Interpreter, page 8
Wedman’s nerve went. Dropping the knife, he flung himself in a panic under the nearest seat, scrambling on hands and knees to escape. The gun exploded.
A square yard of the amphitheatre disintegrated. The jarm circuit was broken. Towler’s mind was suddenly free of that erotic whirl, and the clamps on his arms and legs snapped up of their own accord. Wedman burst apart into glutinous morsels of flesh and marrow.
The police lumbered forward. Cy Chettle stood trembling where he was until they reached him. He offered no resistance as they led him away into a waiting three-wheeler. It drove off. Silence fell.
Gasping, Towler pulled himself to his feet. Quite apart from any pain he experienced, he felt emotionally drained. He made his legs move. Stiffly, he went over to Elizabeth and put an arm round her shoulder. She had not stirred since the police broke in. Her face was white, her full lips sucked in. When he touched her, it was as if a spell broke.
‘You see, we’re spied on all the time,’ she said in a whisper. ‘How did they know what was going on in here? How did they arrest the conspirators and let us go free?’
He laughed shakily, his courage coming back at the feel of her.
‘Yet according to the labourers who helped erect these buildings, there was no wiring used but that required to work the actual device, the jarmboree. … By heavens, Elizabeth, I have it! A delightful bit of Partussy cunning! In the headpieces, an electrode induces impressions into the mind. It can receive outgoing impressions, too. In other words, it can see what’s going on in my mind.’
‘It’s a plausible guess,’ she said doubtfully.
‘Darling, it’s more than a guess. My blurred impressions of what Chettle and Wedman were saying to you must have been transmitted straight through to Police HQ here. Nice, eh? As soon as they saw there was a plot against Chav, they came and nabbed the conspirators, just in time.’
Now she was more relaxed. She took his hand, stroking it, looking at him closely. Her searching look resolved into a smile.
‘And you, the real plotter, got clean away!’
‘Fortunately I was too muddled to think about friend Rivars. So with a fine gesture of contempt they leave us to our own devices!’
As he mentioned the name Rivars, his mind clouded. The mysterious piece of evidence had still not arrived from the leader. Mastering himself, he smiled and took her arm. Then the dagger that Wedman had threatened him with caught his eye. It lay gleaming dully in the aisle. Glancing guiltily round, he stooped, picked it up, and thrust it into his pocket. Then he took Elizabeth’s arm again.
‘It’s still not late. Let’s go and get a drink and something to eat at one of the new cafés. It’ll do you good.’
Sliding her hand into his, she walked beside him back into the Park. Now the place was almost deserted. The appearance of the police had evidently knocked the heart out of everyone’s enjoyment. Indeed, Towler thought grimly, what cause for enjoyment was there? Tomorrow he would have to face Synvoret, the unknown quantity.
Despondently, as they turned into the nearest empty café, he set himself the task of being light-hearted.
They sat together in the café for an hour, talking or in companionable silence, until it was time for Elizabeth to go on night duty. By now their taut nerves had relaxed. Towler escorted her back to their official quarters before returning home. The place seemed as drab and empty as the inside of a box.
Only Peter Lardening was in the off-duty room as they entered, his shift of work over. Glancing up at them both with raised eyebrows, he said casually, ‘So! We hear you’ve had an eventful evening.’ He waved a hand at a notice still glittering wetly on the notice board.
Towler and Elizabeth went to read it. It announced simply that under the Colonial Conspiracies Act, Interpreter Wedman had been executed and Interpreter Chettle would be executed tomorrow for their involvement in a plot to murder high nul officials.
‘Well?’ Towler said interrogatively, turning to Lardening. He disliked the expression on the younger man’s face.
‘Rumour has it that the police came to rescue you from Chettle and Wedman, that you summoned them.’
‘Rumour’s wrong, Lardening. Do you think Chav cares which of us lives or dies?’
‘In your case I do. People in the park witnessed most of the incident. Whatever you are playing at, Towler, tread very carefully, or somebody will see you’re put quietly out of the way.’
He looked at Elizabeth as he spoke and added, almost to himself, ‘And then who would look after this lovely creature. …’
9
Morning came, but with it no word or sign from Rivars.
Since his visit to Rivars’ hideout, Towler had deliberately avoided all his underground contacts, lest either he or they were under suspicion. They would get in touch with him when they needed to.
He prayed that the evidence would soon arrive. It would jolt him into making up his mind as to what he should do. Until then, he could only carry on, playing the part that Rivars had instructed him to play, wondering ceaselessly if Par-Chavorlem’s offer could be trusted. Towler had no way of knowing that before the day was out a third offer would be made to him.
Whatever Rivars was doing, he was not idle. His troops, after a stiff engagement with the Starjjan force, had driven them back into the broken territory of the Vame Heights. All the while, Terekomy’s forces were holding a line to keep the combat from swinging towards the not so distant City. Yet Rivars had foxed them. Leading a small mounted guerilla column himself, he had slipped through the Partussian lines and devastated the small oil town of Ashkar, from which much of the City’s oil was drawn.
Ashkar, unprotected by force screens, suffered casualties; nul and human. The blow to nul self-confidence and esteem was well-planned. Before the opposition could find him, Rivars’ column was away again, fading into the night and the forest.
When Towler, primed by Terekomy and looking meeker than he felt, was brought before Synvoret and his retinue, the Signatory was preoccupied with the details of the Ashkar raid.
‘You come of a bellicose species,’ were his first words to Towler.
‘Yet we are not conquerors. We desire only peace, sir.’
‘Then why don’t you accept the peace Partussy offers you?’
Towler fell silent. For as long as was necessary he must act like a contented colonial. Par-Chavorlem would know of it if he did not – his officers loitered here now in this small council chamber – and he would be whipped away, unable to help anyone, even himself. His job must be to propitiate the Signatory as far as possible until the moment came to drop all pretenses, reveal the incontrovertible evidence, and cast himself upon Synvoret’s mercy.
Synvoret’s hide, at least where it was not covered by his uniform, was a milky grey patterned with fine wrinkles. He loomed above Towler, adding his silence to the interpreter’s until at last he spoke.
‘By doing such things as destroying oil wells you spoil your own material heritage. How does this affect you personally?’
‘How can I be responsible for such an act?’
‘That is far from being an answer, Interpreter, and I hope you have wits enough to know it. Now let me ask you another question. Suppose you and I are as dissimilar inwardly as we are outwardly. For what reason then, when I am back on Partussy, should we not send each other letters?’
This baffled Towler, not knowing what order of answer was expected of him. On impulse, he answered with a faint smile. ‘Because there is no correspondence between us.’
The old nul raised an arm slightly, his comb rippling.
‘Not only does that show me your excellent command of our language, Interpreter Towler. It shows there is some kind of correspondence between us, if you terrestials are capable of joking. Or perhaps it is an ability you caught from us.’
It was Towler’s turn to be silent, furious at this patronage, however pleased he was to find he had evidently passed some form of test. Synvoret patted him clumsily on the back, causing Towler to bump his forehead on the glass of his air helmet. As if this was a signal, Roifullery stepped forward.
‘You can hold yourself in readiness to come with us out of the City, Interpreter,’ he said. ‘The Commissioner had arranged a full scale inspection of the City for us today, but we have postponed it because of this attack on Ashkar. The Signatory and I wish to go out overland to see for ourselves what is happening there. You will accompany us. The Commissioner will also be in the party.’
This outing was not to Par-Chavorlem’s taste. He had no mind to risk his own neck, nor was he keen to have the death of his distinguished visitor on his hands. That would look very suspicious far away on Partussy. Since Synvoret’s request could not be refused outright, Par-Chavorlem laid every possible obstruction in the other’s way, and it was not till midday that the small contingent moved off.
In one armoured car rode Synvoret, Par-Chavorlem and Towler. In another were Terekomy, Raggball and Roifullery. Escorting them came two high-powered meuron defence trucks, the next best thing to the impenetrable force screens, which could not be raised without heavy and elaborate equipment. They bowled smartly along one of the beautiful roads until reaching a certain checkpoint. Here they halted while the screens were damped, allowing them to drive through on to an unprotected and inferior paved way through chalky country.
For Towler, while the aliens sat in clumsy air suits, it was an absolute joy to breathe the cold breeze. The very meaning of life seemed to inhabit each lungful of air he took. This vital stuff Elizabeth should be breathing too.
‘How long is it since you were outside the Commission City?’ Synvoret inquired, turning to him.
‘Ten years, sir.’
‘Why aren’t you allowed to leave?’
‘I am allowed it but refuse it. I have no connections outside the City.’ That was cunning, Towler thought. One lie for Chav, one lie for himself. ‘My parents, of the village of London, died long ago.’
‘You have friends inside the City?’
‘Naturally I have, sir.’
‘Are you a lonely man, Interpreter?’
‘All men are lonely, sir.’
‘Does not your habit of answering uninformatively make you more lonely than most men?’
No answer from Towler.
Par-Chavorlem’s delaying tactics in the morning had allowed Terekomy time to stage the events of the afternoon.
Neither nul had any intention of letting the investigation team get near the real Ashkar. Their chief consideration here was discretion. A powerful nul family had purchased the Ashkar oil concession and settled on the spot. During Rivars’ night raid, this family had been decimated, leaving two senior members to roar against Par-Chavorlem’s folly. The truth was that indirectly they were as much victims of his oppression as the bipeds themselves, for all the financial advantages accruing.
These nuls could have complained direct to Synvoret in his own language, nor would Par-Chavorlem have been able to stop them telling the truth. Therefore Synvoret could only be allowed to believe he had been to Ashkar. Accordingly, a fake Ashkar was established in an area of perfect safety that had been cleared of Rivars’ forces. The native labour which had been wounded at Ashkar was transported here to lend realism to the scene. Fires were started. Other people were brought from the City to increase the confusion. Partussian soldiery in operational kit moved about in businesslike fashion, occasionally discharging annihilators at an imaginary enemy.
The armoured cars drew up, sheltered by a fern-covered bank.
‘I don’t think we’d better go any further, Signatory,’ Par-Chavorlem said. ‘We are only a few hundred yards from the firing line.’
The party climbed down, standing in the road rather helplessly without speaking. Two miles away, beyond foreground cover, stood a line of wooded hills, their very silence seeming an indication of the presence of enemy forces. An ambulance sped hurriedly by, flying only two feet above the ground and making for Commission hospital. A burly nul officer came up, bowed smartly, and consulted with Terekomy in a monotone.
Synvoret and Roifullery stood sniffing the air like old war horses. The excitement of battle played its little drum in their veins, making them feel young and restless.
With a whiff of freedom in his nostrils, Towler too was restless. Rivars could not be so far away. Yet there was no way of contacting him. Nor would the patriot leader know he was here, away from the City.
To complete Par-Chavorlem’s spurious picture, a slow stream of terrestial refugees, brought specially to the spot from the Commission for this performance, straggled past the two stationary vehicles, clutching bundles or humping sacks. Towler, as ignorant as the Signatory about what was really happening, felt his heart go out to these people.
‘The attackers came through the woods behind us,’ Terekomy announced, ‘thus taking Ashkar from its least defendable side. As you heard in the briefing yesterday, the civil war had not spread this far – until last night. Obviously both sides are interested in the oil. We export most of it. They would put it to military use.’
‘Why was not your Arm in greater strength at such a strategic point?’ Synvoret asked.
The Arm Marshall rippled his comb.
‘Colonial regulations allow me only five hundred nuls for the planet, sir. It is too little. But we must abide by the regulations.’
Towler felt a strong urge to vomit.
A tired group of refugees were moving past them. Gazer Roifullery pointed with his cane to an old woman staggering by with a suitcase, her face stained by sweat and dirt.
‘Ask that one where she is making for,’ he said to Towler.
Halting the old woman gently, Towler translated the question for her. She listened, her eyes still fixed anxiously down the road before she turned to him. The look she gave him, although full of hopelessness, had nevertheless a little core of personal anger in it for him, a fraterniser with the aliens. It jarred Towler as if, biting into a soft fruit, he had split a tooth on the stone.
‘They took me from the Commission. Now I’ll have to make my way back to the Commission on foot,’ she said. ‘And I’m not getting a byaksis for doing it.’
Not entirely understanding this answer, Towler still had the presence of mind to give it the required propaganda slant when translating it to the Psycho-Watch nul.
‘She says she is making for the safety of the Commission.’
‘Ask her what has happened at her home,’ Roifullery ordered.
The old woman stood there mulling over the question when it was repeated to her, disregarding the other refugees brushing past her.
‘Tell the ugly bastard I don’t know what he’s talking about. He must know more about this stunt than I do. I don’t know a thing.’
‘The old lady is dazed. She does not seem to understand you.’
‘Ask her if her home has been destroyed. She must understand that.’
‘I don’t know what is happening here,’ Towler said to her. ‘You must try to help me. Was your home destroyed in last night’s attack?’
‘I’ve got one room in Commission City, which is okay. I was brought out here this morning and now I’m getting back. As to what’s happening here, I tell you I know nothing. Any more silly questions?’
Glancing at Par-Chavorlem’s comb, Towler saw a certain tension there, the Commissioner regretting not having briefed Towler thoroughly on the situation beforehand. Hesitating, playing for safety, Towler said to Roifullery, ‘She says that Rivars’ men destroyed her house early this morning.’
‘Ask her where the rest of her family is.’
‘Where is the rest of your family?’
‘Oh, go to the devil,’ said the old lady, moving off.
‘She says, all dead, sir,’ Towler reported.
His hesitancy had lent the little incident a weight it would not otherwise have had. Synvoret had listened with absolute interest. He now came forward, speaking in a low voice to Par-Chavorlem.
‘Just how reliable is this interpreter, Commissioner? He seems to me to be holding something back. I would like you personally to interrogate one of these refugees. Ask them if they think we are taking stern enough measures against the rebels.’
A moment of difficulty had slipped into something far worse.
Par-Chavorlem drew himself up stiffly.
‘I have every faith in my interpreter,’ he said. ‘Some of these natives speak a villainous dialect, which no doubt made his task a little difficult. …’
‘Nevertheless, I would like you to interrogate one of these creatures,’ insisted Synvoret. ‘Try this fat creature approaching with the little one on its back.’
This time there could be no evasion.
‘I do not personally speak their barbaric tongue,’ Par-Chavorlem said with dignity. ‘They have many different dialects over the globe, all of them illogical.’
Synvoret turned around and appeared to be minutely examining a bush. At last he spoke in a low voice.
‘Commissioner, does it not seem to you that for some understanding of the native’s habits, his laws, his customs, his religion, his ceremonies, his philosophy, his literature, his history; for some understanding of all or any of these vital things, does it not seem necessary to you to have a knowledge of his language?’
‘You are assuming, Signatory, sir, that an understanding of these things helps a governor to govern. On this wretched planet it is not so.’
Synvoret’s comb was flushed and angry.
‘What you say is tantamount to an admission that you govern without understanding,’ he said quietly.
‘Very far from it. Justice is one thing – whomever it is applied to. That assumption is the very basis of our legal and administrative systems.’
A tremendous explosion to one side of them broke the tension. Earth, stones, and clods scattered high, showering the party. The whole group of Partussians dropped clumsily to the ground for protection, floundering in their air suits. After a minute of silence, they raised their heads. Another explosion sent them prone again.
