Interpreter, page 11
Moving rapidly, Towler wrapped the foot again and stowed it away in the bottom of his deepfreeze. He would approach the Signatory this evening; it was still not late. If he stressed the importance of the matter, no reason existed why Synvoret should not come with his escort straight away to look at the exhibit. Then he could tackle the problem of finding where Elizabeth had gone.
Clamping his faceplate shut, Towler hurried back through the streets, showed his pass at the palace gate, and entered. Shooting up through the building by express lift, he emerged close by the signatorial suite.
As he approached it, the main door opened. Commissioner Par-Chavorlem emerged, his comb erect.
‘If you’re looking for the Signatory,’ he said, ‘I must tell you he is no longer here. I think you had better come with me, Towler. Something has just occurred about which I must speak to you.’
12
Gazer Roifullery and his secretary. They appeared, flattening their combs respectfully.
‘It looks as if we shall be allowed little chance of private discussion tomorrow,’ he said. ‘So this seems the best opportunity for us to pool our impressions of what we have seen. Half of our time on Earth is up. Let us weigh what evidence we have. Secretary, record the discussion, please.’
Roifullery and the secretary lowered their bulks into chairs, the former asking as he did so, ‘What point would you like to discuss first?’
‘Let us begin with this business of our interpreter. Something fishy there, I think you’ll agree.’
‘I would like to, sir, but I confess I don’t. That the creature has nothing to say means little or nothing.’
‘Indeed? My feeling is it means the biped has been bought. Or threatened.’
‘My feeling is frankly that this interpreter is a fool,’ Roifullery said. ‘He cannot even answer questions. Even the amazingly generous offer of your Starjjan land seemed not to move him.’
‘That might be the response of someone already loaded with care. You don’t know these bipeds as I do, Roifullery. My estimation is that he is heavily bribed by Chaverlem Par-Chavorlem.’
‘Two objections to that, sir,’ the P-WB man said briskly. ‘First, if this Towler were really a pawn of the Commissioner’s, the Commissioner is clever enough to pick a more polished actor. Secondly, and it’s not quite the ad hominem argument it sounds, you have come here eager to find something amiss, consequently you find evidence where none exists.’
‘I am anxious only to find the truth … No, you may be right, Roifullery. When a nul says he wants only the truth, he is generally after a confirmatory truth.’
‘I am sure I am right, Signatory, with all respects. I am for instance quite prepared to take at its face value Towler’s statement that he was not functioning properly at Ashkar because he was scared. I admit I was a little alarmed myself.’
Synvoret raised his arm and sighed.
‘Now you are finding evidence where none exists. You are being oversubtle, Roifullery.’
‘No sir, you are being oversubtle. I have discovered nothing on Earth yet but the need to deal firmly with the local population.’
Neither of them were displeased with this exchange. The rules of formal dignatorial behaviour, which they never voluntarily transgressed, allowed them to be frank in passing opinions about each other without at the same time giving offence.
Synvoret rose, ignited a tapering sulphette, and strolled around the room, smoking and thinking aloud.
‘We are becoming sidetracked. Let’s think of this problem in historical terms. Subject races, whether conquered by arms or treaties, are not notoriously fond of alien rulers. The tyranny they would accept by vote from their own kind without noticing seems to be oppression when imposed by foreigners.
‘In theory, this sense of grievance should be aggravated when the foreigners are of different shape, size and constitution. In practice, it is lessened. The philosophers of Partussy say that this is because subconscious sexual jealousy between conquered and conquerers is absent in such circumstances. However this may be, the Empire is established on this interesting fact.
‘It enables us to impose peace on the one hand, and to enrich ourselves on the other. Intrinsically peaceful races accept our rule, warlike ones take more time to knuckle under. This means that one way of solving our problem of what is really happening on Earth is to find out how warlike terrestials actually are. We have an equation in which the other unknown, our X quantity, is exploitation. Are terrestials too unruly, or is Par-Chavorlem digging too much out of them on the side?’
‘On the surface,’ Gazer Roifullery said, ‘they appear warlike. Not only do they attack our bases – Ashkar, for example – but they indulge in civil wars. I should say that in the circumstances this shows a peculiar aptitude for trouble.’
Synvoret nodded.
‘That’s their herd psychology possibly. Yet as individuals they seem peaceable, you must agree. There is no trouble here in the palace, or in the City. Towler, as we know, is all too quiet.’
‘You are thinking of them as victims, sir. I think of them as potentially vicious. Towler for instance seems quiet enough –’
‘A pathetic little creature, Roifullery. Victim material.’
‘Maybe. So is a wasp. The fellow you spoke to on the street when you arrived; he sounded peaceable enough.’
‘I have thought about that conversation, Roifullery, and played it back several times on the recorder. It does not ring true. Even the way the creature suddenly appeared was odd. If, and I concede it looks like a big if, Par-Chavorlem is running a virtual dictatorship here, then this creature may have been a pawn of the secret police.’
‘Unlikely, sir. We have no evidence whatsoever of secret police activity here. As you know, your secretary has checked carefully for the usual evidences of such activity and found none.’
‘Maybe. Nevertheless, the possibility exists. We need more data, Roifullery. I want you to come out with me and be present when I speak to another biped. I wish you to observe for yourself, and see if your belief in the Commissioner’s genial goodness is not shaken.’
‘Now, sir? It’s getting late.’
‘I trust you are not feeling tired, Gazer?’
The Psycho-Watch nul rose. At Synvoret’s suggestion, they both put on air suits. Collecting Raggball, the bodyguard, they went together unobserved, leaving the palace by a side gate as the Signatory had done before.
At this time of day, the streets of the Commission were comparatively crowded. Partussians were returning to their quarters from work or shopping, or else visiting cafés for refreshment. Terrestials were similarly dispersing, or else returning in temporary work details to the outside world. Gaiety was noticeably absent from the atmosphere. But gaiety was not a quality the nuls recognised.
By following some of the terrestials who lived inside the city, the three Partussians arrived at the native quarter. No other of their species were in sight here. Confronted by these narrow streets, tiny shops and shrunken blocks of apartments, all fitted with their half-blisters of airlocks, all three felt something of the excitement of tourists. Here was local colour, here was quaintness! Here lived creatures who breathed diluted oxygen, that curious gas with too many chemical affinities, as if it were as emotional as the creatures dependent on it. For a moment it was impossible to regard the bipeds as other than a peepshow, put on for the convenience and possible edification of Partussy’s sons! Indeed, what else could be the purpose behind the whole universe? Did not the Trinity create nul in his-her-its own image?
The Signatory sighed nostalgically, recalling his youth on Starjj.
Most of the terrestials hustled inconspicuously away at the sight of the aliens. One, however, walked towards them, nodding as he passed close by.
‘Forgive me, do you speak Partussian?’ Synvoret asked.
‘Naturally,’ the man replied. ‘I am an Under-Oiler at the Mercantile Export Stores. Such a position requires a Proficiency Standard in your language.’
‘Then perhaps we may speak with you?’
‘I am at your service, and pleased to be.’
The Signatory and the P-WB nul exchanged glances. Here was another peace-loving terrestial.
‘We are travellers from Partussy with only a few days to pass on your world,’ Synvoret explained. ‘Naturally we would like a first-hand account of life here. Is there somewhere we can talk together comfortably?’
The terrestial hesitated.
‘My room is near,’ he said. ‘It is only poor and small, but it could accommodate two of the three of you. Can we go there, since you have air suits on?’
Agreeing, they followed him, snapping tight the domes of their suits as the airlock of the block was reached. Raggball was left outside when his superiors entered.
The scale of the terrestial building was so small for the Partussians that they squeezed in only with difficulty. Inside, the flats were flimsy and depressing. The whole place was without decoration, while the need to conserve air had kept window space down to an absolute minimum. A barrack-like hall downstairs provided a sort of recreation room. The rest of the building was given over to corridors, stairs and rooms. Negotiating the stairs with difficulty, while all bipeds fled at their approach, the ill-assorted party arrived at Room 388. The terrestial produced a key and opened up.
Inside, the two Partussians had to sit on the floor, their combs almost touching the ceiling, while the Under-Oiler perched between them. His face had grown very pale. Sweat gathered on his forehead and ran down his cheeks.
‘This is hospitable of you,’ Roifullery said, irritated by this manifestation of emotion. ‘I take it you feel some friendship for our race?’
‘Yes, indeed, nothing but respect,’ the man said, mopping his face. ‘When I was taken ill with a throat cancer a little while ago your doctors saved my life. Yes, yes, nothing but respect – and affection.’
‘Yet you appear,’ Synvoret observed, ‘to be terrified of us. Or is it your recent illness which makes you perspire so freely?’
The Under-Oiler gulped. He fished an aphrohale from his pocket, tweaking its end alight with nervous fingers to gain a moment’s respite.
‘You are very big,’ he said.
‘Do you fancy we may harm you?’
‘I – I – I have not yet fully recovered from my illness.’
‘Should you then be smoking that thing?’ asked Synvoret, indicating the aphrohale.
The Under-Oiler looked about him almost desperately.
‘Habit,’ he said. ‘A bad habit. I’m only a Third Grade worker. … ’
Roifullery took up the conversation.
‘We all have our bad habits. Partussians, you know, inhale things called sulphettes. All intelligent life forms are much alike under their different shapes and skins. Yet you must be tired of our rule on Earth.’
‘No, sir. Oh no, not at all. We bipeds appreciate the way your species has brought peace all over the galaxy.’
‘Ha!’ Synvoret exclaimed. This fellow spoke as did the native he had first interrogated in the street. Again he asked himself, how could a humble member of an isolated 5c culture, a Third Grade worker at that, think of itself in such terms? What should it know or care of peace in the galaxy? The very phrase ‘we bipeds’ violated the inborn egocentricity of such a culture. Again he felt a suspicion that this fellow had been planted on him. Only for a second did the Signatory hesitate.
‘Strip off your clothes!’ he said.
The terrestial jumped up, backing to the door, almost the whole of which Synvoret immediately covered with one leg.
‘Take off your clothes!’ he commanded, sudden excitement taking hold of him.
‘This we never do, sir,’ the wretched terrestial stuttered. ‘Only for going to bed. Please, sir. …’
Synvoret reached out a broad, flapperlike arm. Inserting the tip of one digit inside the neck of the terrestial’s shirt, he tugged. The terrestial was jerked forward. With a ripping sound his jerkin, shirt and vest were torn. He staggered away, and then Roifullery grabbed him from behind.
As he began to shout for mercy, Roifullery enveloped him in folds of arms, stilling his cries and struggles. The Gazer’s comb had sharpened into a down-curling hook.
Synvoret pulled the tattered clothing away from the Under-Oiler’s chest; bending an eye-stalk until it functioned as a powerful microscope, he traced from an unobtrusive lump under the biped’s left ear a scar that ran to another lump just above his breast bone. From there another scar, invisible to normal eyesight, ran to a third and larger lump above the heart.
As a cat unsheathes its claws, Synvoret unsheathed from his arm a long blade-like claw, remnant of the days, millennia ago, when Partussians were minor predators on an unnamed planet. With this claw, he sliced under the flesh of the biped’s breast.
A delicate double thread of wire was revealed, running from heart to throat.
‘Let him go,’ Synvoret said. ‘That’s all we wish to know. My case is proved, Roifullery. This is a typical spy device.’
Bleeding and gasping, the biped staggered back as Roifullery released him. It seemed dazed. With ineffectual movements, it sought to pull its tattered clothing around its chest. Tears ran down its face. They glanced at it half fascinated by its display.
‘I don’t understand. What is this apparatus under its skin?’ Roifullery asked.
‘Have you Psycho-Watch people no acquaintance with auricle-pumps? This creature has a little transmitter grafted in, which is actually worked by the action of the heart. With leads to his throat and ear, he can communicate with a distant point without anyone else being aware of the fact.’
‘I’ve heard of them, but never seen one before,’ Roifullery admitted, adding with some reluctance, ‘I believe they are typical secret police tools, aren’t they?’
‘Of course they are. Let’s get back to the palace.’
Ignoring the biped, who still whimpered from fright and pain, they pushed out of the room. Synvoret felt a certain shame – an unusual experience for a nul, whose behaviour was closely governed by the frigid situation-response selector it called conscience. He was aware how much he and the Gazer had relished their power over the little biped. Thrusting the sensation behind him, clamping down his airdome, he led the way from the block of apartments.
As he did so, Arm Marshall Terekomy, in a hidden room in Police HQ, snapped off a receiver.
Crossing at a run to a soundproof booth, he was speaking to Par-Chavorlem within thirty seconds.
‘Synvoret’s out on another native hunt,’ he said. ‘He’s just returning.’
‘I know. I’ve been to his suite and found him out. We agreed he should be free to do this.’
‘Of course we did. But listen, he’s a crafty devil! I put a C 309 on to him. He took Synvoret and the P-WB nul up to his room and started to propagandise as instructed. Then Synvoret cut him up and found the auricle-pump! I heard every word over C 309’s transmitter. How he guessed the biped was wired is beyond me – it repeated very carefully everything we told it to say.’
‘What’s happening now?’ Par-Chavorlem’s voice asked. As ever, it was gentle and unhurried.
‘They’re both coming back to the palace, convinced they have all tabs on us. Huh! So they have! Now they’ve definite grounds for suspicion, we’ll never keep control –’
‘Don’t lose your comb, Terekomy. Here’s what you must do immediately.’
Less than two minutes later, the first of a stream of ambulances began to roar in the streets of the City, its alarm note sounding.
13
Before Terekomy’s urgent interruption came, the Commissioner was speaking to Towler.
‘I brought you here to ask you some questions. See you answer them straightforwardly.’
‘I shall do my best,’ Towler said. All his nerves were tense. The friendly façade that Par-Chavorlem had tried to preserve for the last few days had vanished. In its place was a formidable animal in a uniform, ten feet high, and of considerable strength and cunning. Not only that. This particular animal had almost unlimited power over all the other creatures on this planet, except for one. And that one was Synvoret, not Towler.
‘Stand on that chair so I can see your face levelly when you answer me,’ Par-Chavorlem ordered.
There was nothing for it but to obey. Towler climbed on to the big nul chair and faced his adversary.
‘Better. Now, Interpreter, I’m getting a lot of trouble from your branch. It was Chettle and Wedman the other day. Now the woman interpreter, Fallodon, has disappeared. You know of this, of course?’
‘Of course.’
‘We can find no trace of her as yet.’
One of the Commissioner’s eye-stalks extended telescopically, examining Towler from close range. Its end came to within a foot of Towler’s air helmet, and a cold grey orb surveyed him.
‘Unfortunately in this temporary City I am less in touch with what goes on than I should be,’ Par-Chavorlem continued. ‘But from visi-records from the old City I know that you have been increasingly intimate with Fallodon over the last two years. Is that correct?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then you know her well. Where has she gone?’
Towler moistened his lips. He knew trouble was coming.
‘I don’t know, sir. I wish I did know.’
‘You should know. I made you Chief Interpreter, you are in charge of her.’
‘I was with the Signatory when she disappeared.’
‘So? Then where has she gone? Is she dead?’
‘I hope not.’
‘You hope not! Why do you hope not?’
‘… I love her, sir.’
At this the Commissioner let out a bellow of fury. One of his broad arms caught Towler and forced him back over the arm of the chair, pressing against his chest. Towler’s helmet plate fogged over, and he was in a misty world of his own, although that angry unmetaphorical language still roared outside it.
‘You speak to me of love, that whimsy madness no triped tolerates in his system! This filthy planet! How can it ever run or be run efficiently with imponderables like love in it? I’ll show you what Partussy thinks of such weakness. Get up. Hurry up, get up.’
