The Sentimental Agents in the Volyen Empire (18 page)

I was there with 33, 34, 37 and 38, summoned from their work on Volyendesta, to do what we could to mitigate the worst excesses of the mobs. We were of course in disguise, and I was not recognized by Incent, who was seated on an embankment above the rioters, watching. His very presence could have been taken as an incitement. Sombre, white-faced, tragic in mien, but above all merely an onlooker – it would have taken only an unlucky chance to make him a target. I assigned 33 to watch him, unobserved. Then I sent him a message suggesting that he might care to join me and others in real, responsible work. To this I received no reply. The next time I saw him was yesterday, here in Vatun. Again it was a mob scene. Streets of houses were burning,
and a small army of mostly young Volyens were destroying everything in their way, with screams of ‘Down with …' ‘To the fire with …' The names were those of local shopkeepers, mostly immigrant Volyenadnans. Incent leaped from among them onto a low bridge that crossed the street where houses were burning on either side. Smoke, the tossing flames, the seething crowds beside themselves with rage – and there was our hero, shouting – or, rather, screaming – to make himself heard. ‘You have to realize … no, listen to me … you are betraying everything that makes you real, responsible individuals, no, you must listen … You are at this moment at the mercy of your animal brains … Did you know that …' Below him the front ranks of the mass stopped momentarily to stare up, their mouths agape, arrested by astonishment, bewilderment – but above all by this check on the flood of their emotions. The shadows of the flames and smoke darkened the mass of faces. For a moment there was a near-silence, in which flames roared and some people at the back chanted, ‘Down with … we'll bring him down …' ‘Every man of you has in your head two brains, well, more actually, but one is an animal brain, and when that gets control then you become like animals, and that is what you are now, you are a herd of …' The mass screamed with derisive laughter. ‘If we wanted a lesson in biology, we'd ask you,' screamed back our 37, from among them, to deflect their rage. As the mass turned to see who it was speaking for them, in terminology certainly not possible to them at this time, 38 ran out to grasp Incent, who was in danger of toppling forward into the crowds, who would have torn him apart. ‘Listen,' Incent was shouting, ‘listen to me … you are all under the control of your primitive brains, can't you see that? You have regressed a million years and …' At this he was hauled back onto the bridge by the resourceful 38 and hustled along to where I was. We grasped him by the arms and ran him out of sight along a street the mob had not reached.

‘But it's true,' Incent was reiterating as we ran.

We left him in a small bar that was empty, telling him to stay there till we got back, and at once went out to see what we could usefully do. It was all very bad. The rioting, looting, fighting went on, and when I got back to the bar it was closed, with no sign of Incent.

Do not be too discouraged about Incent! I can feel that he is actually mending and is no longer an open channel for the depredations of Krolgul.

All of Motz is on full war-alert. Grice is on his way to Volyen: the Embodiments finally lost interest in him. They said, ‘Governor Grice, just go. Yes, yes, yes, anything you like, but just go.' They have sent Stil with Grice, at Grice's request.

It has occurred to Grice that the Volyen he has arrived on is not the Volyen he left. Riots and disorders, arson and looting! ‘But Volyens aren't like that,' he keeps protesting. ‘We aren't like that at all. We are good-natured and kind, we are
reasonable
people.'

Yet another impossibility has had to be fitted into his already tortured mental balances. When the worst that can be said about Volyen has been said – that there is unemployment, for instance, that the immigrant populations from the other planets are not fully accepted as citizens, that the standard of living is falling because of the loss of Empire – when all this has been said, the lot of the poorest citizen on
Volyen is better than that of the richest on Motz. As Stil expostulates, while he gloomily accompanies Grice everywhere in this task of his of ‘keeping an eye' on him, ‘You call this poverty? You tell me these people are rioting because they are poor? No, you'll have to explain to me, please! No, you just give me this poverty of yours, and let me take it back to my settlement. It would be riches for a year, what I can see wasted here, in just this one street.'

Grice has succeeded in accommodating this, as he has everything else, as part of his grand ‘Indictment.'

Grice could not find a lawyer to take his case, so he went to the Defender of the Public, a person specifically appointed to make sure legitimate grievances are heard. This gentleman leafed through the many hundreds of pages of the ‘Indictment' with the quizzical look which Grice was too much of an expert on his own kind not to understand. Before the Defender could throw him out, in the whimsical and charming way Grice himself had used often enough, Grice said, ‘Do you remember me, Spascock? We were at Infant School together in ‘53.' The official admitted that, although he did not remember Grice, he had in fact been at that Infant School. ‘Do you remember Vera?' ‘Of course I remember Vera. One of the most fortunate influences on my life. My parents were more often than not on tours of duty on Volyenadna, and I am afraid I was rather starved of ordinary family affection.' ‘You have never met Vera since then?' Grice continued excitedly. (I have a detailed account of this meeting from Incent, who was present: Incent and Grice have become great friends, not surprisingly.) Spascock was uncomfortable, and could not hide it. ‘Because I did meet Vera much later, and her influence on my life was crucial.'

Vera, charming and warmhearted girl, had gone for a holiday on Volyenadna, seen the suffering of the indigenous population under Volyen rule, and for the first time understood that the pleasant conditions on Volyen were not only
not available to its colonies, but also that these conditions existed
because
of its colonies. Vera suffered an instant conversion to a belief in the Virtue of Sirius, and in short became an agent, but in the rather ambiguous way typical of the time. A few excited visits to a Sirian Embassy, some casual encounters at official receptions, an invitation to visit ‘Sirius' – in this case Alput, which most favourably impressed her – and then nothing happened. Quite soon she learned what a horrible tyranny Sirius was, and literally ‘forgot' her period of being an admirer of Sirius. But during this period she had been instrumental in introducing two ex-pupils, now grown up, to an admiration of Sirius. One of these was Grice, the other Spascock. She had in fact recruited them.

‘In my view, people in our position should stand together,' said Grice to Spascock.

Spascock, trying to smile, said he would look through the ‘Indictment' and let Grice know. ‘And who,' he inqued, as Grice and Incent left, ‘is your friend?'

‘He comes from far away, very far away indeed,' said Grice, knowing how this must affect Spascock, who went straight back to his desk and began reading the ‘Indictment.'

‘Oh, no,' he kept groaning, ‘oh, no, it really isn't
on …
but this is absolutely lunatic … it is utterly …' And then the telephone began ringing with colleagues of all kinds, high and low – but some very high indeed – and Spascock found every one of these interesting conversations, all apparently about something else entirely, unmistakable reasons why he should in fact allow this case of Grice's to go forward.

‘Yes, I am reading it,' he spluttered and groaned to person after person, each of whom had remarked something to the effect that ‘Grice, you know, our colleague,' had brought a copy of his Indictment. ‘Yes, but it may all be true, I am not saying it isn't, it's all very fascinating, I am sure, but, but … yes, very well. Very well. I hear you.'

‘But surely,' Spascock moaned, as he sat alone in his office
after about the twentieth telephone call, ‘we can't
all
be …?' And of course they all weren't, but did wonder if anything they had ever done or said …? Or were, but did not know to what an extent they were deemed to be ‘sleeping,' or at least dozing, by Sirius; or were in fact actively engaged in undoing Volyen in any way that occurred to their ingenuity; or were in close contact with some secret Sirian taskmaster.

This case is going to take place. Grice is in a fever of pleasure. It is this relish of his that is perturbing his comrade and ally. That Volyen should be ‘exposed, once and for all,' and ‘brought to the bar of history' seems to Incent only just, for while he is really very much better, certain sequences of words do still set him off easily; but his nature makes any form of pleasure suspect to him, except that which he experiences when contemplating his own deficiencies. In fact, his disapproval of Grice amounts to a form of envy. He has been heard to mutter, while Grice writhes with relish as he amends his Indictment to include yet another phrase that demolishes Volyen hypocrisy, ‘But Grice, I've been much worse than that, often, myself!'

A message from AM 5 on Motz begs that he be allowed to transfer here: he has developed, he says, a taste for the contemplation of farce. ‘Oh, Klorathy,' he cried, ‘how can I bear these admirable Motzans! They never do anything that cannot be expected to result in a solid achievement of some kind. They never make a remark that isn't rooted ‘in life itself.' Where are those famous ‘contradictions' that I have come to enjoy now that Governor Grice has gone? There's only one now, and that is that these Motzans, whether they like it or not, are also Sirians. And they are saved by their total lack of imagination, for their minds work like this: We are good. We are Sirians. Therefore Sirians are good. They are preparing for the invasion of Volyen in the same spirit that is theirs when they take over a stretch of sand and turn it into a settlement. Because of Grice, they can see Volyen
only as needing their guidance. When I suggest, in the slightly whimsical manner that I have perfected here to gain me immunity from their solemnities (and which, of course, rightly earns their mistrust), that perhaps not everyone on Volyen is like Grice, their eyes glaze over: they are all like one another, since they have been ‘forged in the fire' (forgive me) of their common hardship, and so they cannot conceive of a planet full of diversity. Klorathy, rescue me, let me come to Volyen.'

To which I answered: ‘You may not recognize this in yourself, but this ‘whimsicality,' the deliberate half-concealed mockery, the ‘enjoyment' is exactly the same indulgence in, the inner surrender to, the potentiality for anarchy in yourself, that caused a whole generation of upper-class Volyens to become agents (to one degree or another) of Sirius. Do you not recognize the atmosphere, the ‘note'? I remember myself giving a series of classes, which I know you attended, on this particular period on Volyen, since it illustrated so well the laws of inner disaffection, of treachery. Do you not remember the lecture that was given under the tide ‘For If It Prosper, None Dare Call It Treason'? Obviously you do
not
 remember. You are not an agent of Canopus in this (I admit) not very attractive little corner of the Galaxy in order to develop a taste for the study of historical anomaly. Which is nearly always rooted in
conceit –
it is no accident that it was the class on Volyen brought up to consider itself as natural rulers who were trained with that deep and pervasive frivolity – the pride of those who consider themselves better than others. The enjoyment of the anomalies that are always present when planets clash is from pride. Very well, I will admit that a little of this is allowable, even necessary, to save oneself from the depression and discouragement that lie in wait for us as we contemplate the wastefulness with which the Galaxy, or, as the Volyens put it, Nature, accomplishes its purpose. But one step beyond this small allowance, and you have taken off
into contempt for those around you, and will soon be inflated by pleasure in your own cleverness. Agent AM 5 of
Canopus –
will you kindly do your work, as instructed, and moderate your enjoyment in it! As it happens, you are scheduled to come to Volyen with the invading Motzan armies, but do not imagine you will find much to
enjoy
in that.'

In response to this rebuke, or, rather, reminder, I have received a sober acknowledgement that it was necessary.

The preliminary hearing has taken place. Spascock, in a last spasm of professional indignation, submitted formally that the case should be disallowed. This was in a small chamber off the regular court. Spascock, three Assessors, Grice, Incent, some court officials. The Assessors were all uncomfortable, and showed it.

‘On what are you basing your Indictment?' asked the Chief Assessor.

‘On this first clause of our Volyen Constitution,' said Grice, who was standing there upright, burning-eyed, feeling himself the Judgment of History on Volyen personified.

‘Read it.'

‘“Volyen undertakes to protect and to provide for all its citizens in accordance with the development at a given time of its natural resources and with the evolution and growth of knowledge about the laws of Volyen nature and the laws of the dynamics of Volyen society.”'

Grice listened to this as if every word was an accusation no one could disagree with, and stood triumphant, waiting.

The three Assessors avoided one another's eyes.

Spascock said, ‘In my opinion, it is preposterous.'

‘Why, Spasky?' demanded Grice. ‘Sorry. I mean, Defender. Either Volyen means what it – she – he says, or does not. What is the point of having a Constitution when it is considered ridiculous even to ask if it is being honoured?'