The Minister of Public Health spoke next. The population of Dronamand’s central plain had expanded past available housing. To build new dwellings would encroach upon land assigned to food production, and would hasten the famine already threatening. Aiello, munching a crescent of pickled melon, advised transportation of a million persons weekly to Nonamand, the bleak southern continent. In addition, all infants arriving to parents with more than two children should be subaqueated. These were the classical methods of population control; they would be accepted without resentment.
Young Beran watched with fascination, awed by the vastness of his father’s power. He was seldom allowed to witness state business, for Aiello disliked children and showed only small concern for the upbringing of his son. Recently the Ayudor Bustamonte had interested himself in Beran, talking for hours on end, until Beran’s head grew heavy and his eyes drooped. They played odd games which bewildered Beran and left with him a peculiar uneasiness. And of late there had been blank spaces in his mind, lapses of memory.
As Beran sat now at the ivory table in the pavilion, he held a small unfamiliar object in his hand. He could not recall where he had found it, but it seemed as if there were something he must do. He looked at his father, and felt a sudden hot panic. He gasped, clamped his teeth on his lower lip. He whispered feverishly to himself, Why should I do that, why do I feel this way? He found no answer. There was a roiling inside his head, a series of strains which left him dizzy. Bustamonte was looking at him, frowning. Beran felt awkward and guilty. He made a great effort, pulled himself erect in his chair. He must watch and listen, as Bustamonte had instructed him. Furtively he inspected the object he held in his hand. It was at once familiar and strange. As if in recollection from a dream, he knew he had use for this object—and again came the wave of panic.
Beran tasted a bit of toasted fish-tail, but as usual lacked appetite. He felt the brush of eyes; someone was watching him. Turning his head, he met the gaze of the hawk-faced stranger in brown and gray. The man had an arresting face, long and thin with a high forehead, a wisp of mustache, a nose like the prow of a ship. His hair was glossy black, thick and short as fur. His eyes were set deep; his gaze, dark and magnetic, awoke all of Beran’s uneasiness. The object in his hand felt heavy and hot. He wanted to fling it down, but could not. His fingers refused to relax their grip. He sat sweating and miserable.
The last man to be heard was Sigil Paniche, business representative from Mercantil, the planet of a nearby sun. Paniche was a thin man, quick and clever, with copper-colored skin and burnished hair, which he wore wound into knobs and fastened with turquoise clasps. He was a typical Mercantil, a salesman and trader, as essentially urban as the Paonese were people of soil and sea. His world sold to the entire cluster; Mercantil space-barges roved everywhere, delivering machinery, vehicles, air-craft, communication equipment, tools, weapons, power-generators, returning to Mercantil with food-stuffs, luxury hand-crafts and whatever raw material might be cheaper to import than to synthesize.
Bustamonte whispered to Aiello, who shook his head. Bustamonte whispered more urgently; Aiello turned him a slow caustic side-glance. Bustamonte sat back sullenly.
At a signal from Aiello, the captain of the Mamarone guard addressed the table in his soft scraped-steel voice. “By the Panarch’s order, all those who have completed their business will depart.” Chairs slid softly on the marble floor. The ministers arose, spread their arms in the Paonese gesture of respect, and departed.
Across the table, only Sigil Paniche, his two aides, and the stranger in brown and gray remained.
The Mercantil moved to a chair opposite Aiello; he bowed, seated himself, his aides coming to stand at his back.
Panarch Aiello spoke an off-hand greeting; the Mercantil responded in broken Paonese.
Aiello toyed with a bowl of brandied fruit, appraising the Mercantil. “Pao and Mercantil have traded for many centuries, Sigil Paniche.”
The Mercantil bowed. “We fulfill the exact letter of our contracts—this is our creed.”
Aiello laughed shortly. The Mercantil looked at him in surprise, but said nothing. “Trade with Pao has enriched you.”
“We trade with twenty-eight worlds, Supremacy.”
Aiello leaned back in his chair. “There are two matters I wish to discuss with you. You have just heard our need for water on Impland. We require an installation to demineralize an appropriate quantity of ocean-water. You may refer this matter to your engineers.”
“I am at your orders, sir.”{The Paonese and Mercantil languages were as disparate as the two ways of living. The Panarch, making the statement, ‘There are two matters I wish to discuss with you’, used words which, accurately rendered, would read: Statement-of-importance (a single word in Paonese)—in a state of readiness—two; ear—of Mercantil—in a state of readiness; mouth—of this person here—in a state of volition. The italicized words represent suffixes of condition.
The necessary paraphrasing makes the way of speaking seem cumbersome. But the Paonese sentence, ‘Rhomel-en-shrai bogal-Mercantil-nli-en mous-es-nli-ro.’ requires only three more phonemes than, “There are two matters I wish to discuss with you.”
The Mercantil express themselves in neat quanta of precise information. ‘I am at your orders, sir.’ Literally translated this is: I—Ambassador—here-now gladly-obey the just-spoken-orders of-you—Supreme Royalty—here-now heard and understood.}
Aiello spoke in a level emotionless voice, almost casual. “We have ordered from you, and you have delivered, large quantities of military equipment.”
Sigil Paniche bowed agreement. With no outward sign or change he suddenly seemed uneasy. “We fulfilled the exact requirements of your order.”
“I cannot agree with you,” Aiello responded.
Sigil Paniche became stiff; his words were even more formal than before. “I assure Your Supremacy that I personally checked delivery. The equipment was exactly as described in order and invoice.”
Aiello went on in his coldest tones. “You delivered sixty-four* barrage monitors, 512 patrol flitters, a large number of multiple resonators, energetics, wasps and hand-weapons. These accord with the original order.”{The Paonese number system is based on the number 8. Hence, a Paonese 100 is 64, 1000 is 512, etc.}
“Exactly, sir.”
“However, you knew the purpose behind this order.”
Sigil Paniche bowed his copper-bright head. “You refer to conditions on the planet Batmarsh.”
“Just so. The Dolberg dynasty has been eliminated. A new dynasty, the Brumbos, have assumed power. New Batch rulers customarily undertake military ventures.”
“Such is the tradition,” agreed the Mercantil.
“You have supplied these adventurers with armament.”
Sigil Paniche once again agreed. “We sell to any who will buy. We have done so for many years—you must not reproach us for this.”
Aiello raised his eyebrows. “I do not do so. I reproach you for selling us standard models while offering the Brumbo Clan equipment against which you guarantee we will be powerless.”
Sigil Paniche blinked. “What is the source of your information?”
“Must I divest myself of every secret?” inquired Aiello, curling his lip.
“No, no,” exclaimed Paniche. “Your allegations, however, seem mistaken. Our policy is absolute neutrality.”