Slowly, simply, repetitiously, firmly, Jon-Joras told the Old Man that he was in close contact with the Confederation Delegate on Prime World, that he was also the Private Man of an important outworld ruler. That, whoever had brought him, the Old Man, here and kept him here, it was not Confederation. And therefore it and they by definition were of lesser power and hence unable to withstand the wishes and directives of Confederation… once Confederation knew.
“So the thing that must be done is this: I must get to ConfedBase or at least make contact with Delegate Anse, if I can get away from here in time to meet him when he comes to Peramis. In either case, you see, I must get out of here.”
It was not to be done, it could not be done. The guardian dragons would not allow him to make an escape. They would tear him in pieces. “But,” Jon-Joras protested to the protesting Old Man, “the dragons here obey the Kar-chee, so—”
Now he was to see the other side of the mirror, and its image was at first to be as obscure as its obverse; for the interpreter knew only of the dragons “here” and of none other. “The dragons,” he said, shaking his head, “are the Kar-chee…”
Jon-Joras stared. “But that’s what Hue said!”
“‘Hue’?”
“Old Man, I don’t understand. I saw a dragon. I saw a Kar-chee. They were not the same. How can you say that they are?” Explanations, though, were not forthcoming. Merely he repeated, They were the same. So another question was asked. “What is the set-up between the Kar-chee — and these other men? The other men do something for the Kar-chee, that is, they do something for you. They bring you food and clothing. But what do the Kar-chee do for the other men?”
They kept guard. They let no other men through. They — the Kar-chee who were also dragons — destroyed any others who attempted to enter this territory. Why? Ah. Mmm. The muttered, fragmented pieces of comment scarcely deserved to be called information. But here and there and finally some pieces fell into place. The Old Man was terrified to approach the Kar-chee unsummoned. He had never done so, dared not do so now. Did not even know where, in the maze below his level, it laired. But his will-power, positive or negative, had so long ago fallen into complete desuetude that he could not resist Jon-Joras’s mild but insistent pressures.
They came out blinking into the sunlight and went to the rampart. The dragon presently came into view, glanced at them, paced onward. With hands which trembled at first, but soon fell into habitual and pacifying actions, the Old Man fell to rattling and clicking and rustling his artificial but quite intelligible reproduction of the Kar-chee language. And the dragon paused and looked and it was plain that the dragon listened.
And then, up from where? No matter. Up from wherever it had been, the Kar-chee came.
“‘Message. If he the man inquires if we the Kar-chee desire to depart, then he the man understands that we the Kar-chee desire to depart and his the man’s question is no proper question.’”
“‘Always they the proper men offer future-when to depart we the Kar-chee to the proper place of we the Kar-chee but never from first-when to present-when have they the proper men done so.’”
“‘If the message of he the man is properly communicated and properly understood, is it that he the man declares that the proper men are not the proper men, but that he the man and his fellows are the proper proper men and that the never-kept promise will in present-when be kept? These the before-when declared being the Overlords?’”
And Jon-Joras reiterated that those selected by all the worlds and stars of men to run their common affairs were indeed, through him, offering to return the Kar-chee to their Ring Star lairs; and this to be done as near to immediately as could be managed. “Only,” he said, firmly, and reassuringly, “that this man who communicates messages is not to depart with the Kar-chee but is to remain here with us his fellows.” And he emphasized this with gestures and at length he put his arm around the Old Man’s trembling shoulders, and added, “For when the Kar-chee are in their own and proper places they need never and will never communicate with men again, and so will have no need of him.”
The Kar-chee’s dull eyes showed nothing. And then, in an abrupt and shocking change of pronoun and of phrase, it said, “I must consult with my other self. Await.”
There was a silence, and a long silence. The Kar-chee above did not move and the dragon below did not move. The Old Man trembled and trembled. The dragon hissed. The Kar-chee lifted its tiny head. Overhead a flyer shot into view. Jon-Joras started, stared.
“‘He the man is at this present-when to go below and there remain.’”
Jon-Joras moved as quickly as his legs would let him, and as he ran he called out, “Don’t tell them anything and don’t worry. Don’t worry!”
He made his way towards the Old Man’s room, but recollection of its dirt and disorder dissuaded him, so he went to wandering in an off-corridor. A wink of light caught his eye as he passed one of the chambers, and he turned to look. It was a mirror, of the quaint hour-glass shape once so popular… how long ago? On his own distant and orderly world, the beta-planet of Moussorgsky Minor, perhaps more than a century ago. Allowing for the lag in time and transport and fashion… here?… who could say how less long ago. Fashionable, yes. But only among women. He entered the room.
Dust had almost deprived the old mirror of reflective capacity, and dust cloaked and choked everything in here. Yet, despite and underneath the dust, things were all arranged in order. A bed was neatly made. Clothes hung in orderly rows. An antique desk still bore a scripter set with all as it had been left, well-readied to use. It came to Jon-Joras with a shock and pang of pity that here had been the room of the previous interpreter, “the Poor Woman.” He opened the scripter, slowly, delicately, with even a slight touch of fear.
it should make no difference to me how things will go here, for well or ill, but as this unfortunate young man must probably remain here for his own forever, it’s well that he has learned as much as I can teach him. And now there is no more reason I should delay Death, that importunate suitor, any longer. He does but carry me across this dim horizon, and I hope it will be brighter there.
He had no time to reflect on this. Somewhere up above someone was calling his name. It sounded vaguely familiar, and a wild surge of hope brought him almost to the door — Delegate Anse? — Delegate Anse’s voice would not sound familiar, he had heard it only twice and was sure this wasn’t it — Por-Paulo? It was not that voice at all, the thought made a wave of longing for his still-absent king sweep over him, but it was not his voice — a prickle of unease slowed him up and kept him inside. Who had been in the flyer and knew that he was Jon-Joras and knew that he was here? Aëlorix? It was not the Gentleman’s voice, but it might still be that of one of his associates. But why did it sound so familiar?
Perhaps, though, whoever it was did not know that he was here at all. He might be guessing, trying… trapping. Well. If friend he was, then some delay would little matter. And if he were no friend…
Jon-Joras flitted through the back of the room and into the next one and thence to the next. The voice seemed to be rather nearer, but he was sure it was still in the main corridor. His intention was to get behind it and have a look at whomever it belonged to.
“Jon-Joras?”
“Jon-Jo-o-o-r-as…”
“Jon-Jor-as …?”