Interpreter, page 2
It did, on the face of it, look like a major case of graft. The documents, most of which were photostats, built a sketch of systematic enslavement and robbery of the local population. The Signatory had in his time inspected such documents before. The Partussian empire was far-flung; plenty of room existed in it for abuses. Corruption did flourish, however determinedly it was stamped on.
At the same time, and perhaps as frequently, disgruntled employees tried to ruin the bosses they imagined had ruined them.
Synvoret preserved an open mind. His brain was as cold as an old trout’s. Rising, he walked over to the window, depaqued it, and gazed out at the forest of pinnacles which formed part of the biggest city in the galaxy. By craning his eye-stalks, he could just see the sky. Up there was Partussy’s real estate; four million worlds of it. It was a sobering thought that no nul, no committee, no computer could know a billionth part of what went on there.
Without bothering to turn around, he rang the radio bell on his wrist. The young secretary appeared almost at once, smiling, flattening his comb. Perhaps Forlie was just another such upstart as this.
‘What is my first item on today’s programme?’ Synvoret asked.
The secretary told him.
‘Cancel it, please. I want you instead to check through to Central Records and get me all available data on Planet Earth of System 5417 GAS Vermilion, and on High Hiscount Chaverlem Par-Chavorlem, commissioner of that planet. And get me an appointment for tomorrow with the Supreme Councillor.’
The Supreme Councillor’s Ordinary Audience Room was tucked away in the centre of the same vast new block as was Synvoret’s office. When Synvoret presented himself there, he felt relief to find the Councillor, an old nul called Graylix, alone with a robot recorder.
‘Come in, Armajo Synvoret,’ he said welcomingly, rising to his three feet. ‘It is too long since we met informally.’
‘I warn you that I have a formal request to make of you, Supremo,’ Synvoret said, briefly interlocking an eye-stalk with his superior. ‘When my office made this appointment, I believe they sent you copies of certain documents?’
Graylix indicated a pile of blue flimsies on the table.
‘You refer to the Forlie dossier? I have it here. Take a seat and discuss it if you so wish. It seems a matter more for Psycho-Watch’s Misdemeanour Branch than for us, don’t you think?’
‘No, Supremo, I don’t. I came here to ask you to permit me to go to Earth.’
The Supremo had sat down. Now he abruptly rose again.
‘You wish to go to Earth? Why? To investigate the state of affairs there as reported by this sacked Third Secretary? You know as well as I do this evidence is probably false. How often have we not heard just such trumped-up charges from subordinates dismissed for some gross inefficiencies?’
Unmoved, Synvoret nodded.
‘Perfectly true. All Forlie has sent us is documentary evidence, and modern forgery methods being what they are, we no longer trust documentary evidence. Worse, these only purport to be photostat copies. For all that, I feel challenged, and must request permission to travel to Earth to investigate affairs there.’
‘That can of course be done. In fact, it is easy. You would simply be given instructions to take a small Official Investigation Team to Earth.’
‘Then you will grant me facilities?’
The Supremo’s comb made a noncommittal gesture.
‘Officially, I suppose I can’t refuse you. Reports of corruption must be confirmed or denied. Privately, however, I would like to remind you of a few facts. You are one of our most valued signatories. In your youth you saw active service in unpleasant fringe sectors like Vermilion. You have personal experience of a dozen Commissions. You’re a tough old man, Armajo Synvoret –’
Signatory Synvoret broke in with an embarrassed laugh, but his superior continued.
‘– but you are old, and you must realise you are old, even as I am. Now you propose to visit some snivelling little mote of a planet two years warp-travel away. Four years you will be gone, four years at least, merely to gratify the whim of a moment. If you want a holiday, then by all means take a decent leave –’
‘I want to go to Earth,’ the Signatory said, his comb stirring.
He took a turn about the long room, tugging at his arm flaps.
‘We may be growing old nuls, Supremo, but at least we’re the real thing. The honour of the Empire rests with us. You know how these reports of corruption come in from time to time. It’s about time someone responsible investigated them in person, instead of delegating authority to some Band of Hope Investigatory Mission which gets bribed on the spot and comes back reporting all’s well. I cannot be bribed. I’m too pigheaded – and too rich. Let me go! If as you say it’s the whim of a moment, then indulge me.’
He stopped, aware that he had been speaking more harshly than he had intended. The remark about his being old had sunk in. The Supremo was smiling gently. That too irritated Synvoret. He hated being appeased.
‘What are you thinking?’ he asked.
The Supremo did not answer the question directly.
‘When I received this Forlie dossier, I naturally checked with Central on this man. He is very young: fifty-six. He left Partussy for Earth with four thousand byaksis gambling debts.’
‘I also checked Central. Gambling debts make no nul a liar, Supremo.’
The Supremo bowed his head.
‘Yet Par-Chavorlem’s record is clean enough.’
‘He is far enough away for any dirt not to be noticeable at this distance,’ Synvoret said dryly.
‘So. Obviously, you are determined to go, Armajo. Well, you have all my admiration, though little of my envy. This oxygen-enfolded ball, Earth, sounds less than attractive. Get your secretary to attend Sessions tomorrow, and I’ll submit you a draft list of Team applicants.’
‘I will keep the numbers to a minimum,’ Synvoret promised, rising. He would have a lot to attend to before leaving Partussy.
‘And remember, Armajo Synvoret, that Commissioner Par-Chavorlem must be officially notified of your intended inspection.’
‘I would prefer to drop in on him unexpectedly!’
‘Naturally, but protocol demands prior notification.’
‘So much the worse for protocol, Supremo.’
When Synvoret was at the door, Graylix stopped him.
‘Tell me, what really makes you suddenly so keen to venture on this quixotic errand to the other side of the galaxy? What, after all, is the future of one little planet out of four million to you?’
Synvoret raised his three arms in the nul equivalent of a wry smile.
‘As you took care to point out, Supremo, I grow old. Perhaps justice has become a hobby with me.’
He left. Back in his own quarters, he immediately drafted a signal:
‘To Colony Worlds Commissioner High Hiscount Chaverlem Par-Chavorlem, I.L.U.S., L.G.V.S., M.G.C.C., R.O.R. (Smi), Earth, System 5417, GAS Vermilion.
‘Commissioner Sir, You are hereby notified to hold yourself and your detail in readiness for my official and free-roving inspection of the planet Earth under your jurisdiction. I expect no special preparations for my visit. I do not give press interviews or attend cocktail parties or receptions other than requisite established minimum. No special demonstrations or appropriations need be made in my honour. All I shall require are facilities for unescorted travel and interpreter speaking Earthian language. Exact date of arrival follows. Synvoret.’
2
Partussian jurisdiction over its mighty empire was strict but impartial. The nuls governed their subordinate worlds by slide-rule rather than emotion. Earth to them – at least to those far away on the Queen World of Partussy – was simply a 5c globe. This was an economic classification, the ‘5’ standing for natural products, the ‘c’ indicating an oxygen-nitrogen world.
The natural products were many, but in particular it was timber, tended and harvested by Earth men, that Earth exported.
Earth, in this its two thousandth year of Partussian domination, was covered with woods and forests, for the most part as neatly organised as factories. Some areas were not worth mass-production methods of afforestation, some had been given over to the rearing of afrizzian cattle. Here and there stood the old independent Earth cities and villages, some still partially occupied, some falling to ruins in forest clearings.
Everywhere ran the roads, good Partussian roads of vacuumised vulcan, protected for every mile of their length by force fields. Before all else the Partussians were transporters, circulators. The road was virtually their symbol. Because they had been the first species to establish regular space routes, theirs was the biggest interplanetary empire.
One of these mighty roads ran across Eurore Division, across the fertile Channel Valley, to Greatbrit Division, where it swept into the ramparts of Commission City, chief nul centre on the planet.
Here, ensconced in his own official rooms in the palace, Commissioner High Hiscount Par-Chavorlem was reading a blue flimsy just delivered to him. He scanned it through twice before handing it to his companion, Arm Marshall Terekomy.
‘This Synvoret sounds quite a bastard,’ he remarked.
‘We’ve handled bastards before,’ Terekomy said.
‘Yes, and we can handle Synvoret and his team. Big brass back home invariably turns into small fry when it reaches the fringes. Anyhow, it’s splendid the way Colonial Service etiquette demands the early announcement of visitors. It gives us time to prepare. …’
He glanced at the date stamp on the letter.
‘The fast warp-ships won’t get Synvoret here much before two years objective time are up. So we’ve got that long to ensure that he sees only what we want him to see.’
‘Fine. We’ll show him Earth’s the best run planet in the sector,’ Terekomy said, sarcastically. ‘What worries me is why he’s coming at all. Perhaps he’s heard a rumour.’
‘Such as?’
‘Such as the fact that the armed forces under you exceed by a factor of three the stipulated strength.
‘Or that you personally pocket two byaksis for every spaceship that lands here.
‘Or that you personally pocket two byaksis for every tree we export.
‘Or that –’
‘All right, Terekomy, we know where we stand. The point is that Partussy is no longer minding its own business. We have to be on our toes to frustrate their interference. Synvoret must see just what we want him to see and no more. Ring for a survey ship, will you? I think we’ll start work right now by making a reconnaissance of the region. It must be all of three local years since I left Commission City.’
The ship had arrived by the time they gained the top of the building. It bore the two Partussians up through the enclosing force fields above the Commission, into the unbreathable atmosphere of Earth.
The Partussy Commission covered nine square miles of territory. Radiating from it along three points of the Partussian compass were the wide roads enclosed with force fields. Since the average nul weighed about a ton, land was generally preferred to air transport.
When an exploring scout of the mighty and ever-expanding Partussy Galactic Empire had first discovered Earth, some two thousand years ago, the inhibitants of that insignificant planet had been delighted to enter the Empire as fledgling members. The standard Protegé Charter had been signed.
At once, the advantages of Partussy’s colossal material and technological superiority had been felt. Fabulous aid programmes sprang up all over the planet. Vast loans were floated. Development schemes were launched daily. Thousands of farsighted tripeds poured into Earth via the hastily-built spaceports, bringing with them their ideas, their money and their families.
Earth hummed with activity.
‘A new renaissance!’ the optimists exclaimed, echoing Partussy propaganda.
The wonderful new roads, slashing over terrestial highways, were soon constructed. Enclosed in their force fields, weatherproof and air-conditioned, they were the wonder of all Earth, even when it was discovered that they were intended for Partussian traffic only.
As, one by one, and each according to schedule, the astounding new schemes came to fruition, it dawned upon terrestials that the Partussy-Earth Co-Prosperity Sphere was just a mockery, its advantages operating only in one direction. Men were not even allowed to leave their own system, except to visit a few specified frontier worlds as semi-slave labour.
When this realisation came, it was already too late to do anything effective. Perhaps it had always been too late. Partussy had over two million years of history behind it, and four million planets under its sway. Its diplomatic corps was made up of astute men who did not budge an inch under the growing chorus of terrestial protest. They behaved with that cruelly unwavering patience displayed by the keepers of mentally deficient children. If they were unfair it was legally so. Commissioner after Commissioner coped gently with the obstreperous bipeds, striving to maintain goodwill where little cause for it existed.
Par-Chavorlem had changed all that. Taking up the post of Commissioner to Earth twenty-three years ago, he had instituted a system of graft that made him one of the most powerful, most hated, nuls in GAS Vermilion, a region embracing six thousand stars.
As he rode with his Arm Marshall now, high above the plains of Earth, he could see occasional burned fields of grain and shattered forests marring the orderly landscape. These were the results of guerilla activity which had broken out in protest against his extortions. All over the globe, terrestials were up in arms, fighting to destroy what would otherwise fall to the alien.
‘The guerillas are not effective enough,’ Par-Chavorlem remarked, gazing down. ‘Before this inquisitive signatory arrives, we must damage our own plantations and burn arable land about the Commission. He should get the impression that these rabble biped bands are a serious revolt. We must portray ourselves as people beleaguered.’
Marshall Terekomy agreed enthusiastically. ‘That would excuse the strength of our army here,’ he said. In his great cold tri-valve heart glowed respect for the Commissioner’s lithe imagination. It spurred him to use his own.
‘You know, we might even stage a little battle for our visitor,’ he said. ‘Let me think along those lines.’
Below them slid a timber centre. A line of heavy transporters moved away from it towards the nearest space port. Par-Chavorlem’s extortion methods were beautifully simple. Using as pretext the theory that a crowd of men might turn into a revolutionary mob, he had issued an edict twenty years ago limiting the number of men who might be employed by any one terrestial boss. This sent a flock of cheap labour into the hands of nul bosses. The money so saved, netted by an Employee Tax, found its way to the Commissioner’s personal pocket.
‘Let us get back,’ Par-Chavorlem snarled. His moods could alter suddenly, his customary urbanity falling away into anger. He was displeased that this change had come to disturb his life. The plane dipped round, heading for the City. Terekomy waited tactfully before speaking again.
‘We have spread ourselves in recent years, Chaverlem,’ he said. ‘We have been comfortable, despite the foulness of this planet. Even Commission City itself is twice as large as statutory requirements stipulate for a 5c world. We can never justify that.’
‘Yes. You are correct. The base personnel of Partussy expect us to live like pigs. The present city will have to be abandoned entirely and camouflaged against the prying eye of any signatory. We must build and occupy a temporary Commission of statutory size on a new site. We can then go back to normal when our Peeping Tom has gone.’
Terekomy remained gazing thoughtfully at the hateful landscape drifting below. In his heart, however, blossomed once more the great admiration he felt for Commissioner Par-Chavorlem. Silently he thanked the Trinity that his lot had been cast here to serve beside this born leader of men, rather than in the decadent heart of the Empire.
Aloud, he said without emotion, ‘When we return, we will send for one of the terrestial representatives – your interpreter Towler would do – and get him to suggest a suitable site for the new building.’
Chief Interpreter Gary Towler was shopping. In the afternoons when he was not required to work or wait at Par-Chavorlem’s palace, he liked to do his own shopping, little as this might seem pleasurable in the circumstances.
The native quarter of Commission City was, of course, enclosed under the one big force dome, so that its lanes were full of the same noxious mixture of hydrogen sulphide and other gases as the rest of the Partussy enclosure. The native quarter shops and flats had their own oxygen-nitrogen atmosphere, and were entered by airlocks. To go shopping required an air suit.
‘I would like a pound and a half of that best shoulder bone cut, if you please,’ Towler said, pointing to a joint of afrizzian on the butcher’s counter. Afrizzians were quick-breeding mammals imported from another planet in the sector. Large herds of them were at present being established on Earth.
The butcher grunted, serving Towler without speaking. Terrestials who actually came into contact with Partussians every day were despised even by terrestials who earned their living in the Commission by other means. They in turn were despised by the semi-voluntary labour gangs who were driven out of the Commission every night, who in turn were despised by the majority of terrestials who would and sometimes did starve rather than deal with the aliens. A sort of scale of distrust divided the whole community.
Taking his grudgingly wrapped meat, Gary Towler clamped up the facepiece of his air suit and left the shop. The streets of the native quarter were almost deserted. They held no beauty; nor were they interestingly ugly. They had been designed by a nul architect on Castacorze, Sector HQ planet, who had seen bipeds only on sense-screens. His vision had materialised into a series of dog kennels. Yet Towler went his way rejoicing. Elizabeth should be waiting at his apartment.
The block of apartments in which Towler lived was small, three storeys high only, entered or left by airlocks.
When he was through the double doors, he unclamped his face plate and hurried along the corridor, sorry that he could not comb his hair inside an air helmet. He opened the door of his three-room apartment. She was there.
