Читать книгу The Still, Small Voice of Trumpets - Lloyd Biggle jr. - Страница 6

CHAPTER 3

On one point Forzon had gained some useful information. The Interplanetary Relations Bureau had always been run more like a secret order than a governmental department. Few people outside the Bureau knew what its function was, but anyone who worked and traveled along the space frontier quickly became aware that the Bureau’s power there was absolute. It was said that even an admiral of the space navy asked IPR permission when he wanted to maneuver across a Federation boundary.

Now Forzon understood why. The Bureau’s mission was to guide worlds to Federation membership, and to do so without those worlds being aware of it. Obviously this would be impossible if traders, explorers, scientists, various governmental surveys, and ships in distress—not to mention lost tourists—provided a rain of visitors from outer space. So the IPR Bureau policed the boundaries.

On Gurnil there was a continent, Kurr, still ruled by a monarch. The admission of neighboring, fully qualified worlds to the Federation had long been delayed; the Bureau was embarrassed. Understandably the situation called for drastic action, but someone at the Bureau’s Supreme Headquarters had tripped over a panic button.

A Cultural Survey sector supervisor in charge of the Kurr field team? It was comparable to placing an IPR officer in charge of a Cultural Survey project, and from what Forzon had seen of the way the Bureau handled art he knew what that would lead to.

Since he had no idea what was expected of him, he determined to give the Bureau the one thing he understood: a cultural survey. He prepared specimen survey forms and handed them to Rastadt’s secretary, requesting initial runs of a thousand. A day later the copy still lay untouched on the corner of her desk. Forzon spoke sharply to Wheeler, who shed cheerful tears and promised to duplicate them himself.

Forzon applied himself to the language course, studying constantly because he had nothing else to do, but his thoughts kept turning to the girl with the torru, the member of Team B who, according to Wheeler, did not exist. He wondered if he would ever see her again.

* * * *

She came at night.

Forzon, awakened from a restless sleep by a cool hand and her urgent whisper, sat up quickly and groped for a light.

“No light!” she whispered.

He heard the soft rustling of her gown, her quick breathing, caught the faint scent of an unknown perfume, but he could not see her.

“I fly back tomorrow,” she said.

“In the daytime? I thought the natives weren’t supposed to know that IPR is here.”

“It’ll be night in Kurr.”

“Of course. Did you know that I’m the new Team B commander? Perhaps I should go with you.”

“No!” she said quickly. Then she echoed, with an obvious note of incredulity, “The new—Team B commander?”

“That’s what my orders say.”

“That’s very interesting.”

He attempted to conjure her image out of the room’s thick darkness. He remembered her face perfectly—the smooth curve of her cheek and the delicate perfection of her turned-up nose as she bent in profile over the torru, frowning slightly in concentration on her nimble fingers.

“You shouldn’t go back with me,” she said. “It will be best if they don’t know that we’ve met.”

“Have we met? I don’t even know who you are.”

“Ann Cory. Officially, Gurnil B627.”

“All right, Gurnil B627. What do you do in Team B?”

“Among other things, I’m a music teacher in Kurra, which is the capital city of Kurr. I give music lessons to the talented and not-so-talented daughters of the elite.”

“How large is Team B?”

“About two hundred.”

“Two—hundred? I had no idea there were so many agents in Kurr. All of them masquerading as natives, I suppose.”

“Members of a Bureau team don’t masquerade,” she said coldly. “We are natives—when we’re in Kurr.”

“I see. Two hundred. Spread over the whole country that probably isn’t very many.”

“Didn’t the coordinator brief you?”

“Wheeler gave me a manual, which I immediately gave back to him. He told me a little about the situation. I gather that the people of Kurr are perfectly satisfied with things as they are, or IPR wouldn’t have labored in vain for four hundred years. Also that their King Rovva stubbornly refuses to take any action that would make them dissatisfied. My own ideas have a Cultural Survey bias and will probably sound treasonable to you, but it seems to me that if a people are satisfied and happy—and these Kurrians are, I can tell from the art they create—the IPR Bureau has no business contriving the overthrow of their government.”

“One of the things you must see in Kurr,” she said softly, “are the one-hand villages. There are several of them, populated exclusively by men and women who have displeased the king and had their left arm severed at the elbow. It’s a pleasant little diversion the king indulges in to amuse himself and his court. The attendant who sneezes when the king has ordained silence, or who drops a serving tray—but no one is immune, not even the king’s high ministers. There are good kings and bad kings, and we in the Bureau sometimes find ourselves working to depose a king who is a kind, benevolent monarch and whom we personally like and admire. It’s the system that’s evil. The ideal monarch may have a monster for a successor.”

“Very well. The system is evil and must be changed, but by the people themselves. Democracy imposed from without—”

He paused. Her gown rustled softly as she shifted her feet, but she remained tantalizingly invisible. “I’m working on the language,” he said. “I’ll have it down pretty well in another day, and I’ll be fluent in two. It’s an easy language—much easier than learning to walk in the dratted priest’s costume that your people picked out for me. I keep stumbling over it. I don’t care much for that ghastly artificial nose, either, but if Kurrians are cursed with monumental snouts I suppose I’d be rather conspicuous without one.”

He did not presume to say it, but the one aspect of his assignment that he most dreaded was seeing Ann Cory wearing a disfiguring Kurrian nose.

“What priest’s costume?” she asked.

Forzon sighed. “I’m to be a sort of wandering holy man. Rastadt says they’re quite common in Kurr, and it’s an absolutely safe role because no native would dare to look twice at me, much less speak. But I suppose you know all about them.”

“Not really. They’re not often seen in Kurra.”

“That’s right. They avoid cities, which they consider cesspools of the unfaithful. Before I can go to Kurra I’ll need an alternate identity. Do you have an alternate identity?”

“Of course. Every Team B agent has several identities.”

“That’s encouraging. Eventually I’ll be rid of that dratted robe, though I suppose I’ll be stuck with the nose as long as I’m in Kurr.”

“I’d like to sample your linguistic ability,” she said.

He gave her a colloquial greeting, “Hail, citizen,” and rambled on at length about the weather, the coming harvest, and how soon the province tax collector might be expected. She made no comment when he finished.

“What’s the matter,” he asked. “Is my accent bad?”

“No. Your accent is very good. Remarkable, considering the short time you’ve had to practice. My suggestion is that you wait three days, and then ask to be taken to Kurr.”

“Why three days?”

“Just a precaution. It’ll give us time to get ready for you.”

“Team B knows that I’m coming. I’m to be put down at a remote station where there are no Holy Places that might require me to perform a religious function and very few natives for me to bless even if I feel benevolently inclined, which I won’t. I can’t start work until my forms are ready, but no doubt I’ll be able to pick up background information more quickly on the scene than I can here at base.”

“What forms?” she asked.

“The forms for my cultural survey.”

Again there was silence, broken only by the soft rustle of her gown. “Wait three days,” she said finally. “Don’t tell anyone that you’ve talked with me. I’ll see you in Kurr.”

She was gone. He did not even hear the door close after her.

“It has been wisely written,” Forzon murmured, “that if one pursues an enigma far enough, inevitably one must come either to the beginning or to the end. Unfortunately the sage doesn’t specify whether he means the end of the enigma or the end of the pursuer. I don’t like this. It’s bad enough to have the feeling that one is being used. It’s insufferable not to know by whom, or to what purpose.”

He remained in his quarters the next day, concentrating furiously on the language. At intervals a uniformed young lady would thrust a heavily laden tray at him and depart with an unseemly haste that could only have been born of a fear that he might devour her instead of the food.

The following morning he strolled down to the administration section. The receptionist eyed him suspiciously; Forzon ignored her. He was becoming accustomed to suspicious glances. He went directly to the coordinator’s office, where the secretary icily informed him that the coordinator was indisposed.

“Assistant-Coordinator Wheeler?” Forzon suggested.

“He’s in the field today.”

“Team A or Team B?”

She shrugged; he wasn’t interested enough to pursue the subject. He went to the room marked Team B Headquarters, opened the door, looked in. The drab bindings of official records stood in solid ranks that filled the walls from floor to ceiling. Circular filing cabinets crammed the floor space; boxes were piled high on top of them. The place was a sepulcher for the desiccated remains of four centuries of failure.

Resolutely Forzon stepped back and closed the door. Just as he had no intention of investing years in the study of the IPR field manual, neither would he waste time in exhuming the futilities of Team B’s past.

In the reception room he thoughtfully contemplated the paintings. They, too, were old, and had it not been for the filtered air and controlled humidity of the building he might be commencing his work on Gurnil with a tedious restoration of the IPR art collection.

“How long have these paintings been here?” he asked the receptionist.

She gazed at him blankly. “I don’t know, I’m sure.”

“What’s the point of maintaining this base if its personnel know so little about Gurnil and care less?” Forzon demanded.

“The base serves as a supply depot and record depository,” the receptionist said primly.

“That’s interesting,” Forzon remarked, keeping his eyes on the paintings. “Then there must be very little to do, especially for a receptionist. I gather that the field agents rarely come here. The natives presumably don’t know that the base exists, so they don’t visit you. You’d have plenty of advance notice on supply contacts and visits from higher headquarters. I can’t think of any reason why this base should need a receptionist.” He turned and gave her his most engaging smile. “Could it be possible that you were appointed just to keep an eye on me?”

Her reaction, whatever it might be, was certain to be unattractive; so Forzon said over his shoulder, “Please let me know when the coordinator is available,” and returned to his quarters.

Later Rastadt sent for him, greeted him with a scowl, and as an afterthought leaped to his feet to snap off a salute. “They said you wanted to see me.”

“Can you arrange transportation to Kurr for me day after tomorrow?” Forzon asked.

“Kurr? Why?”

“To take command of Team B. I’d rather not waste any more time here at base than is absolutely necessary.”

“You can command Team B from here,” Rastadt said. “There’s no reason for you to go to Kurr. None at all. And it’d be dangerous.”

“Strange that you should think so,” Forzon remarked. “Only three days ago you were rehearsing me in the role of a Kurrian priest.”

“That was just a demonstration. I’m not turning you loose in Kurr until you’ve been trained in everything a Kurrian priest needs to know. At the first opportunity we’ll bring back a Team B agent who’s had actual experience in the role. Until he convinces me that you’re competent, you’ll have to command Team B from here.”

“You wouldn’t be turning me loose there,” Forzon protested. “I’ll be exposed only between the landing area and the Team B station and it’ll be dark anyway. Wheeler said the costume was only a precaution.”

“It isn’t precaution enough. The IPR field teams owe their success to the fact that nothing is left to chance. I can’t permit you to incur such a risk.”

Forzon said coldly, “I believe, Coordinator, that this is my decision to make.”

“Not at all. You outrank me by four grades, but the coordinator of a planet has full responsibility for the safety of all IPR personnel, of whatever rank or status.”

“Has Wheeler returned yet?”

“I believe so. Why?”

“Call him in here.”

Rastadt irritably snapped an order at his communicator. Wheeler strolled in a moment later, nodded cheerfully at Forzon, and asked, “What’s the problem?”

Rastadt glared at him. “Don’t you know how to report to a sector supervisor?”

Wheeler flushed, muttered an apology, saluted. Forzon felt too embarrassed to intervene.

“No wonder this planet is a mess,” Rastadt growled. “No one does anything right.”

Forzon said to Wheeler, “Did you, or did you not, tell me I could go to Kurr whenever I was ready?”

“I—yes—”

“I’m ready.”

The coordinator leaned forward. “Assistant-Coordinator Wheeler, would you kindly cite for me the regulation under which you have been delegating my authority?”

“But I did ask you about it, sir, and you said—”

“I said the supervisor could go to Kurr whenever he was ready. I did not say he could go whenever he thought he was ready. A novice from another governmental department, whatever his rank, has no competence to make such decisions. An IPR man is not ready to take the field until he has been thoroughly trained and indoctrinated, and if you aren’t aware of that by now the planet Gurnil is badly in need of a new assistant coordinator. What are you trying to do—blow the planet?”

Wheeler, his large face now white and oozing perspiration, opened and closed his mouth soundlessly. In another moment he would have been cringing, and a cringing clown was something that Forzon did not care to see. He said, “Coordinator, I think it’s time that we asked Supreme Headquarters to clarify the command situation here. Will you make the request, or shall I?”

Rastadt leaped to his feet, stood for a long moment poised to unleash his rage at Forzon—and then crumpled. “I’ll—make the request,” he muttered.

“Thank you,” Forzon said.

He returned their salutes and left them.

Wheeler, panting heavily, overtook him in the corridor outside his quarters. “It’s all right,” the assistant coordinator gasped. “I’ll have transportation ready for you whenever you want it.”

“Day after tomorrow?”

“If you like.”

“Why the sudden change?”

Mopping his brow, Wheeler said nervously, “Let’s go where we can talk.”

Forzon led him into his quarters, got him seated, and remarked, “You need a drink. Sorry I can’t offer you one.”

Wheeler mopped his brow again. “Not permitted on this base. Coordinator’s orders.” He looked woundedly at Forzon, and both of them burst into laughter.

“I want to ask you a favor,” Wheeler said suddenly. “A Bureau field team is autonomous, but its commander works under the general supervision of the planet’s coordinator. This raises an awkward question. You are the ranking officer on this planet. At the same time the tables of organization make you subordinate to the coordinator because you command a field team. It’s a peculiar situation, and as you’ve noticed, your orders don’t clarify it.”

“What do you suggest?”

“That you don’t make an issue of it. Observe the traditional command setup and submit your plans to the coordinator for approval as any team commander would do. The coordinator will approve them as a matter of course, I’m sure. There’s no harm in letting him pretend, is there? He’s really a fine old man with a distinguished career behind him, but he had the misfortune of drawing an impossible assignment.”

“He impresses me as being thoroughly irascible.”

“Naturally he feels frustrated. Kurr has broken a lot of coordinators, and he doesn’t want to end his service with a failure on his record.”

Forzon said politely, “Since I know nothing about IPR regulations, I see nothing unreasonable about having my plans reviewed carefully by someone who does.”

“Splendid!” Magically, Wheeler was the clown again.

“But I do insist on getting away from this base,” Forzon went on. “I couldn’t work effectively here. Besides, there’s a conspiracy to keep me out of the dining room, and your base personnel refuse to speak to me.”

Wheeler fluttered a hand indifferently. “They’re probably afraid of you. You’re the highest ranking officer most of them have ever seen. Day after tomorrow, then. You can’t take anything with you, you know.”

“Nothing at all?”

“Nothing,” Wheeler said firmly. “You can’t have anything on your person that a Kurrian priest wouldn’t have, and that’s very little. We use special planes for our contacts with Kurr. They aren’t very fast, but they’re virtually noiseless. We have to put our agents down on lightly populated stretches of coast where we aren’t likely to inspire any local superstitions. Put them down and run—there are night fishermen who work closely inshore, and it wouldn’t do to have one happen onto the plane. The coordinator is notifying Team B now, so there’ll be someone on hand to meet you. There is one thing. He doesn’t think you should go, but since you insist on it he insists on going with you.”

“There’s nothing wrong with that, is there?”

“I suppose not.”

“Why shouldn’t the coordinator go to Kurr?” Forzon persisted.

“No special reason. I’d feel better if you had an experienced agent with you. I’d hoped to go myself. I’m a former member of Team B, and I know Kurr. Not that it really matters. You’ll be put down close to a Team B station, and you’ll be met. Anyway, Coordinator Rastadt insists that it’s his responsibility.”

“Isn’t it?” Forzon asked politely.

“I suppose it is. But you see—he’s never been to Kurr.”