I don't know," said Fanchiel. "Lord Palafox is undertaking some great plan in connection with Pao--you will undoubtedly return when he thinks best. In the meanwhile, you would do well to accept such advantages as are offered you."
Beran's reason and native willingness to oblige struggled with the obstinacy of his race. "Why must I go to the Institute?"
Fanchiel replied with ingenuous candor. "Lord Palafox apparently intends that you should identify with Breakness and so feel sympathetic to his goals."
Beran could not grasp this; however, he was impressed by Fanchiel's manner. "What will I learn at the Institute?"
"A thousand things--more than I can describe to you. In the College of Comparative Culture--where Lord Palafox is Dominie--you will study the races of the universe, their similarities and differences, their languages and basic urges, the specific symbols by which you can influence them.
"In the College of Mathematics you learn the manipulation of abstract ideas, various systems of rationality--likewise you are trained to make quick mental calculations.
"In the College of Human Anatomy you learn geriatry and death prevention, pharmacology, the technique of human modification and augmentation--and possibly you will be allowed one or two modifications."
Beran's imagination was stimulated. "Could I be modified like Palafox?"
"Ha hah!" exclaimed Fanchiel. "This is an amusing idea. Are you aware that Lord Palafox is one of the most powerfully modified men of Breakness? He controls nine sensitivities, four energies, three projections, two nullifications, three lethal emanations, in addition to miscellaneous powers such as the mental slide-rule, the ability to survive in a de-oxygenated atmosphere, anti-fatigue glands, a sub-clavicle blood chamber which automatically counteracts any poison he may have ingested. No, my ambitious young friend!" For an instant the jutting features became soft with amusement. "But if ever you rule Pao, you will control a worldful of fecund girls, and thus you may command every modification known to the surgeons and anatomists of Breakness Institute."
Beran looked blankly at Fanchiel, quite at a loss. Modification, even under these incomprehensible but questionable terms, seemed a long way in the future.
"Now," said Fanchiel briskly, "to the language of Breakness. "
With the prospect of modification removed to the far future, Beran's obstinacy returned. "Why can't we speak Paonese?"
Fanchiel explained patiently. "You will be required to learn a great deal that you could not understand if I taught in Paonese."
"I understand you now," muttered Beran.
"Because we are discussing the most general ideas. Each language is a special tool, with a particular capability. It is more than a means of communication, it is a system of thought. Do you understand what I mean?"
Fanchiel found his answer in Beran's expression.
"Think of a language as the contour of a watershed, stopping flow in certain directions, channeling it into others. Language controls the mechanism of your mind. When people speak different languages, their minds work differently and they act differently. For instance: you know of the planet Vale?"
"Yes. The world where all the people are insane."
"Better to say, their actions give the impression of insanity. Actually they are complete anarchists. Now if we examine the speech of Vale we find, if not a reason for the behavior, at least a parallelism. Language on Vale is personal improvisation, with the fewest possible conventions. Each individual selects a speech, as you or I might choose the color of our garments."
Beran frowned. "We Paonese are not careless in such matters. Our dress is established, and no one would wear a costume unfamiliar to him, or one which might cause misunderstanding."
A smile broke the austere cast of Fanchiel's face. "True, true; I forgot. The Paonese make no virtue of conspicuous dress. And--possibly as a corollary--mental abnormality is rare. The Paonese, fifteen billion of them, are pleasantly sane. Not so the people of Vale. They live to complete spontaneity--in clothes, in conduct, in language. The question arises: does the language provoke or merely reflect the eccentricity? Which came first: the language or the conduct?"
Beran admitted himself at a loss.
"In any event," said Fanchiel, "now that you have been shown the connection between language and conduct, you will be anxious to learn the language of Breakness."
Beran was unflatteringly dubious. "Would I then become like you?"
Fanchiel asked sardonically, "A fate to be avoided at all costs? I can relieve your anxiety. All of us change as we learn, but you can never become a true man of Breakness. Long ago you were shaped into the Paonese style. But speaking our language, you will understand us--and if you can think as another man thinks, you cannot dislike him. Now, if you are ready, we commence."
CHAPTER IX
ON PAO there was peace and the easy flow of life. The population tilled their farms, fished the oceans, and in certain districts sieved great wads of pollen from the air, to make a pleasant honey-tasting cake. Every eighth day was market day; on the eight-times-eighth day, the people gathered for the drones; on the eight-times-eight-times eighth day, occurred the continental fairs.
The people had abandoned all opposition to Bustamonte. Defeat at the hands of the Brumbos was forgotten; Bustamonte's taxes were easier than those of Aiello, and he ruled with a lack of ostentation befitting his ambiguous accession to the Black.
But Bustamonte's satisfaction at the attainment of his ambition was not complete. He was by no means a coward, but personal safety became an obsession; a dozen casual visitors who chanced to make abrupt motions were exploded by Mamarone hammer-guns. Bustamonte likewise imagined himself the subject of contemptuous jest, and other dozens lost their lives for displaying a merry expression when Bustamonte's eye happened to fall upon them. The bitterest circumstance of all was the tribute to Eban Buzbek, Hetman of the Brumbos.
Each month Bustamonte framed a stinging defiance to send Eban Buzbek in lieu of the million marks, but each month caution prevailed; Bustamonte, in helpless rage, dispatched the tribute.
Four years passed; then one morning a red, black and yellow courier ship arrived at the Eiljanre spaceport, to discharge Cormoran Benbarth, scion of a junior branch of the Buzbeks. He presented himself at the Grand Palace as an absentee landlord might visit an outlying farm and greeted Bustamonte with casual amiability.
Bustamonte, wearing the Utter Black, maintained an expressionless face with great effort. He made the ceremonial inquiry: "What fortunate wind casts you upon our shores?"
Cormoran Benbarth, a tall young bravo with braided blond hair and magnificent blond mustaches, studied Bustamonte through eyes blue as cornflowers, wide and innocent as the Paonese sky.
"My mission is simple," he said. "I have come into possession of the North Faden Barony, which as you may or may not know is hard against the south countries of the Griffin Clan. I require funds for fortification and recruitment of followers. "
"Ah," said Bustamonte. Cormoran Benbarth tugged at the drooping blond mustache.
"Eban Buzbek suggested that you might spare a million marks from your plenty, in order to incur my gratitude."
Bustamonte sat like an image of stone. His eyes held the innocent blue gaze for thirty seconds while his mind raced furiously. It was inconceivable that the request could be anything other than a demand backed by an implicit threat of violence, to which he could offer no resistance. He threw up his arms in frustration, ordered forth the required sum and received Cormoran Benbarth's thanks in baleful silence.