Finisterle shook his head. “Why should I deceive you?”
“He is your sire!”
Finisterle shrugged. “This means nothing, either to sire or to son.”
Beran slowly seated himself in a nearby chair, watching Finisterle all the while. “The death of Palafox is hardly to your advantage.”
Finisterle made a non-committal gesture. “A man no matter how remarkable, has only a finite capability. It is no longer a secret that Lord Palafox has come to the margin, and indeed has passed beyond. He has succumbed to the final sickness, he is an Emeritus. The world and his brain are no longer separate—to Palafox they are one and the same.”
Beran rubbed his chin, frowned. Finisterle leaned forward. “Do you know his ambition, do you understand his presence on Pao?”
“I guess, but I do not know.”
“Some weeks ago he gathered together his sons. He spoke to us, explained his ambition. He claims Pao as a world of his own. Through his sons, his grandsons, and his own capabilities, he will outbreed the Paonese, until eventually there will be only Palafox and the seed of Palafox on Pao.”
Beran heaved a deep sigh. “How long will he stay on Breakness?”
“Who knows? His arm is mangled; there is much repair to be done.”
Beran rose heavily to his feet.
“What will you do now?” asked Finisterle.
“I am Paonese,” said Beran. “I have been passive in the Paonese fashion. But I have also studied at Breakness Institute, and now I shall act. And if I destroy what Palafox has worked so long to build—perhaps he will not return.” He looked around the room. “I will start here, at Pon. You all may go where you will—but go you must. Tomorrow the Institute will be destroyed.”
Finisterle leapt to his feet, restraint forgotten. “Tomorrow? That is fantastic! We can not leave our research, our library, our precious possessions!”
Beran went to the doorway. “There will be no more delay. You certainly have the right to remove your personal property. But the entity known as the Cogitant Institute will vanish tomorrow.”
Esteban Carbone, Chief Marshal of the Valiants, a muscular young man with an open pleasant face, was accustomed to rise at dawn for a plunge into the surf.
On this morning he returned naked, wet and breathless from the beach, to find a silent man in black awaiting him.
Esteban Carbone halted in confusion. “Panarch, as you see, I am surprised. Pray excuse me while I clothe myself.”
He ran into his quarters, and presently reappeared in a striking black and yellow uniform. “Now, Supremacy, I am ready to hear your commands.”
“They are brief,” said Beran. “Take a warship to Pon, and at twelve noon, destroy Cogitant Institute.”
Esteban Carbone’s amazement reached new heights. “Do I understand you correctly, Supremacy?”
“I will repeat: take a warship to Pon, destroy Cogitant Institute. Explode it to splinters. The Cogitants have received notice—they are now evacuating.”
Esteban Carbone hesitated a perceptible instant before replying. “It is not my place to question matters of policy, but is this not a very drastic act? I feel impelled to counsel careful second thought.”
Beran took no offense. “I appreciate your concern. This order however is the result of many more thoughts than two. Be so good as to obey without further delay.”
Esteban Carbone touched his hand to his forehead, bowed low. “Nothing more need be said, Panarch Beran.” He walked into his quarters, spoke into a communicator.
Beran watched the warship, a barrel-shaped black hulk, wallow up into the sky and head south. Then he went slowly to his air-car and returned to Eiljanre.
At noon precisely the warship hurled an explosive missile at the target, a small cluster of white buildings on the plateau behind Mount Droghead. There was a dazzle of blue and white, and Cogitant Institute was gone.
When Palafox heard the news, his face suffused with dark blood; he swayed back and forth. “So does he destroy himself,” he groaned between his teeth. “So should I be satisfied—but how bitter the insolence of this young coxcomb!”
The Cogitants came to Eiljanre, settling in the old Beauclare Quarter, south of the Rovenone. As the months passed they underwent a change, almost, it seemed, with an air of joyous relief. They relaxed the doctrinaire intensity which had distinguished them at the Institute, and fell into the ways of a bohemian intelligentsia. Through some obscure compulsion, they spoke little or no Cogitant, and likewise, disdaining Paonese, conducted all their affairs in Pastiche.
Chapter XX
Beran Panasper, Panarch of Pao, sat in the rotunda of the pink-colonnaded lodge on Pergolai, in the same black chair where his father Aiello had died.
The other places around the carved ivory table were vacant; no one was present but a pair of black-dyed neutraloids, looming outside the door.
Presently there was motion at the door, the Mamarone’s challenge in voices like ripping cloth. Beran identified the visitor, signaled the Mamarone to open.
Finisterle entered the room, gravely deigning no notice of the hulking black shapes. He stopped in the center of the room, inspected Beran from head to foot. He spoke in Pastiche, his words wry and pungent as the language itself. “You carry yourself like the last man in the universe.”
Beran smiled wanly. “When today is over, for better or worse, I will sleep well.”
“I envy no one!” mused Finisterle. “Least of all, you.”
“And I, on the other hand, envy all but myself,” replied Beran morosely. “I am truly the popular concept of a Panarch—the overman who carries power as a curse, delivers decisions as other men hurl iron javelins … And yet I would not change—for I am sufficiently dominated by Breakness Institute to believe that no one but myself is capable of disinterested justice.”
“This credence which you deprecate may be no more than fact.”
A chime sounded in the distance, then another and another.
“Now approaches the issue,” said Beran. “In the next hour Pao is ruined or Pao is saved.” He went to the great black chair, seated himself. Finisterle silently chose a seat down near the end of the table.
The Mamarone flung back the fretwork door; into the room came a slow file—a group of ministers, secretaries, miscellaneous functionaries: two dozen in all. They inclined their heads in respect, and soberly took their places around the table.
Serving maidens entered, poured chilled sparkling wine.
The chimes sounded. Once more the Mamarone opened the door. Marching smartly into the room came Esteban Carbone, Grand Marshal of the Valiants, with four subalterns. They wore their most splendid uniforms and helms of white metal which they doffed as they entered. They halted in a line before Beran, bowed, stood impassively.
Beran had long realized this moment must come.
He rose to his feet, returned a ceremonious greeting. The Valiants seated themselves with rehearsed precision.
“Time advances, conditions change,” said Beran in an even voice, speaking in Valiant. “Dynamic programs once valuable become harmful exaggerations when the need has passed. Such is the present situation on Pao. We are in danger of losing our unity.
“I refer in part to the Valiant camp. It was created to counter a specific threat. The threat has been rebuffed; we are at peace. The Valiants, while retaining their identity, must now be reintegrated into the general population.
“To this end cantonments will be established among all the eight continents and the larger isles. To these cantonments the Valiants shall disperse, in units of fifty men and women. They shall use the cantonment as an organizational area and shall take up residence in the countryside, recruiting locally as becomes necessary. The areas now occupied by the Valiants will be restored to their previous use.” He paused, stared from eye to eye.