During the day the young men and women trained separately, mastering their new weapons and mechanisms, but at night they ate and slept together indiscriminately, distinction being only one of rank. Sexual contacts were common, casual, barren of any sublimation or fervor. Emotional import was given only to organizational relationships, to competition for rank and honor.
On the evening of Beran’s arrival at Deirombona, a ceremonial convocation took place at the cantonment. At the center of the parade ground a great fire burnt on a platform. Behind rose the Deirombona stele, a prism of black metal emblazoned with emblems. To either side stood ranks of young Myrmidons, and tonight all wore common garb: a plain dark gray leotard. Each carried a ceremonial lance, with a pale flickering flame in the place of a blade.
A fanfare rang out. A girl in white came forward, carrying an insignia of copper, silver and brass. While the Myrmidons knelt and bowed their heads, the girl carried the insignia three times around the fire and fixed it upon the stele.
The fire roared high. The Myrmidons rose to their feet, thrust their lances into the air. They formed into ranks and marched from the square.
The next day Beran received an explanation from his immediate superior, Sub-Strategist Gian Firanu, a soldier-of-fortune from one of the far worlds. “You witnessed a funeral—a hero’s funeral. Last week Deirombona held war-games with Tarai, the next camp up the coast. A Tarai submarine had penetrated our net and was scoring against our base. All the Deirombona warriors were eager, but Lemauden was first. He dove five hundred feet with a torch and cut away the ballast. The submarine rose and was captured. But Lemauden drowned—possibly by accident.”
“‘Possibly by accident’? How else? Surely the Tarai …”
“No, not the Tarai. But it might have been a deliberate act. These lads are wild to place their emblems on the stele—they’ll do anything to create a legend.”
Beran went to the window. Along the Deirombona esplanade swaggered groups of young bravos. Was this Pao? Or some fantastic world a hundred light-years distant?
Gian Firanu was speaking; his words at first did not penetrate Beran’s consciousness. “There’s a new rumor going around—perhaps you’ve already heard it—to the effect that Bustamonte is not the true Panarch, merely Ayudor-Senior. It’s said that somewhere Beran Panasper is alive and grows to manhood, gaining strength like a mythical hero. And when the hour strikes—so the supposition goes—he will come forth to fling Bustamonte into the sea.”
Beran stared suspiciously, then laughed. “I had not heard this rumor. But it may well be fact, who knows?”
“Bustamonte will not enjoy the story!”
Beran laughed again, this time with genuine humor. “Better than anyone else, he’ll know what truth there is in the rumor. I wonder who started this rumor.”
Firanu shrugged. “Who starts any rumor? No one. They come of idle talk and misunderstanding.”
“In most cases—but not all,” said Beran. “Suppose this were the truth?”
“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 sun-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 Deirombona. 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.