to have material body, and before the last one had died out color on color flowed from the box, inundating the gathering with a wild melody of tints. Here a face would be picked out by a sudden white shaft to fade into dimness in purple shadows; a series of chords in red ran around the room. ...

  I fear my best efforts at description are quite inadequate to tell the beauty of this singular color-organ in the hands of the artist. He used the room and the people in it as his material. The lights sought them out, here and there, focusing the eyes of all present first on one and then another, and so cleverly did the artist manipulate his keys that in each case he seemed to accent some feature that brought out an essential bit of character and follow it with what might be described as notes in color. One felt rather than saw that he was describing the people. It is as impossible for me to express in words what he was doing as it would be for me to manipulate the instrument.

  As the lights went on again at the end of his performance, a low murmur of appreciation ran round the room, and almost as one person we stood up to express our appreciation to the little apple-faced man. I felt that I had passed through an emotional experience.

  "Who is he?" I whispered.

  "Thase Tobong," answered Ang Redike. "He is a good artist. You think so?"

  "Wonderful," I agreed. "We have nothing like it—"

  "And we have nothing like your art. But then every artist creates his own art to a degree. Come, they wish you."

  To my embarrassment I saw that people were staring at me and the host of the evening was approaching. It was a nervous moment. My previous audiences had all been Bodrog, that is, scientists of one kind or another, men no doubt brilliant but lacking in artistic sense, at least if they were anything like those on Earth. (I remember old Professor Burton, one of my clients,* a splendid biologist and a delightful old soul who thought Laura Jean Libbey ranked just above Shakespeare.) But now I was among a gathering of artists. Surely they would see through me....

  * Another check on the accuracy of the manuscript. The Educational Directory shows that a Professor A. M. Burton was head of the biology department at Galton College about 1920.

  At all events, I gave them the best poetry I could, inwardly blessing the high-school teacher who had made me learn Marc Anthony's oration over the body of Caesar by rote. It saved me and I found myself bowing and blushing my thanks for more unearned applause.

  I was followed by a violinist (I call him a violinist to give some idea of what he was like in familiar terms), who played a long instrument with strings that spread out fan-wise from the point where they crossed the bridge at its base. He apparently depended for his tone not so much on fingering (the strings were to widely spread for that) as upon exquisitely careful bowing. The resultant music was fundamentally much the same as that I had heard on my first day in my own dining room, high-pitched squeals, utterly lacking in any sort of charm for me.

  There were more entertainers�
�Ang Redike himself, with a series of sheets of some white material and a box of liquid colors which he sprayed upon the sheets through stencils of adjustable size and shape to form cubistic portraits of those present; a wind instrument player, more dancers and an emaciated individual who demonstrated with lightning rapidity a complex series of manoeuvres in the cubical chess game Ashembe and I had played.

  But by the time this last performer had taken his place on the dais I had begun to notice something peculiar about the room. There was a faint but perfectly definite odor, not unlike that of the piney slopes of the Adirondacks, most peculiar of smells for that far place.

  Again I turned to Ang Redike. "What is that—" (What was their word for odor? For lack of it I wrinkled my nose and sniffed expansively.)

  "You do not know the gas?" he asked. "What do they do for intellectual stimulus on your Earth when they hold gatherings?"

  "Why, we usually drink liquids containing alcohol," I said. "Although when I left there was effort on foot to prohibit such drinks."

  "Alcohol! How curious!" He laughed in the polite chuckle, which is all the cultured Murashemans allow themselves. "But alchool has lowering physiological effects, has it not? It is a poison."

  "In sufficient quantity, I believe," I said. "Although it is a matter in dispute on our Earth. There are parties for it and against it. Those in favor of it are called wets and those opposed dries." (The odor was becoming stronger and even a little dizzying.)

  "Wets—ha, ha!" said Ang Redike, lolling back on the lounge. (What ailed him? If I had not felt such a sense of lazy comfort, I would have asked.) I looked about. Was it my dizzied senses or was the room really a trifle misty? A little hum of conversation mingled with the gurgling laughter of the Murashemans.

  Ang Redike sat up suddenly. (Odd how he seemed to be swimming rather than moving in that misty and uncanny light.) He whistled and motioned with his arm and then sank back as though exhausted. I would have sat up myself had it not been too much of an effort.