"Then there is trouble ahead. And I return to Earth."
Beran heard the rumor later in the day with embellishments. The supposedly assassinated Medallion inhabited a remote island; he trained a corps of metal-clad warriors impervious to fire, steel or power; the mission of his life was to avenge his father's death--and Bustamonte walked in fear.
The talk died away, then three months later flared up again. This time the rumor told of Bustamonte's secret police combing the planet, of thousands of young men conveyed to Eiljanre for examination, and thereafter executed, so that Bustamonte's uneasiness should not become known.
Beran had long been secure in the identity of Ercole Paraio; but now all complacency left him. He became distrait and faltered in his work. His associates observed him curiously and at last Gian Firanu inquired as to the nature of his preoccupation.
Beran muttered something about a woman in Eiljanre who was bearing his child. Firanu tartly suggested that Beran either expel so trivial a concern from his attention or take leave of absence until he felt free to concentrate on his work. Beran hastily accepted the leave of absence.
He returned to his cottage and sat several hours on the sea-flooded verandah, hoping to strike upon some sensible plan of action. The linguists might not be the first objects of suspicion, but neither would they be the last.
He could immerse himself in his role, make the identity of Ercole Paraio a trustworthy disguise. He could conceive no means to this end, and the secret police were a good deal more sophisticated than himself.
He could seek help from Palafox. He toyed with the idea only an instant before discarding it with a twinge of self-disgust. He considered leaving the planet, but where would he go--assuming that he were able to book passage?
He felt restless. There was urgency in the air, a sense of pressure. He rose to his feet, looked all around him: up the deserted streets, out across the sea. He jumped down to the beach, walked along the shore to the single inn still functioning in Dierombona. In the public tavern he ordered chilled wine, and taking it out on the rattan-shaded terrace, drank rather more deeply and hastily than was his custom.
The air was heavy, the horizons close. From up the street, near the building where he worked, he saw movement, color: several men in purple and brown.
Beran half-rose from his seat, staring. He sank slowly back, sat limp. Thoughtfully he sipped his wine. A dark shadow crossed his vision. He looked up; a tall figure stood in front of him: Palafox.
Palafox nodded a casual greeting and seated himself. "It appears," said Palafox, "that the history of contemporary Pao has not yet completely unfolded."
Beran said something indistinguishable. Palafox nodded his head gravely, as if Beran had put forward a profound wisdom. He indicated the three men in brown and purple who had entered the inn and were now conferring with the major-domo.
"A useful aspect of Paonese culture is the style of dress. One may determine a person's profession at a glance. Are not brown and purple the colors of the internal police?"
"Yes, that is true," said Beran. Suddenly his anxiety was gone. The worst had occurred, the tension was broken: impossible to dread what had already happened. He said in a reflective voice, "I suppose they come seeking me."
"In that case," said Palafox, "it would be wise if you departed."
"Departed? Where?"
"Where I will take you."
"No," said Beran. "I will be your tool no more."
Palafox raised his eyebrows. "What do you lose? I am offering to save your life."
"Not through concern for my welfare."
"Of course not." Palafox grinned, showing his teeth in a momentary flash. "Who but a simpleton is so guided? I serve you in order to serve myself. With this understanding I suggest we now depart the inn. I do not care to appear overtly in this affair."
"No."
Palafox was roused to anger. "What do you want?"
"I want to become Panarch."
"Yes, of course," exclaimed Palafox. "Why else do you suppose I am here? Come, let us be off, or you will be no more than carrion."
Beran rose to his feet; they departed the inn.
CHAPTER XIV
THE TWO MEN flew south, across the Paonese countryside, rich with ancient habitancy; then over the seas, flecked with the sails of fishing craft. League after league they flew, and neither man spoke, each contained in his own thoughts.
Beran finally broke the silence. "What is the process by which I become Panarch?"
Palafox said shortly, "The process began a month ago."
"The rumors?"
"It is necessary that the people of Pao realize that you exist."
"And why am I preferable to Bustamonte?"
Palafox laughed crisply. "In general outline, my interests would not be served by certain of Bustamonte's plans."
"And you hope that I will be more sympathetic to you?"
"You could not be more obstinate than Bustamonte."
"In what regard was Bustamonte obstinate?" Beran persisted. "He refused to concede to all your desires?"
Palafox chuckled hollowly. "Ah, you young rascal! I believe you would deprive me of all my prerogatives."
Beran was silent, reflecting that if he ever became Panarch, this indeed would be one of his primary concerns.
Palafox spoke on in a more conciliatory tone. "These affairs are for the future, and need not concern us now. At the present we are allies. To signalize this fact, I have arranged that a modification be made upon your body, as soon as we arrive at Pon."
Beran was taken by surprise. "A modification?" He considered a moment, feeling a qualm of uneasiness. "Of what nature?"
"What modification would you prefer?" Palafox asked mildly.
Beran darted a glance at the hard profile. Palafox seemed completely serious. "The total use of my brain."
"Ah," said Palafox. "That is the most delicate and precise of all, and would require a year of toil on Breakness itself. At Pon it is impossible. Choose again."
"Evidently my life is to be one of many emergencies," said Beran. "The power of projecting energy from my hand might prove valuable."
"True," reflected Palafox. "And yet, on the other hand, what could more completely confuse your enemies than to see you rise into the air and float away? And since, with a novice, the easy projection of destruction endangers friends as well as enemies, we had better decide upon levitation as your first modification."
The surf-beaten cliffs of Nonamand rose from the ocean; they passed above a grimy fishing village, rode over the first ramparts of the Sgolaphs, flew low over the moors toward the central spine of the continent. Mount Droghead raised its cataclysmic crags; they swept close around the icy flanks, swerved down to the plateau of Pon. The car settled beside a long low building with rock-melt walls and a glass roof. Doors opened; Palafox floated the car within. They grounded on a floor of white tile; Palafox opened the port and motioned Beran out.
Beran hesitated, dubiously inspecting the four men who came forward. Each differed from the others in height, weight, skin- and hair-color, but each was like the others.
"My sons," said Palafox. "Everywhere on Pao you will find my sons...But time is valuable, and we must set about your modification."
Beran alighted from the car; the sons of Palafox led him away.
They laid the anaesthetized body on a pallet, injected and impregnated the tissues with various toners and conditioners. Then standing far back, they flung a switch. There was a shrill whine, a flutter of violet light, a distortion of the space as if the scene were observed through moving panels of poor glass.