Interpreter, p.13
Interpreter, page 13
Looking at the featureless turret of the Partussian Signatory’s head, Towler could not help wishing that the survey ship would suddenly fall from the cloud and crash, killing everyone it contained – including himself. It would solve his problems at least.
Synvoret soon grew tired of peering down at the storming of an insignificant hillside.
‘Have we not seen enough of these squabbling bipeds?’ he asked. ‘Can we not turn for home?’
‘The men down there are fighting for their lives and their ideals!’ Towler almost blurted out suddenly, moved to anger by the contempt implicit in the other’s words.
But he was quiet. He realised now that in spite of the investigation, in spite of the search for justice, these visitors were nuls. And nuls found it difficult to understand bipeds. Add to that the cleverness and thoroughness of Par-Chavorlem. …
Towler did not look at them. He had decided already that he must kill Synvoret. No other action would release the burning hatred in his breast.
15
They were back in the City in time for lunch. Towler, eating in the Terrestial Staff Mess, had little appetite. Lardening did not appear, although Meller reported that he was better. The interpreters frequently went down with a twelve hour fever they called ‘nul sickness,’ brought on mainly by the restricted conditions under which they had to work.
The rest of the day passed in dull routine, as Towler followed the party of nuls around City House.
Synvoret and Gazer Roifullery, with various Commission officials in attendance, spent much time investigating the governmental machinery, which consisted chiefly of an actual machine, the Recorder, in which all details of expenditure and income from the City, the sub-commissions, and other sources were stored. Since, as Towler suspected, the figures were rigged in the first place, the investigators learnt nothing untoward from them. Only Par-Chavorlem knew Earth’s true profit and loss account. The inspection, indeed, grew more and more cursory. When one of the officials suggested drinks and sulphettes, Synvoret was happy to agree.
The party moved into a private room, leaving Towler to wait outside.
Waiting, he thought over his next move.
His new courage had something of desperation in it. Whatever he was going to do must be done very soon.
Rivars had indicated he had other terrestials working for him secretly in the palace. By now Rivars would know he had not acted as instructed, and would be growing impatient. He would probably presume that Towler had sold out to the highest bidder – Synvoret or Par-Chavorlem. If he presumed that, his next move was predictable. He would instruct his other palace agents to exterminate Towler.
The idea made Towler’s flesh crawl. Again he had the strange feeling that Rivars was enemy rather than ally. Well, he must act. At the same time, he must act for reasons other than self-preservation.
The main reason was simple. Ever since his meeting with Rivars, Towler had doubted the patriot leader’s judgement. Now that doubt flared into active mistrust. Rivars was a soldier, one having no knowledge of the finesse of diplomacy, particularly such diplomacy as Partussy fostered. Rivars thought of the Signatory as a sort of Saviour figure; a man of knowledge and integrity who would find the truth and proclaim it. Synvoret fell ludicrously short of that estimate.
Supposing I produced the webbed Starjjan foot for Synvoret. Will that worthy be able, from the depths of his sophistry, to discount it? Will he not dismiss it perhaps as the foot of a terrestial freak, or believe that it has somehow been smuggled illegally into the planet to prove a case?
No, Rivars’ ingenious piece of evidence seems no longer effective as once it did, now that Synvoret is virtually in Par-Chavorlem’s pocket.
It followed that anything offered to Synvoret might be rejected. How then to get the truth about Earth back to the Colony Worlds Council in the Queen World?
One way only presented itself: by killing Synvoret.
Synvoret was an important member of the Council. His death on an almost unknown planet would create an uproar. As soon as possible, another team of investigators – and this time probably military men – would arrive to investigate affairs both on Earth and its supervisory planet, Castacorze, Vermilion HQ. They would be definitely looking for trouble, and they would find it. Indeed, they would probably want Par-Chavorlem for a scapegoat whether he was guilty or not.
It was clear that Synvoret could be of no help to Earth now unless he was dead. And Towler must kill him.
Two days ago this might have been unthinkable. Now it was even pleasurable. All the same, killing one of these giant tripeds, who had so few vulnerable areas, was a considerable task. Towler had only a knife and determination. He needed also a very favourable opportunity.
By the time the Partussian delegation emerged from their drinking party, Towler had a plan improvised.
Approaching the Signatory, he said, ‘In a room in the vaults of the palace are preserved some of the art treasures created by terrestials before they became a subject race. May I show them to you if you have finished here?’
Synvoret swivelled an eye-stalk at him.
‘Do you think your form of art is likely to appeal to me, Interpreter?’ he asked.
‘Our art took many forms. You have seen that we can be warlike. You ought also to see the fruits of peace.’
‘Possibly so,’ the Signatory agreed indifferently. ‘While I am here I am willing to see anything.’
They descended to the art room, only the silent Raggball accompanying them. This, however, was one too many for Towler. If he was to have any chance of success, he must get Synvoret alone.
The store contained treasures from many ages and lands. Most of it was illegally acquired and would be illegally disposed of. As long as the plundered and broken towns of Earth continued to yield up treasure, this room would not be empty. The whole heritage of Earth was gradually being dispersed to nearby worlds, the proceeds going to fill Par-Chavorlem’s personal coffers.
Synvoret walked among all this tragic pomp without a word, pausing nowhere, hurrying nowhere, his eye-stalks sweeping continuously from side to side. At last he came back to Towler.
‘How can biped art mean anything to other beings?’ he asked gently. ‘It is all superficial, mere outward display, rationalised emotion. I can see nothing here to detain me, though this is not to denigrate its value to you.’
‘Nothing at all that interests you?’
The Partussian hesitated, towering above the interpreter.
‘One thing is interesting and curious,’ he said, and he led the way stolidly down among the cases and exhibits. He indicated a stiff and shining square of thick material, covered with a simple repeated motif, consisting of a three-armed whirl. The label on its exhibition case said: LINOLEUM. XX CENT. FRENCH. (PARIS?)
‘You like this?’ Towler asked.
‘It is likeable. It seems to me to bear a more exact relationship to the universe than the rest of the work I have examined here.’
Towler licked his lips.
‘It so happens I have a precisely similar pattern in my private room. The collection of such old treasures is my hobby. Would you come with me to collect it? I feel I would like to present you with it as a gift, to show how much I have enjoyed my brief contact with you as your interpreter. It would be particularly pleasurable to me if this humble ceremony could take place in my room. I have never had a Partussian guest before.’
Synvoret appeared to meditate.
‘Yes, it might be pleasant.’ Momentarily he was seeing himself back on Partussy, saying to his friends, The natives were hospitable in their feeble way. They invited me to their wretched homes, loaded me with gifts. … ‘Yes, let us go,’ he said aloud. ‘It will be convenient for me now.’
‘My little home is so small that I fear there will be no room in it for Raggball.’
Stopping only to collect Partussian air suits, they started for the native quarter and an appointment with death. The stroll held for Towler an air of unreality. He knew that, like an actor in a play, he walked upon a temporary set. This whole Commission had been hastily erected purely for Synvoret’s benefit. When – if – he left, it would be abandoned, as Par-Chavorlem ordered everyone back to their old, more capacious city. The gaunt, unpainted buildings were here only for a moment, the backdrop to a drama of deceit upon the success of which depended the future of Earth.
At this time, it was no more than a backdrop. They walked close by the fair, where a few cafés were beginning to open. Towler’s perceptions were almost entirely wrapped about himself. He noticed nothing. He had invited Synvoret to his flat only because there his chances of making a kill were increased. There, a rip in the other’s air suit could be lethal. Once Synvoret’s suit was punctured, he would have to concentrate not upon defence or attack but on survival. And then a well-aimed blow under the arms might kill him.
Leaving Raggball on guard in the street, they entered the airlock, the big Partussian having to squeeze in.
‘I must make you feel like a pygmy,’ he grunted. Towler was too overwrought to manage a reply.
In the living room, Synvoret swivelled his eye-stalks expectantly. At these close quarters, in his small room, he looked overwhelming.
Unlatching the front of his helmet, licking his lips, Towler said, ‘Stay here. The thing’s in the kitchen.’
Almost blindly, he hurried from the room. Panting, he pulled open a provision cupboard and pulled his antique knife from the back of it, where it had been hidden these last two days. Its handle was of solid wood. The blade, eight inches long, was single-edged, curving to a point. It had been Wedman’s knife, and a serviceabe weapon it was. It would do the job.
Thrusting it into his pocket, Towler vacillated again. When he returned to the other room, it was with the Starjjan foot. Though he had little faith in Rivars’ orders, he would obey them. He would give the Signatory one last chance, judge his reactions. He set the foot on the table in its frosty wrappings.
‘What is this?’ Synvoret asked sternly.
‘Examine it, sir! You told me once you were after the truth of the situation on Earth. Here’s the truth. I brought you here to show it to you. Examine it! Unwrap it!’
He held the knife ready in his pocket as Synvoret peeled back paper and canvas and pulled out the frozen foot.
‘Remove this disgusting object at once, Interpreter.’
‘You can see it’s not a human foot, can’t you?’
‘I have no idea what a human foot looks like, you fool. What are you playing at? Raggball! Raggball!’
As the Signatory shouted for his bodyguard, he swept the foot off the table with a broad arm.
Never for a moment had it occurred to Towler that the Signatory, despite all his years on Starjj, might have no knowledge of the structure of a Starjjan foot. But whether he knew or not, he was unaware of the structure of a terrestial’s foot. It was a stupid and unforeseen slice of miscalculation. The unexpectedness of it woke Towler to action.
Bending as if to retrieve the severed foot, he drew his knife. The Partussian had taken fright, was bellowing still for Raggball. Towler had only a moment in which to act.
He stabbed from behind with all his might, dragging the sharp blade down the expanse of suit, seeing it wrinkle and part, smelling the reek of sulphur-hydrogen as it escaped. Then a blow from Synvoret sent him flying. Stumbling head over heels, he dropped the knife and crashed into his bed, half-stunned.
He lay limply against the bed, staring helplessly across the room. Synvoret had moved to the wall, pressing himself against it so that the rip in his suit was at least partially sealed. The knife lay at his great feet. Towler began to crawl towards it, but Synvoret stood ready to lash out again. They glared at each other. It was deadlock until Raggball arrived; neither could harm the other.
They hated in silence, and then the door broke open and the bodyguard burst in.
‘Stay here and guard him,’ Synvoret said. A tremor was apparent in his voice. ‘Stay here and guard him. I will send reinforcements.’
He left hastily as Raggball lumbered over to Towler.
16
From Synvoret’s point of view, by subjective time, it was eight weeks and two days later when the freighter Geboraa landed him and his party back on Partussy in the Queen City. Borne halfway across the galaxy at a speed and in a para-universe where light was a sluggish solid, he had bypassed the two years and several weeks which had lapsed in the ordinary universe. Time contracted to carry him back to Partussy with his memories of Earth intact.
The Colony Worlds Council Hall was packed with signatories and semi-signatories. After the Trinity had been praised, and Synvoret and two other travellers from distant parts of Empire had been welcomed back with a formal speech from the Tripos the general business of the day began. This was an informal general session. The matters dealt with changed little from year to year: infringements of elemental monopolies, trans-sector disputations, ministerial peccadillos, the carthan-axian question, high-level transgressions of galactic rights.
Synvoret was infinitely soothed to hear these familiar problems come up, one by one, only to be resolved in ethico-legal fashion by the signatories best equipped to deal with them. This, he reflected, was the place for him, a soft seat on his home planet. He was too old to go adventuring again. Relaxed, he heard the Master Tripos calling the next item.
‘Know this, Assembly, that just returned to Partussy is one Wattol Forlie, dismissed from the post of a Commission Third Secretary on a Class 5c world in GAS Vermilion. This world, namely Earth in System 5417, is under the Commissionership of the High Hiscount Chaverlem Par-Chavorlem, against whom Wattol Forlie does bring the following grave charges. First, highest treason, in that the accused does set the fair name of Partussy into foul repute. Second, ordinary treason, in that the accused does bring his own office into disrepute. …’
Now Synvoret was no longer relaxed. He sat tensely listening as his personal secretary took notes beside him. He had not yet made his official report on Earth to the Supreme Councillor, whose private hearings were held only once a month. It was a coincidence merely that this issue should occur in ordinary council session. Wattol Forlie must have reached home at almost the same time as the Signatory.
‘… Third, corruption, in that the accused does deploy his forces for his own personal gain. Fourth, exploitation, in that the accused manoeuvres the subject race under him for his own personal gain. …’
The list of charges increased. There were nine in all. At length the Master Tripos looked up and said, in the traditional parlance of the council, ‘Let he who brings these charges show himself to the assembly and vouch that the intention is of his own, and Trinity and Empire not abused thereby.’
A figure rose some distance from Synvoret and announced cockily, ‘Here I am, gentlemen, ladies, neuters. The intention is mine and I am pursuivant of it. And I’ll tell you I’d never have got here for years yet, if some good traveller on a filthy dump called Appelobetnees III hadn’t given me nine tens for a prize-winning lottery ticket. That bit of luck paid my way home.’
‘That is sufficient,’ cried the Tripos. ‘The charges can speak for themselves. So you are present, so you hold silence.’
A ripple of amusement ran around the chamber, quickly hushed as the speaker continued. ‘Who shall sift these matters in preliminary or in toto? Stand up and speak all signatories with special and relevant knowledge of the matters contained in these charges.’
Only Synvoret rose.
‘The staggering total of nine charges. This dismissed Third Secretary must have hired an able lawyer!’
These, his first words, brought a mutter of amusement from his fellows, in which a note of welcome revealed their pleasure in seeing a cherished face back among them. Though at present he was intellectually unprepared to make a statement, suddenly he was emotionally ready. He had done his state some service; there remained one duty to perform. Unexpectedly, he found himself full of words.
‘Signatories all,’ he began. ‘This matter touches very closely on the Investigation from which I have just returned. A full and proper report of it will go to the Supremo at the month’s end. Meanwhile, I will briefly give you the gist of my judgements as they affect the charge. Most of you will not have heard of Earth. I have visited it. I have just come back from there. Grave allegations from this same source against one of our Commissioners, Par-Chavorlem, have already come to my attention. I went to Earth with the express purpose of investigating them.’
He was a noble figure standing there. He was well-known and well-liked. Nobody listening doubted his integrity. Synvoret was one of the old guard, beyond self-interest and corruption. One glance at the ancient splendour of his coat told you that.
‘Let me deal with the indictment charge by charge,’ he continued. ‘The first charge of highest treason. This charge, I suggest, cannot operate until the dismissed Third Secretary Forlie has produced corroborative charges from a higher source. Highest treason can only be committed against higher sources. Castacorze, Sector Vermilion HQ would be, for instance, a higher source in Par-Chavorlem’s case, but they have brought no such charge against him.
‘The second charge of ordinary treason. To my personal knowledge, Par-Chavorlem does not bring his office into disrepute. I spoke during my stay to Partussian landowners of the highest repute – the name of the Par-Junt family will be familiar to you – and these good people hold the Commissioner in the greatest esteem and affection. Even the bipeds regard him with affection. I was there, gentlemen, meeting these creatures face to face. The bipeds of Earth wage civil wars with brother killing brother. I went out on to their battlefields and spoke with them personally, uncensoredly. I well remember on one occasion going right into a forward area, a town called Ashkar where fighting had been going on for weeks, where we were constantly under nuclear bombardment. A stream of biped refugees –’
