A Far Sunset

THIRTY-NINE

It was a warm, clear evening. Paul Marlowe, clad only in a worn samu, sat on the bank of the Canal of Life not far from the Road of Travail; and not far, also, from a patch of ground where ashes had been covered by a green resurgence of grass. Theoretically, he had thirty-seven days left to live.

It was not often these days that he could find time to put aside the persona of Enka Ne. There was so much to do, so much to plan. For, since greatness had been thrust upon him, he had become a one-man renaissance. He had seen it as his task to lift the Bayani out of their static, medieval society and to stimulate them into creative thought. Into attitudes that, if they were allowed to flourish, might one day sweep the people of Baya Nor into a golden age where science and technology and tradition and art would be fused into a harmonious and evolving way of life.

The task was great—too great for one man who had absolute power only for a year. Yet, whatever came afterwards—or whoever came afterwards—a start had to be made. And Paul Marlowe’s knowledge of human history was such that he could derive comfort from the fact that, once the transformation had begun, it would take some stopping.

And it had certainly begun. There was no doubt about that.

Schools had been established. First, he had had to teach the teachers; but the work was not as difficult as he had anticipated, because he had absolute authority and the unquestioning services of the most intelligent men he could find. They were willing to learn and to pass on what they had learned— not because of burning curiosity and a desire to expand their horizons but simply because it was the wish of Enka Ne. Perhaps the curiosity, the initiative and the enthusiasm would come later, thought Paul. But whether it did or not in this generation, the important fact remained: schools had been established. For the first time in their history, the children of the Bayani were learning to read and write.

Dissatisfied with the broad kappa leaves that he had previously used for paper, Paul had experimented with musa loul and animal parchment. Already he had set up a small ‘factory’ for the production of paper, various inks, brushes and quill pens. At the same time, he had commanded some of the priests who had become proficient in this strange new art of writing to set down all they could remember of the history of Baya Nor and its god-kings, of its customs, of its songs and legends and of its laws. Presently, there would be a small body of literature on which the children who were now learning to read could exercise their new talent.

In the realm of technology there had been tremendous advances already. The Bayani were skilled craftsmen and once a new principle had been demonstrated to them, they grasped it quickly—and improved upon it. Paul showed them how to reduce friction by ‘stream-lining’ their blunt barges, so that the barges now cut their way through the water instead of pushing their way through it. Then he demonstrated how oars could be used more efficiently than poles, and how a sail could be used to reduce the work of the oarsmen.

Now, many of the craft that travelled along the Bayani canals were rowing boats or sailing dinghies, moving at twice the speed with half the effort.

But perhaps his greatest triumph was the introduction of small windmills, harnessed to water-wheels, for the irrigation of the wide kappa fields. So much manpower—or womanpower—was saved by this innovation, that the Bayani were able to extend the area of the land they cultivated, grow richer crops and so raise the standard of living.

Perhaps the most curious effect of Paul’s efforts was that he seemed to have created a national obsession—for kite-flying. It rapidly became the most popular sport in Baya Nor. It attracted all ages, including the very old and the very young. Once they had grasped the principle, the Bayani developed a positive genius for making elaborate kites. They were far superior to anything that Paul himself could have built. Some of the kites were so large and so skilfully constructed that, given the right kind of wind conditions, they could lift a small Bayani clear of the ground. Indeed, one or two of the more devoted enthusiasts had already been lifted up or blown into the Mirror of Oruri for their pains.

The Bayani seemed to have a natural understanding of the force of the wind as they had of the force of flowing water. Already, a few of the more experimental and adventurous Bayani were building small gliders. It would be rather odd, thought Paul, but not entirely surprising if they developed successful heavier-than-air machines a century or two before they developed engines.

But there were other, more subtle changes that he had brought about and with which he was greatly pleased. Except as a punishment for murder and crimes of violence, he had abolished the death penalty. He had also completely abolished torture. For ‘civil’ cases and minor offences such as stealing, he had instituted trial by jury. Major offences were still tried by the god-king himself.

The one Bayani institution that he would have liked most to destroy he did not feel secure enough to destroy. It was human sacrifice—of which he himself would presently become a victim.

The Bayani had already seen many of their most ancient customs and traditions either modified or abolished. On the whole, they had reacted to change remarkably well—though Paul was acutely aware of the existence of a group of ‘conservative’ elements who bitterly resented change simply because things had always been done thus. At present die discontents were disorganized. They muttered among themselves, but still continued to adhere strictly to the principle of absolute loyalty to their absolute ruler.

If, however, they were pushed too far—as, for example, by the abolition of human sacrifice, a concept to them of fundamental religious importance—they could conceivably unite as a ‘political’ group. The one thing that Paul was determined to avoid was any danger of rebellion or civil war. It would have destroyed much of the progress that had been made so far. If successful, it might even have brought about a ‘burning of the books’ before books had had time to prove their intrinsic worth.

One thing was sure, because of the intrusion of a stranger who had risen to absolute power the civilization of Baya Nor could never again be static. It must go forward—or back.

So, in order to give his one-man renaissance the best possible chance of flourishing, Paul felt that he would have to leave human sacrifice alone. After all, it did not affect more than twenty people a year—most of them young girls—and the victims were not only willing to accept martyrdom, but competitively willing. It was a great distinction. For they after all, were the beloved of Oruri.

There was, of course, one potential victim who did not have such a comforting philosophy. And that was Paul himself. He wondered how he would feel about the situation in another thirty-seven days. He hoped—he hoped very much—that he would be able to accept his fate as tranquilly as Shah Shan had done. For, in the Bayani philosophy, it was necessary that one who knew how to live should also know how to die.

As he sat by the bank of the Canal of Life, reviewing the happenings of the last few months, Paul Marlowe was filled with a deep satisfaction. A start had been made. The Bayani were beginning their long and painful march from the twilight world of medieval orthodoxy towards an intellectual and an emotional sunrise. A man’s life was not such a high price for the shaping of a new society…

Paul sat by the Canal of Life for a long time. It was on such an evening as this, when the nine small moons of Altair Five swarmed gaily across the sky, that he had been wont to sit upon the verandah steps drinking cooled kappa spirit and philosophizing in words that Mylai Tui could not understand.

He thought of her now with pleasurable sadness, remembering the baffling almost dog-like devotion of the tiny woman who had once been a temple prostitute, who had taught him the Bayani language and who had become to all intents and purposes his wife. He thought of her and wished that she could have lived to bear the child of whose conception she had been so proud. He wished that she could have known also that Poul Mer Lo, her lord, was destined to become the god-king. Poor Mylai Tui, she would have exploded with self-importance— and love…

Then he thought of Ann, who was already becoming shadowy again in his mind. Dear, remote, elusive Ann—who had once been a familiar stranger. Also, his wife … It was nearly a quarter of a century since they had left Earth together in the Gloria Mundi… He had, he supposed, aged physically not much more than about six years in all that time. But already he felt very old, very tired. Perhaps you could not cheat Nature after all, and there was some delayed after-effect to all the years of suspended animation. Or maybe there was a simpler explanation. Perhaps he had merely travelled too far, seen too much and been too much alone.

The night was suddenly crowded with ghosts. Ann … Mylai Tui … An unborn child … Shah Shan … And a woman with whom he had once danced the Emperor Waltz on the other side of the sky…

He looked up now at this alien sky whose constellations had become more familiar to him than those other constellations of long ago.

He looked up and watched the nine moons of Altair Five swinging purposefully against the dusty backcloth of stars.

And his heart began to beat in his chest like a mad thing.

He counted the moons carefully, while his heart pumped wildly and his arms trembled and his eyes smarted.

He took a deep breath and counted them again.

There were now ten tiny moons—not nine. Surely that could only mean one thing…

Dazed and shaking, he began to run back to the sacred city—back to the private room where he still kept his battered, and so far useless, transceiver.