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THE INTERPRETER

Also by Brian Aldiss

and available in the Four Square series

THE CANOPY OF TIME

THE AIRS OF EARTH

THE DARK LIGHT YEARS

SPACE, TIME AND NATHANIEL

EARTHWORKS

HOTHOUSE

The Interpreter

BRIAN ALDISS

A FOUR SQUARE BOOK

This book is copyright. No portion of it may be

reproduced without written permission.

Ltd.

FIRST FOUR SQUARE EDITION JUNE 1967

Conditions of Sale: This book shall not, without the written consent of the Publishers

first given, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise disposed of by way of trade in any

form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published.

Four Square Books are published by The New English Library Limited,

from Barnard's Inn, Holborn, London E.C.I Made and printed in Great Britain by C. Nicholis & Company Ltd.

A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR

Science-fiction stories featuring galactic empires have always intrigued me, partly because I had the

chance of seeing at first band the uneasy relationship existing between "imperialists" and subject races

in India and Indonesia. So there's a galactic empire in this book with Earthmen on the receiving end as

subject race. The plot hinges on the notion that the further spread your empire is, the greater are the

opportunities for graft therein.

So the villains of the piece are not so much the all-conquering nuls, as the size of the galaxy and the

economics involved in its rule. At the same time, the fact that the four central characters each have

good reason to mistrust the other three does complicate things.

I hope it doesn't complicate things too much. Van Vogtian complexities of plot and sub-plot are not

for me. This book aims at being a simple study of four pretty hard types each trying to out-think the

other. —BRIAN W. ALDISS

Thought. Thought: that field of force still to be analysed. Thought: as inseparable from a higher

being as gravity from a planet. It wraps around me, as my senses go about their endless job of

taming all the external world into symbols. I can know no external thing without its being touched

- perhaps in some unguessable way transmuted - by my thought.

The baseness I saw my own people, the mils, perpetrating on that world Earth; was it real, or a

misinterpretation in my mind?

Never the less, here and now, moneyless and far from home, I must prefer practical questions.

My eyes must foe on the main chance. Someone must be fleeced, so that I can get back. Thoughts

are a gamble. Some days interesting ones turn up, some days dull ones. Maybe that's why I'm a

gambler: I'm hoping to discover something more than chance behind chance.

Certainly my thoughts should be interesting now. Here I lie flat on the wide wall by the old

harbour, gazing up at the universe. Because it is night, I can see the stars which belong to that

empire in which I am a member of the master race.

My name is Wattol Forlie; I am a nul; I rest penniless but resourceful on a low wall on what is

temporarily the night side of a planet that its misbegotten lopsided sons call Stomin. Is that not an

interesting thought?

Not particularly. My feelings, my precious feelings, they are more important. Consider: I have

no cause for optimism, yet I am optimistic. I am umpteen light years from Partussy, yet I am not

homesick. I must appear to be in a drunken coma, yet my wits are as sharp as the beastly vinn I

swigged at Farri-bidouchi's.

And there is another level of my thought, a danger level, coming into action. I have one eye

cocked to the galaxy and one to my inner self. Yet at the same time I am aware of this thug sliding

towards me from a side street. He skirts the worn wooden capstan, and the pile of offal and shells

where the sea food stall stands during the day. He approaches like a villain.

He's a nul, I notice. Therefore arrogant, no doubt, as I am arrogant. He carries a knife with

which to threaten me, the cheap quaint. How should he realize it is Wattol Forlie who sprawls

here?

How could he imagine the thoughts in my head as brightly peppered as the stars up yonder,

which will scatter when even-

tually he gets up enough pluck to stutter his "Put your hands up," or whatever melodramatic drivel he

will utter?

Wattol Forlie let his thoughts pour out through his head, enjoying his own calm in the face of

danger. For a nul, he had indeed some complexity of character. Yet even he, lying tipsy on a harbour

wall on Stomin, had no inkling of that chain of events upon which the destiny of one world, and

perhaps even of the galaxy, depended.

And had he known, in his present mood he might have done no more than wave an arm in dismissal.

Not that he was a fatalist. He believed in the importance of every action. He also believed that in a

galaxy of four million civilized planets those actions would eventually cancel each other out.

As he was reflecting with delight on the involutions of his own character, a voice from three feet

away said coldly, "Raise your hands and sit up, and keep quiet about it."

Wattol disliked such treatment, especially on an alien planet. He knew that the misshapen

inhabitants of Stomin. would happily melt him or any other nul down for the sake of his blubber

content without thinking twice about it. Still making no attempt to move, he swivelled an eyestalk to

observe his opponent.

Through the dark, he saw a tripedal figure much like his own.

"Does your being a nul entitle you to act like this?" he enquired lazily.

"Sit up, brother. I'll ask the questions."

Wattol spat.

"You're no ordinary thug, or you'd have had the sense to shut me up without all the dramatics. Come

and tell me what you want like a civilized being."

The figure came nearer, angry now.

"I said sit up-"

As Wattol finally did so, he launched himself at the other, catching him just below the midriff. They

fell heavily, and a long curved knife went spinning. Distant lamplight slanted on to their faces as they

grappled together.

"Wait!" the attacker exclaimed. "You're the gambler, aren't you? Weren't you at Ferribidouchi's joint

earlier, playing on the central tables? " 8

"Is this a time for conversation, you cheap quaint?"

"You're the gambler, area't you? A thousand apologies, sir! I mistook you for an ordinary

loafer."

They scrambled up, the attacker full of contrite and flattering phrases. His name, he declared,

was Jicksa, and he humbly offered Wattol a drink to compensate for his deplorable conduct. The

dark, he swore, had driven him to a foolish act.

"I like all this no better than your earlier behaviour," Wattol said. "The truth is, I want nothing

to do with you. Be off and leave me alone in meditation, you squirt."

"I've an offer to make you. A good offer. Look, we mils must stick together. That's the truth,

isn't it? Stomin is a fearful place to be on. Because it happens to be a main conjunction of several

important space routes, it swarms with all sorts of riffraff-"

"Like yourself!"

"Sir, I'm only temporarily down on my luck, just as you obviously are. Together we will re-

establish our fortunes. I, you see, happen to be a gambler too."

"You might 'have said that in the first place, and saved yourself a lot of energy," Wattol said,

beating dust and old fish scales from his clothing. "Let's go and get that drink. You can pay for it

and tell me what your offer is."

They found a place called the Parakeet. It stank but was comfortable. None of the other life

forms present were too revolting in appearance. Settling into a corner with their glasses, the two

mils were soon immersed in a discussion of various games of chance.

"I was fleeced when I was playing at Farribidouchi's. How comes it you have such an

admiration for my playing?" Wattol asked.

Jicksa smiled.

"The game was rigged, of course, I was watching but I didn't say anything, or they would have

cut my throat. It was a wonder you stayed in as long as you did. I figured we'd make a good pair

when I saw the way you handled your cards."

"I certainly need the money. I've got a long way to get home; half the galaxy, no less."

"Where are you making for? "

"Partussy itself. I am a Partussian citizen, if that's any honour nowadays. They've treated me as

shabbily as if I was a member of a junior race." 9

"I certainly don't owe the authorities any love either," Jicksa admitted. "What happened to you,

if it's not a long story?"

"Until a few months ago, I was Third Secretary of a Commission on a planet full of bipeds. A

nice comfortable job, tat I couldn't bear the way the Commissioner, a fellow called Par-

Chavorlem, was treating the locals. He was a hateful swine. So I up and complained, and he threw

me out on my ear. Didn't even give me the fare to get home with - that's standard Foreign

Department procedure, by the way.

"Well, I'd saved enough cash to buy a passage on a ship to Hoppaz II, and from there to

Castacorze, which is a sector HQ planet. Castacorze is a foul dump, I tell you! Like most HQ

planets, it's rotten with graft, but the ordinary citizen can't swing a thing. I was stuck there for a

year until I had earned enough money for a passage here. I even did manual labour to earn it."

Jicksa tut-tatted in sympathy.

"Yes, but at least I did two useful things on Castacorze. I resolved that after the way I'd been

treated the world owed me a living; from now on I'm going to rely on my luck and my wits to get

me home to Partussy."

"At the rate you're going, friend, it'll take you twenty years. Stay here with me and fleece the

tourists."

Wattol decided he did not much like Jicksa. The fellow seemed incapable of distinguishing

between an ordinary crook and a man with extraordinary ambitions. Still, he would serve his

purpose in the long game of leap frog that carried Wattol from planet to planet towards home.

Draining his glass, Jicksa signalled for another measure.

"What was this other useful thing you said you did on Castacorze? " he inquired.

Wattol grinned a sour grin.

"You've probably never heard of Synvoret? He's a big noise on the Supreme Council on

Partussy. He always had a reputation in the Foreign Department for being one of the few in-

corruptible nuls left! So I got together a bundle of evidence against this Commissioner Par-

Chavorlem and sent it off to Synvoret from Castacorze,"

"What good will that do you? " Jicksa asked.

"Some satisfactions can't be bought for money, brother Jicksa. Nothing would give me greater

pleasure than seeing this 10

louse Par-Chavorlem kicked out, and this planet be lords over getting a square deal. And

Synvoret's the nul to do it."

Jicksa sniffed. He had met sacked civil servants with crazy grievances before.

"What did you say the name of this planet was where you worked under Par-whosit?" he asked,

bored.

"Oh, a backward little dump called Earth. I don't suppose you've heard of it? "

Sipping his new drink, Jicksa agreed he had never heard of it.

The chair was very much in contrast to the coat that had been flung over it. Like the room in

which it stood, the chair was krge, over-ornate, and fearfully new.

The coat was simple in cut, worn, and old-fashioned. Made by a good Partussian tailor, it had

the usual three bat-winged sleeves with apertures below the arms, and a high collar reaching

almost to the eye-stalks such as was now worn only by members of the old school of diplomats.

The edge of the collar was as frayed as the three wide cuffs.

This was the coat of Signatory Arch-Hiscount Armajo Synvoret. Ten seconds after he had

dropped it over his ornate chair, the cupboard extended a hook and drew the worn garment into its

embrace. Tidiness is a virtue for underlings and machines.

Ignoring this, Synvoret continued to pace round his new room. Bis life had been austere,

dedicated to the furtherance of Partussian justice on other worlds. This chamber, at once frivolous

and ostentatious, seemed to him to embody principals he had often fought against. He resented

being moved from his old quarters into it, for all its boasted advantages.

Synvoret opened the first document on his desk. Inside its foil cover was another cover, a dozen

gaudy stamps on it indicating its hopscotch passage from one port to another across the galaxy to

its present destination. Its earliest stamp, marked CASTACORZE, SECTOR VERMILION bore a

date almost two years old. With increased interest, Synvoret slit it open.

The envelope contained a number of flimsy documents and a covering letter which Synvoret read

first:

"To Supreme Council Signatory Arch-Hiscount Armajo Synvoret, G.L.L., I.L.U.S., L.C.U.S.S.,

P.F., R.O.R. (Omi), Fr.G.R.T(P), Colony Worlds Council, Partussy.

"Sequestered and Honoured Signatory Sir: Since my name will hardly have penetrated through the

hierarchies and light years which divide us, permit me to introduce myself. I am Wattol Forlie, one-

time Third Secretary to High Hiscount Chaverlem Par-Chavorlem, Galactic Commissioner to the

planet Earth. To save your Signatoryship the annoyance of referring to files, let me add that Earth is a

Class 5c World in System 5417 of Galactic Administration Sector Vermilion.

"Good. I, Honoured Sir, have just been given the boot.

"I have not liked one single thing I have seen of the administration of this wretched planet Earth by

our people. When I had the temerity to draft a minute to this effect to Commissioner Par-Chavorlem, I

was brought before him and most unjustly given the push.

"You as a veteran of ministerial life will probably know the terms of the standard galactic-colonial

contract for Grade Four rankers in the Colonial Service like me; by 'infringing' it, I have to find my

own way home. With ten thousand light years to Partussy, I doubt if I shall see home again before I'm

an old nul. An effective way of keeping anyone quiet, eh!

"However, Honoured Sir, my main gripe is not for myself but for the subject race of Earth, termed

'terrestials'. When and if you get to know them, these terrestials are pretty good creatures, sharing

many of a nul's better characteristics. The fact that they are biped has told against them historically - as

it seems to have done against biped races everywhere.

"My case is that these bipeds are being systematically exploited and ruined by our Earth

Commissioner. Par-Chavor-lem is greatly overstepping his lawful powers, as I hope the enclosed

documents will prove to you. If his rule continues, all Earth culture will be obliterated in another

generation.

"Par-Chavorlem should be stopped. A just nul should be put in his place, if just nuls can still be

found. Our mighty, glorious empire stinks to heaven! It is rotten, decadent, through and through. If

this dossier ever reaches you, I dare say you will do nothing about it.

"Why do I write to you in particular, Honoured Sir?

Obviously I had to write to one of the signatories of the Colony Council; they are the boys with

the power to do things. I chose you because 1 learned that in your youth you held, among other

posts, the position of Deputy Commissioner to Starjj, another planet in this sector, Vermilion,

where your rule was a pattern, for enlightened justice. You still have the reputation, I believe, for

being honest and perceptive.

"If this is so, I beg you to do something for the terrestials, and post Par-Chavorlem somewhere

where he can do no further harm. Or most probably you are too busy to trouble with this whole

matter. This is the age of the Busy Nul!

"Your ex-servant in despair, I am, Honoured Signatory Sir, Wattol 'Big Head' Forlie."

The comb on Signatory Synvoret's leathery old head rippled in anger, an anger by no means

directed entirely against Wattol Forlie. The Colonial Office, under a succession of inept

Ministers, had in his view grown increasingly incompetent to manage its own affairs. As the years

descended on his shoulders Synvoret grew increasingly sure that things were nowhere what they

had been in his younger days. Forlie's letter seemed to confirm this.

He went over to the ornate chair, sat on it, and spread Forlie's dossier on the desk. Its contents

were the sort of documents he had expected to find:

Copies of directions signed by Par-Chavorlem for internal circulation in the Commission,

imposing racial restrictions.

Copies of an order to the military authorizing them to shoot on sight any terrestial found within

half a mile of any main road.

Copies of instructions to terrestial authorities, inviting them to hand over art treasures to the

Partussian authorities for "permanent safe keeping" against worthless guarantees.

Reports from Sub-Commission stations on Earth, giving details of forced terrestial labour gangs

employed there.

And copies of several arrangements with civilian contractors, mining firms, managers of

spacelines, and military governors "one of the latter a Star General on Castacorze" - all showing

items and expenditures well above anything prescribed for a 5c Commission.

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, de-paqued 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 14

Psycho-Watch's Misdemeanor 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 -"

Signory Synvoret broke in with an embarrassed laugh, but his superior continued.

"- but you are old, and you must realize 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 15

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 Mm 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 put 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 Chaver-lem 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 fee made in my

honour. All I shall require are facilities for unescorted travel and interpreter speaking Earthian

language. Exact date of arrival follows. Synvoret."

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 organized 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 vacuum-ized velcan, protected for every mile of

their length by force fields. Before all else the Partussians were transporters, circu-

lators. 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 berfore," 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 foe 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 Protege 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 far-sighted 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 realization 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. Commis-

sioner 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 Commission 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 Ms 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 & 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. Ter-restials who actually came into contact

with Parnassians 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 ckmped 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 materialized 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 stories high only, entered or left by

airlocks.

When he was through the double doors, he undamped 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.

The glimpse globe hung in the centre of the ceiling. Elizabeth stood directly beneath it. That was the

only place in the flat from which her expression could not be spied upon. Towler's eyes lit at the sight

of her, though he knew that his act of opening the door would click over a warning relay far away, so

that now a nul - or even a man - would be bending over a screen, watching him come in, seeing what

he carried, hearing what he said.

"It's good to see you, Elizabeth," he exclaimed, trying to thrust off self-consciousness, to forget the

spy overhead.

"I shouldn't be here," she said. It was not a promising opening. She was twenty-four, slender, far too

slender, her face spear-bright with its length, its keen blue eyes. She was not beautiful, but about all

her features was a definition that gave her a quality more vivid than beauty.

"We can talk," he said gently. Living here alone, isolated, he had almost forgotten what it was to be

gentle. Taking her hand, he led her to the small table.

Her every movement showed uncertainty. Only ten days ago she had been free, living far from the

City, hardly seeing a nul from one month's end to the next. Her father was an afrizziaa canner with a

small business. Then a fraud in his tax returns was detected. For five years he had been paying Par-

tussy less than - under Par-Chavorlem's regime - was legally its due. His cannery was appropriated, his

only daughter, Elizabeth, taken to work in the offices of the Commission.

There, scared aad homesick, she had come under Towler's jurisdiction. Pity, and perhaps

something more, compelled him to offer her what help he could.

"If we talk, can they not hear us? " she asked.

"Every word uttered goes to a monitoring post in Police HQ," he said, "where it is recorded.

But of course they do not expect us to love them. Since they already have the power of life and

death over us, a few words on tape hardly make much difference, only be guarded."

She flinched from the resignation in his words. He too belonged to a world quite foreign to her.

They could touch each other, but as yet there was no real contact.

"Well then," she said, "how long must I expect to be kept here?"

It was his turn to flinch. He had worked here for ten years, ever since he was twenty, trapped

on a charge even slighter than the one that had caught Elizabeth Fallodon. In all that time, he had

never been out of Commission City. The mils issued one-way tickets only to their biped

attendants.

Instead of answering her. directly, he said, "You will find it is not so bad here. A lot of very

pleasant men and women work for the Partussians. Arid most of the Partussians, once you

become used to their frightful exteriors, are inoffensive. It's fortunate you were drafted to

Interpretation Branch. We are really quite a'community on our own."

"I like Peter Lardening," she said.

"He is a promising young man, Lardening." As he spoke, aware of bis own patronizing tone,

Towler felt his cheeks redden. Lardening was indeed the best of the younger interpreters. Also,

he would be about Elizabeth's age. It was too early to feel jealous, Towler told himself. Elizabeth

was a stranger. For various reasons it was best she should remain a stranger.

"He seems very kind," Elizabeth said.

"He is very kind."

"And understanding."

"He is very understanding." Suddenly, he had lost the ability to make conversation. He wished

to say that he was the Chief Interpreter; that he could help her the most.

It was almost with relief that he heard the communicator chirp, though at any other time it

might have alarmed him. He smiled painfully as he turned from her.

"Hello," he said, going over to it. As his personal disc came within its search beam, so the screen lit.

He recognized his caller as a minor clerk at the palace, a man, his face long familiar to Towler, though

they exchanged nothing more intimate than a meaningless "good morning."

"Will you hurry on over to the palace, Gary Towler, Urgent call out for you."

"I have one afternoon off a month," Towler said. "This is it. Won't this urgent call keep fresh until

tomorrow?"

"Commissioner himself's asking for you. Better hurry on over."

"All right. I'll be there. Don't panic!"

III

Sixteen and a half minutes later, Chief Interpreter Gary Towler was bowing to Commissioner High

Hiscount Par-Chavorlem. After all these years of service in the City, Towler still felt a shudder of fear

at the sight of a Partussian. Par-Chavorlem stood ten feet high. He was immensely solid. His great

bulk was almost cylindrical, except for his arms and legs. A nul was like a canister to which two three-

armed starfish were joined, one at the base, forming legs, one midway up, forming arms.

Like the rest of his kind, Par-Chevorlem was almost featureless. At the end of each road arm were

two flexible, opposed JBngers, with retractable ckws usually concealed. Near the top of his cylindrical

body were three regularly spaced eye-stalks, while on top of his "head" was the usual fleshy comb. All

his other features were concealed under the wide flaps of his arms; his mouth, his olfactory nerves, his

aural cavities, his reproductive organs. A nul was a secret creature whose exterior betrayed very little.

Only the often highly expressive comb on the head relieved an impression of functional brutality.

"Interpreter Towler," Par-Chavorlem said, speaking with

out preamble in bis own tongue. "Our way of life here will be

altered from now on. Trouble brews, my little biped friend.

Here is what you must do "

Some miles away, Arm Marshall Terekomy was peering at

a distant tower that looked to him as grim and forbidding as the Commissioner looked to Towler.

"And you say the terrestial rebel leader is in the tower?" Terekomy asked casually.

"His lookouts are, sir, and he is most certainly camped beneath it. That was why I radioed

asking you to come here as soon as possible,'

The speaker was a Ballistics-Beadle Ibowitter, a nul new to Earth, commanding a team which

manned the latest experimental field weapon, the stereosonus.

Terekomy was strangely calm.

"I see you were efficient, Ballistics-Beadle," be said.

"You'll find I do my very best, sir. I was posted here from Starjj, another biped world, sir, and

there my reputation for efficiency was also high."

Still calm, Terekomy said, "I have seen your career sheet."

Slightly flustered by his superior's lack of enthusiasm, Ibowitter continued.

"And so I radioed you, sir, thinking you'd like to be in at

the kill. This terrestial leader Rivars has been causing trouble

for so long... I naturally thought that you "

His voice trailed off as he saw the colour of Terekomy's comb.

"If I've said anything, sir "

"Your career sheet," Terekomy remarked almost conversationally, "says that you were deported

from Starjj because you murdered some two thousand bipeds in an experiment with this new

weapon. On Starjj, from what I hear, the bipeds are treated a deal more leniently than they are

here. There the rulers are enlightened. Here, thank Trinity, we aren't!

"Nevertheless, if you start knocking off terrestials with that infernal stereosonic weapon, I

swear I will not merely deport you, I'll tear you in strips of blubber a millimetre thick."

"But, Arm Marshall, sir, this Rivars -"

"Rivars gives us a little opposition. Without him we have no excuse for restrictive measures.

He costs us a lot every year, so we curtail his activities as far as possible. He's clever, I give you

that, and if he had an offensive weapon like this new gadget of yours, it would be a very different

story. But as it is, to wipe out his forces would be sheer folly, especially at present."

Peering through his air helmet, Terekomy surveyed the

broken terrain, the grey tower built of stone at a period long before the Empire had discovered Earth,

and behind it the senseless, endless arrays of green foliage that flourished on this oxygen world. He

sometimes had a cold fondness for this world. It was here he could be of service to Par-Chavorlem.

He felt no anger for Ibowitter, only pleasure that he had stopped an unfortunate accident.

Ibowitter was apologizing.

"It's a pity we can't wipe out bipeds altogether," he said.

"Keep a thought like that to yourself. You know they're worth money. Millions of byaksis are

invested in a little planet like this. How would the refineries, the factories, the mills, the farms, all the

rest of it, work without biped labour? It would cost five times as much doing the job with robot

labour."

"I have been briefed on the economic situation."

"Keep it in mind then."

Time to get back to the City and Par-Chavorlem, Terekomy thought. Here he was not at ease. From

Ibowitter's hideout, little was to be seen but that old tower and the silent greenery perpetually

breathing in its toxic carbon dioxide. In that greenery hid bipeds, terrestials. They could in theory be

killed so easily. Yet always there was a reason - political, economic, personal, tactical - for not killing

them. Perhaps they would at last survive to emerge from the greenery and take over again a world the

nul had left. It was possible, for the bipeds admitted no compromise, whereas the Empire was founded

on it.

Such thoughts made Terekomy gloomy.

"I did not mean to snap your head off, Ibowitter," he said. "I know you were doing what you thought

was your duty, but your orders were only to contain Rivars. The truth is, we cannot do without a single

fighting biped against us. In two years' time, we're going to need them to show a certain visitor how

vicious they are."

"Sir?"

"Never mind. I'm talking to myself. Carry on, 'Ibowitter."

"Wait, Arm Marshall. You mean a time might come when you want to stage a fight or something

with more bipeds? "

Terekomy continued to walk towards his car, which pointed sharply towards the city. He slowed his

pace, otherwise revealing no interest.

"And what if so? "he asked. - 26

Ibowitter became confidential, seeing he had produced some reaction in the other.

"Just let me have a ship, sir, ex officio. We could always import a few thousand bipeds."

"You know the transference of subject or colonial races from one planet to another is highly

illegal," Terekomy said, keeping his voice detached so that the Ballistics-Beadle did not take fright.

"A lot of things take place that are illegal," Ibowitter said

firmly. "Illegality can only be proved where the offence is

detected. Now, sir, I have some valuable contacts on Starjj "

He paused and looked knowingly at Terekomy.

The latter said, "You have certain qualities that recommend you for promotion, Ibowitter. If the

ability to keep quiet is among them, you may find yourself doing more interesting work in a few

weeks. I will think of your suggestion, while you must forget it. Do these Starjj bipeds resemble Earth

bipeds, by the way? "

"Very closely, sir. In all but a few minor details."

"Hm. Well, see that Rivars has undisturbed sleep tonight. That is all."

The automotor hummed him back down the fine road towards the palace. Terekomy was smiling

under his arms. He thought he saw a way of helping the Commissioner. But the scheme, he

determined, should be entirely his own.

The road over which he sped was a thread on the globe over which Par-Chavorlem, some of his staff

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