This was a mistake, Johor. I had underestimated his demoralization, for I was just in time to catch him by the arm as he flung himself over.
‘Really,’ I heard myself scolding him, ‘how irresponsible can you get? You know quite well you would only have to come back and do it again! You know how much it costs, having to refit you with a new outfit, getting you into the right place at the right time …’ I record this little tirade to show you how quickly I was affected by the general atmosphere; are you sure I am really suitable for this work? But he at once collapsed into self-pity and self-accusation, said he was fit for nothing (yes, I have seen the echo here – thanks!), not up to it, and unworthy of Canopus. Yes, he was prepared to agree, if I insisted, because he knew I could not be wrong, that Shammat was evil; but it was merely an intellectual assent, his emotions were at odds with his thoughts, he could not believe that he would ever be a whole person again … All this to the accompaniment of Tchaikovsky and Wagner.
I switched on a particularly therapeutic programme illustrated by newsreels of a recent disturbance on a planet situated on the very edge of the Sirian Empire where it borders the Puttioran Empire. Constantly invaded by one or the other of the two Great Powers, sometimes described as Sirian and sometimes as Puttioran, the inhabitants of Polshi, because of these continual strains and tensions and persecutions, because of the efforts they have always had to make to preserve their planetary identity and their sense of being Polshan, have evolved a dashing, heroic, audacious planetary character for which they have long been famous. Throughout two vast Empires (I do not mention our own) the Polshans are known for this peculiarly dramatic and even self-immolating nature. Their more prudent neighbours criticize them for it, notably those most firmly under the heel of (forgive me) Puttiora or Sirius; but they are admired by other, less pressured, planets, usually in inverse proportion to their distance from centres of power and oppression. Thus, ‘the Polshan cause’ tends to be celebrated most passionately in planets like Volyen, which has not itself been recently invaded.
The wars and massacres that have always afflicted Polshi have recently been absent, long enough for a generation to grow up with no personal experience of anything but the verbal stimulations of Sirian Rhetoric, the ideas generated by Sirian Virtue. And these most admirably brave people announced to Sirius that, by definition, Sirian Virtue and the custodians of it must admire planetary self-determination, justice, freedom, democracy (and so on and so forth). Therefore, Polshi intended forthwith to take control of its own affairs. At the same time, these intrepid ones invited all the neighbouring Sirian colonies to follow the roads of self-determination, democracy, justice, Virtue (and so on and so forth). Sirius (in this case the Conservers) watched all this without surprise, since rebellion is the main thing they study and what they expect, and did nothing whatsoever, refraining from intervention until that moment when the heroes were on the verge of setting up a government that repudiated Sirian Virtue in favour of their own. And then the Sirians moved in. By delaying as they did, they allowed every individual with the potential for Subversion/Self-determination/Heroism/Sedition/ Anti-Sirian feelings / Polshan Virtue (and so on and so forth) to expose himself or herself, and were thus enabled to arrest, destroy, isolate, and make harmless the possible opposition. For that generation, at least.
‘Klorathy!’ demanded Incent, his eyes streaming, ‘are you saying that tyranny should never be resisted?’
‘When have you ever heard me say so?’
‘Ah, what nobility! What self-sacrifice! What daring! What reckless heroism! And you stand there dry-eyed, Klorathy! Empires rise and Empires fall, you say, and I remember your cool exposition of the subject in our classes on Canopus. But they fall, surely, because subject peoples rebel?’
‘Incent, would you not agree that the outcome of this particular heroic episode was not all that hard to foresee?’
‘I don’t want to think about it! I can’t bear it! I wish I was dead! I don’t want to know! Switch that beastly thing off.’
‘Incent,’ I said, ‘you are going to have to take it from me that you are very ill. But you will recover, I assure you.’
I withdrew, leaving him sobbing and wringing his hands, then stretching out his arms to the waves as if he needed to embrace the ocean itself.
On consultation with doctors, I discovered that no one before had ever resisted such treatment for so long. I could see they were at a loss. After all, this intense variety of homoeopathic medicine is the best – or worst – we can do. We have never, in short, had a case like Incent’s. In every other acute case the stage of ‘So what!’ followed by rapid recovery, has been reached fairly quickly.
The doctors having said they had no suggestions, I reassured them that I would think it all over and take responsibility.
I then briefly visited the Department of Rhetorical Logic, which works on the opposite principle, withdrawal of emotional stimulus.
High in the wing of the building away from the ocean, overlooking the beginnings of the desert, with the mountain peaks on one side and the dark stillness of the forest on the other, we have built rooms of stark white that are kept silent except for the clicking and ticking of the computers, into which are fed by remote control historical propositions such as capitalism equals injustice, communism equals injustice, a free market equals progress, a monarchy is the guarantee of stability, the dictatorship of the proletariat must be followed by the withering away of the state. And so on.
But this ward was empty: its time has not yet come.
I did not take Agent 23 with me to visit Ormarin. He reported unmistakable symptoms of Rhetoric, asked to be put into curative custody, and then showed that the disease had indeed set in seriously by ceasing to see that he was ill and announcing with much emotion that the elevated language of the Constitution of the Volyen ‘Empire,’ which promises happiness, freedom, and justice to every one of its citizens as inherent, inalienable rights, seemed to him the ‘most moving’ thing he had ever encountered. He is drying off in Mild Rhetoric and will soon be normal.
Ormarin.
I can most quickly characterize him by saying that he embodies a number of contradictions: his situation is one of high tension, and this is his strength as well as his weakness.
You will recall that when Volyen conquered Volyendesta, the indigenous inhabitants were murdered or enslaved, and their land was taken from them. You might not remember, because of its basic improbability, that this cruel process was accomplished to the tune of Rhetoric claiming that it was for the benefit of the said natives. The ability to disguise truth by the processes of Rhetoric is of course one in which our Canopean Historical Psychologists are particularly interested in connection with the Sirian Empire, but I feel that they have overlooked the extremities of this pathological condition as exemplified in the Volyen ‘Empire.’ At any rate, I am drawing attention to this now because it is of vital importance to what I am finding out as I move (for the most part secretly) about Volyen and its four colonies.
Ormarin has all his life represented ‘the underdog,’ though this does not mean the miserable semi-slaves but, rather, the less fortunate of the conquering minority. As an intelligent being he is well aware of the anomaly and, to compensate, is capable, at the slightest stimulus, of providing floods of compassionate and sorrowing words describing their condition. This ability to, as it were, mourn verbally is appreciated by his fellow settlers, who demand from him on ceremonial occasions set pieces of grief on behalf of the exploited, beginning with words such as these: ‘And now I want to say that the condition of our fellow beings who are workers like ourselves is always in the forefront of my mind …’ And so on.
That, then, is the first and worst contradiction in Ormarin.
The next is that, while he represents the worse-off of the settlers, some of whom are indeed deprived, his own way of living can hardly be described as lacking in anything. His tastes are those of the fortunate minority everywhere in the Volyen ‘
Empire’; but he has to conceal this. There was a period when he saw this as hypocrisy and went through some uneasy reversals: making a point of living at one time on the basic wage of the poor, at another on his wage as an employed official; at yet another time making speeches saying that although his position necessitated his living better than the average, this was only to demonstrate what was possible for everyone – and so on. But then there entered another factor – you will have guessed what and who – Shammat, the Father of Lies, in the person of Krolgul. Up and down and around the five units of this ‘Empire’ went Krolgul, as he still does, at his work of making black white, white black.
He is a personable creature, with all the attractions of a robust and unconscious vitality, and he won Ormarin over by his rumbustious enjoyment in putting in clear and unlikable terms the uneasy compromise of which Ormarin’s life is composed.
‘You’ve got to face it,’ said he. ‘In the times in which we have to live, bad luck for us all, we must go with the tide and adapt ourselves to circumstances.’
He evolved for Ormarin a persona that would reassure the people who kept him in power, actually an image of themselves, or of how they like to see themselves. Ormarin was taught to present himself as a solid, reliable, affable man – genially tolerant of his own deficiencies with regard to the fleshpots – though these were not allowed to be visible as more than the merest peccadilloes – humorous, slow-speaking, full of common sense.
In fact, in the case of Ormarin the picture is not wildly inaccurate: Ormarin does possess many of these qualities. But Krolgul has been creating these personae by the score, all over the ‘Empire,’ so that everywhere you go you meet representatives of ‘the workers’ or ‘the people’ who are affable, solid, et cetera, and who all, without exception, smoke a pipe and drink beer and whisky (in moderation, of course), these habits being associated with sound and reliable behaviour.
Ormarin soon stopped pointing out that he loathed pipes and beer, did not care for whisky, and preferred a certain brand of cigarettes captured by space raiders from Sirian cargo ships, along with Sirian (Mother Planet) nectar similarly acquired. He is uneasy about his acquired personality, and apologizes for it if he thinks you are likely to be critical. This, then, is a second strain, or contradiction.
Third, he is of Volyen stock, yet all his life has resisted – verbally – Volyen domination, though he is at the same time a welcome visitor on Volyen, where his children were educated. Volyen drains wealth from its four colonies while presenting itself as their benefactor under such slogans as ‘Aid to the Unfortunate’ and ‘Development for the Backward.’ Ormarin, then, is continually involved with schemes to ‘advance’ Volyendesta, originating from Volyen, but he protests continually, in magnificent speeches that draw tears from every eye (even my own if I don’t watch myself, and yes, I am conscious of the dangers), that these schemes are hypocritical.
Fourth. Sirius. Because Volyen itself is comparatively resistant, with a high morale among the population, who are well fed and well housed and educated, compared with the four colonies, Sirius ignores it (except for infiltrating Volyen with spies) and is putting its pressure first and foremost on the colonies, particularly Volyendesta. Ormarin, hating the ‘crude imperialism’ of Volyen – which is how he, on behalf of his constituents, has always described Volyen, the birthplace of some of his recent forebears – is able more easily than the inhabitants of Volyen itself to be sympathetic to Sirius, whose approaches are always in terms of ‘aid’ or ‘advice,’ and of course in interminable and highly developed rhetorical descriptions of the colonial situation of Volyendesta.
Volyendesta, like Volyenadna, like Maken and Slovin, is short of hospitals, physical and emotional, short of every kind of educational institution, lacking in amenities Volyen takes for granted – and these Sirius offers, ‘without strings.’
Sometimes, among the proliferations of Volyen Rhetoric, we find pithy and accurate phrases. One of them is ‘There is no such thing as a free lunch.’ Unfortunately Ormarin was not applying this mnemonic to his own situation.
My situation was complicated by the fact that I didn’t want him to apply it to me, where it doesn’t apply.
I found him on an official occasion: he was standing on a low hillside, with a group of associates, watching a section of road being built by a Sirian contractor. The road, an admirable construction, a double highway, is to stretch from capital to seaport. Sirius flies in continually renewed supplies of labour from her Planets 46 and 51, houses them in adequate compounds, oversees and guards them. These unfortunates are permitted no contact with the locals, on the request of the Volyendestan government. And thus it was that I approached Ormarin in yet another of the ambiguous roles that characterize him: he and his mates could not possibly approve of the use of this slave labour or of how they were treated, and yet they were there to applaud the ‘gift’ of the road. As I approached, all the male officials took out pipes and began to smoke them, and the two females hastily hid some attractive scarves and jewellery of Sirian origin. I was just in time to hear Ormarin’s speech, which was being broadcast for the benefit of the workers, their guards, and the Sirian delegation.
‘Speaking on behalf of the working men and women of this planet, I have the great pleasure to open this section of the highway and to express gratitude to our generous benefactors the Sirian …’ etcetera. Ormarin had seen who it was by then.
Ormarin likes me and is always pleased to see me. This is because he knows he does not have to disguise himself from me. Yet he suspects me of being a Sirian spy, or sometimes does; or of being some kind of a spy from somewhere, the central Volyen government perhaps. He jokes sometimes that he ‘should not be associating with spies,’ giving me looks that compound the ‘frank honest modesty’ of his public persona with the inner uneasiness of his role. Or roles …
I joke that at any given time among his associates there is at least one spy from the Volyen central government, one from the Volyendestan central government, probably one each from Volyenadna, PE 70, and PE 71, and several from Sirius. He jokes that if that were true then half of his associates at any given time would be spies. I joke that he surely understands that this is an accurate statement of his position. He puts on the look obligatory at such moments, when one is forced to admit impossible truths – that of a wry, worldly-wise regret, tinged with a scepticism that makes it possible to dismiss the necessity of doing anything about it.
He is in fact surrounded by spies of all kinds, some of them his most efficient associates. Spies who have certain talents for, let’s say, administration, and who are in administration for the purposes of espionage, often enjoy this secondary occupation and even rise to a high position, at which point they may regret that they didn’t start off in a career of simple ‘public service,’ as this kind of work is styled, and they suffer private sessions of ‘Oh, if only I had seen early enough that I was fit for real work, and didn’t have to settle for spying.’ But that is another story.
Ormarin soon ended the official part of the occasion; his colleagues went off; he shed his public self with a small smile of complicity with me; and we sat down together on the hilltop. On the hilltop opposite us the Sirian contingent were heading back to their spacecraft. The several hundred Sirian workers swarmed over and around the road, and we could hear the barks and yelps of the supervisors.
This planet’s weather is unstable, but one may enjoy intervals without needing to adjust to unpleasant heat, cold, or assaults of various substances from the skies.
We watched, without comment, one of the men who had just been with us running to join the group of Sirians: a report on me and my arrival.
I was relieved that Ormarin decided against a ritual lament along the lines of ‘Oh, what a terrible thing it is to have to work with deceivers …’ and so on. Instead, he said to me, on a questioning note, ‘That’s a very fine road they are making down there?’
‘Indeed it is. If there is one thing the Sir
ians know how to do, it is road-building. This is a first-class, grade I road, for War, Type II, Total Occupation.’
This was deliberate: I wanted him to ask at last, But where are you from?
‘I am sure it could be used for any number of purposes!’ said he hastily, and looked about for something neutral to comment on.
‘No, no,’ I said firmly. ‘When Sirius builds, she builds to an accurately defined purpose. This is for the purposes of Total Occupation, after Type II War.’
Was he now going to ask me? No! ‘Oh, come come, you don’t have to look all gift horses in the mouth.’
‘Yes, you do. Particularly this one.’
Alas, I had miscalculated my stimulus, for he assumed a heroic posture, seated as he was on a small rock beside a rather attractive flowering bush, and declaimed: ‘We shall fight them on the beaches, we shall fight them on the roads, we shall fight them in the air …’
‘I don’t think you’ll get very far, fighting Sirius in the air,’ I said in a sensible voice, designed to dissolve this declamatory mode into which all of them fall so easily.
A silence. He kept sending me short anxious glances. He didn’t know what to ask, though. Rather, he didn’t want to ask me the key question, and perhaps it was just as well. The trouble is, ‘Canopus’ has become a concept so dense with mythic association that perhaps he would not have been able to take it in, or not as fast as I needed.
I made it easy for him to think of me as Sirian, at least temporarily. ‘I’ve seen this type of road on a dozen planets before a takeover.’
A silence.
‘Oh, no, no,’ he said, ‘I really can’t accept it. I mean, we all know that Sirius has quite enough trouble as it is, keeping her outlying planets in subjection; she’s not going to add to her troubles … and anyway … they needn’t think they are going to prevail over …’ There followed a few minutes in the ritual patriotic mode.
The Sentimental Agents in the Volyen Empire Page 2
