The Great Fetish

11

Marko slept through most of the next leg. They crossed the Eropian coast around noon.

The country over which they drifted was thickly settled. When they passed low over a town or village, Mark would sometimes see groups of Eropians running about and pointing at the balloon.

Marko felt sad because he had not been able to bring Sinthi along. While of course he hardly knew her, she impressed him as the sort of girl a man like himself needed. He was particularly attracted by her self-confessed virginity. To find an Anglonian girl over sixteen with that status was apparently impossible.

As the afternoon wore on, the ballast and peat ran low. Halran lowered the drag rope so that its lower end trailed on the ground. This acted as an automatic height governor. When the balloon sank, more of the rope lay on the round; the balloon, relieved of its weight, rose again. By saving them the necessity of constantly valving air and dropping ballast to keep their altitude adjusted, this simple device stretched their flight for many miles.

The ground, however, came nearer and nearer despite the drag rope. Halran said: “Marko, keep an eye open for a good, firm-looking field near a road. And I do not wish to squash anybody’s crops if I can avoid it.”

As the balloon sank, Marko sighted a suitable field. The field was being plowed by an Eropian peasant with a team of oxen.

Halran valved air until the basket skimmed along a few feet above the ground. The peasant abandoned his team to run madly away. The oxen bellowed and ran, too. When they had crossed a couple of fields, they forgot their fright and fell to eating.

“Pull!” cried Halran.

Marko pulled the rip cord. Down they came. They climbed out of the tangle and set to work to unfasten the ropes and fold up the bag for transportation.

They were hard at this task when voices made Marko turn. A group of Eropians was approaching over the soft earth: stocky men with little round dark-cloth caps on their heads and pitchforks and other implements hi their hands.

“Well?” said Marko, facing them.

The Eropians jabbered and gestured. One seemed to be haranguing the others to attack the aeronauts.

Marko had a fair reading knowledge of Eropian but could not understand it when spoken fast hi a local dialect. The peasants’ hostile intentions, however, were so obvious that he took hold of his ax.

“Wait, Marko,” said Halran, and spoke to the Eropians in their own tongue.

The peasants looked at Halran and began arguing among themselves louder than ever.

“They think we are demons,” said Halran. “Ugh. They look dangerous. There is nothing so dangerous as an ignorant and frightened man.”

He spoke again, shouting to make himself heard. The peasants paid him no heed. Instead, they began working themselves up to a rage. They shook their fists, screamed, spat, and jumped up and down, waving thek implements and shouting threats. Marko said:

“Doctor, take that little sword. If they start for us, our best tactic will be to charge them.”

“Oh, no, Marko! Do not antagonize them!” cried Halran. “If I can only make them listen to reason …”

Marko took out his ax, slipped off his sheepskin jacket, and wound the garment around his left arm for a shield. If he could kill a few, the rest would run.

Before the battle could be joined, however, hoofs beat upon the nearby road. A rider pulled up and walked his mount over to the crowd, shouting an order. The rider wore one of the most gorgeous costumes that Marko had ever seen. It included a tall cylindrical hat with a shiny black peak and a brass ornament on the front, a red coat with brass buttons, and high, shiny black boots. In his hand, the man bore a long saber.

At the arrival of this personage, all the peasants faced about, dropped their hoes and forks, and sank to one knee with their heads bowed. Then they rose up and began pointing at the travelers and jabbering. The rider rode closer and shouted a string of questions, which Marko took to mean “Who are you? Where do you come from? What are your names? Where were you born?“What is your citizenship? What is your occupation? What are you doing here?” Halran answered. The mounted man snapped: “Is it true that, as these clodhoppers say, you came down from the sky?”

“Yes, sir,” began Halran, but the mounted man interrupted:

“You are under arrest for illegal immigration, practicing magic without a license, and disorderly conduct. Show your papers.”

Marko had been astonished, when they first set out, at the number and variety of papers his friend had felt obliged to obtain before journeying to Eropia. Halran had assured him that, to visit that country, one could not have too many. Now Halran handed this mass of documents up. The mounted man sheathed his sword, raised a lorgnette to his eyes, and went through the papers. Apparently he read every one through. The peasants stood in a knot in the background, muttering.

At last the mounted man handed back the papers. He folded up his lorgnette, drew his sword, twirled it hi some sort of complicated salute, and sheathed it again. This time he spoke in Anglonian, albeit with a strong accent:

“A thousand pardons, Your Excellencies! A million pardons for having inconvenienced you! But, you understand, I am but a humble policeman and as such must do my duty. Patrolman Jakom Szneider, at your service. Sir Doctor, if you will have the inexpressible goodness to follow me to the police station in Utrec, I will arrange for the issuance of internal-travel papers for you.”

“What do you mean by that?” said Halran.

“Oh, these papers allow you to enter Eropia, but you need special permits to travel from one province to another. Have no fear. Utrec is only a mile down the road, and I will walk these papers through myself.”

“How about arranging transportation to Vien for my balloon?” said Halran.

“That can be done in Utrec. Let me think—, Einri Lafonten has a big wagon and a four-house team. Of course, you as a foreigner must have a special license to employ a native Eropian. You must also swear to do no work in Eropia that would compete with one of our artisans’ guilds, and there are also some small taxes. But fear not. I, Jakom Szneider, will expedite matters with incredible dispatch!”

“Where is Utrec, officer?” asked Halran.

“Why, there!” said Szneider, pointing. “You can see the roofs.”

“I mean, where is it on the map? What is it near?”

“Oh? We are about fifty miles northwest of Pari.”

Halran groaned. “That means several hundred miles from Vien, and the accursed convention opens tomorrow!”

“Why can you not fly your machine to Vien?” asked Szneider.

Halran explained that balloons went with the wind only, and they came to Utrec.

Three days later, the wagon of Einri Lafonten, bearing Boert Halran, Marko Prokopiu, and the former’s balloon, rattled into Vien, an old gray city built on the inside of a bend in the Dunau River.

During this stage of their journey, Marko had come to appreciate Halran’s skill as a traveler in civilized countries. In this land, forms and regulations attended every step, the all-powerful government had its fingers in everything, and everybody expected a tip. Patrolman Szneider, for instance, had helped them not out of the goodness of his heart, but because he assumed that Halran would give him a generous present at parting. Back in Vizantia, to proffer money not due and asked for was an insult to the honor of the person to whom it was offered. Travelers had sometimes been struck dead for offering a proud Vizantian a gratuity. Other lands, other customs, Marko kept reminding himself.

The guards at the gates of Vien, as usual, pored over Halran’s papers for half an hour before letting the wagon in. Einri Lafonten’s driver drove them over the winding cobblestoned streets, past the ornately carven mansions of the magnates whose power Alzander Mirabo had broken. They stopped at the old city hall, which had been turned over to the philosophers for their convention.

The convention hall was guarded by troopers of the Prem’s imperial guard, clad in chain mail from head to foot, with cylindrical barbutes on their heads and halberds in their hands. Inside the grounds, Marko could see small groups of men, and a few women, walking about outside the building. The Eropians could be distinguished by their shaven heads. Being bald, the Prem had shaved off what little hair he had. This made the egghead the official fashion.

After more paper shuffling, the guards admitted the wagon to the convention hall’s grounds. Several men approached. Halran called greetings to some of them. A big stout fellow, with a red beard all over his chest, came forward through the gathering crowd crying:

“Boert! What in Earth’s name are you doing here?”

“Bringing my balloon to the convention, as I said I would,” replied Halran.

“You fool, don’t you know that once you’re in, they won’t let you out again?”

“Come to the parlor where we can talk,” said the red-bearded man. Halran introduced him to Marko as Ulf Toskano, a mathematician and the chairman of the convention.

“But what is this all about?” said Halran plaintively. “After all the perils we have surmounted to get here …”

Toskano said: “You should have got here at the opening, if you were bound to get caught in the trap anyway. You missed the wonderful demonstrations by the Chimei brothers yesterday.”

“Who are the Chimei brothers, sir?” asked Marko.

“Opticists from Mingkwo. They have done the most amazing thing. Ryoske Chimei has invented a thing he calls a telescope, which makes far things look near, while Dama Chimei has invented one he calls a microscope, which makes small things look large. They had the place in an uproar yesterday.

“We stood in a line a hundred yards long to look through the telescope, which shows a score of stars where we can see but one with our bare eyes. It shows the mountains and valleys of the moons. It is too bad the sky is now overcast, but perhaps Dama Chimei will let you see his microscope. The sight of a drop of stagnant water under that thing will give you nightmares. This is the biggest development since the steam engine. But then this morning, the Prem threw his guards around the hall and announced this idiotic debate.”

Toskano pushed open a massive stupa-wood door and led them into the vestibule. Through the doors of the main auditorium, Marko glimpsed the backs of an audience listening to arguments among a small group of men seated on a stage.

Marko said: “What’s going on in there, sir?” Toskano explained: “A panel discussion on that same old subject: Can steam power be applied to land transportation? I proved long ago it’s impossible. You can build a little brass model that will pull a couple of wagons across a table top, but the minute you try to go into larger sizes, the weight factors defeat you.” Toskano led them up a flight of stairs and into a large room. There were armchairs and tables, on which books and periodicals were piled. Philosophers sat about smoking, reading, talking in low voices, playing vrizh or chess, or just sitting. Halran wailed:

“But what is this fatal debate?”

“Calm down, Boert. If you’re going to die, it might as well be like a man. You know there has been a tremendous to-do in Eropia about the Descensionist theory. The archaeologists and historians claim they now have almost conclusive evidence for it, while the Eclectic Church denounces it and demands that the old heresy laws be applied against us.

“The common people are all excited too, some for and some against, although not one in a hundred really knows what it’s about. It’s got so we dare not wear our academic robes abroad for fear of having stones thrown at us. Maybe the Philosophers’ Guild should have bent with the wind, but instead of that we defied the Evolutionists and petitioned Mirabo to disestablish the Church.”

“Well?” said Halran.

“This morning the Prem announced that, tomorrow afternoon, there should be a grand debate between the Descensionists and the Evolutionists, to settle the question once and for all. If he decides the Descensionists are right, he will disestablish the church and execute all the priests, whereas if the Evolutionists win he will cut off all our heads.”

“Good gods!” said Halran and Marko together. Halran added: “Is the man insane?”

“No; that’s just the emphatic way our little Prem does things. Whichever side is right—or whichever he thinks is right—can have anything it asks, while the side that is wrong has been misleading the masses and must die as a crowd of dangerous liars and subversive demagogues.”

Halran wailed: “Oh, curses! curses! Why was I born? I shall appeal to the Prez of Anglonia! Can we smuggle out a message?”

“Perhaps, but I doubt if you could get any action from your government before all was over. Besides, from what I hear, your Prez thinks a massacre of philosophers would be good riddance. He’s the great peasant leader, and to him nothing that doesn’t smell of manure is worth that.” Toskano snapped his fingers.

Halran pulled himself together. “Then obviously we must win this debate. My friend Master Prokopiu might be of some assistance. He has just been chased out of Vizantia as an incorrigible Descensionist.”

“So?” said Toskano. “How is this, Master Prokopiu?”

“I should be glad to help,” said Marko. “I have a fair command of the Descensionist arguments as a result of my trial.”

Toskano said: “I don’t think you would do as a speaker, because your Eropian is not good enough. But I shall appoint you to the committee that is to prepare the debating panel tonight, in case you can contribute a useful suggestion. This will be an all-night task, you know.”

Marko said: “Sir, I had rather lose a night’s sleep than my head.”

“Good. Now tell me about your journey hither. What delayed you?”

Halran summarized the story of their landings on Afka and Mnaenn and their escape from those places.

Ulf Toskano said: “Have you those boxes of cards you took from the Great Fetish?”

Marko brought the boxes out of his pockets and handed them to Toskano, who opened the flap on the end of one box and drew out a card. It was made of a smooth, yellow-white substance. It had the appearance of an ordinary playing card but the feel of being much stronger, as if it were made of metal. On both sides, it was covered with little gray spots arranged in a rectangular pattern, with yellow-white lines between the rows. Toskano handed it back.

“I can make no sense of this,” he said. “Let’s walk around and look at the exhibits before supper. We shall have enough to do afterwards. It’s too bad. Moogan, one of our most effective speakers, was going to deliver a paper on heredity tonight but has begged off because he is too upset about his impending doom.”

Toskano led them out of the parlor and down a hall. A series of small chambers had been fitted up as exhibition rooms. One, for instance, contained diagrams showing the theory of one school of naturalists about the proper classification of Kforrian life-forms, with preserved samples of small plants and animals to illustrate.

The next room contained a table on which stood Dama Chimei’s microscope, with an assortment of small objects—leaves, fragments of animal tissue, paper, cloth, and so forth—to be seen through it. The Chimei brothers stood at the table answering questions about their device and showing visitors how to operate it. Ryoske Chimei explained, for it seemed that Dama Chimei spoke neither Eropian nor Anglonian. Like other Mingkworen, the Chimei brothers were short men with yellowish skins, straight black hair, and flat faces with wide cheekbones.

“Ha, Dr. Chimei!” said Toskano. “Here are some new visitors to see your marvels. This is Dr. Halran, who has solved the secret of flight, and his assistant Master Prokopiu.”

Ryoske Chimei bowed stiffly. “We are honored that persons of such importance trouble themselves to view our poor trifles,” he said in a singsong voice. “If you will wait until this gentleman has finished …”

Ryoske Chimei spoke to his brother in Ming-kwohwa. Toskano murmured to his companions:

“Don’t let that pretense of humility fool you. That’s just Mingkwoan manners. They are the most self-conceited fellows I ever met; everything outside of Mingkwo, to them, is barbarous squalor.”

“If you please, sirs,” said Ryoske Chimei, and Halran bent over the microscope, ohing and ahing as he witnessed the wonders of the microcosmos. While Hal-ran was looking, Ulf Toskano said:

“Master Prokopiu, get out those boxes of cards you brought from Mnaenn. Thank you.” He took out a card and handed it to Ryoske Chimei, saying: “Try this under your magnifier.”

Ryoske handed the card to Dama Chimei, who slid it under the objective of the microscope.

“Hey!” cried Boert Halran. “Those little gray dis-colorations are writing!”

“What?” said Toskano. “Don’t be ridiculous! Who could write so small that not even the letters could be seen?”

“This is printing.”

“But how could it be? For printing, somebody has to cut a type mold; somebody else has to cast a type slug; somebody else has to set the slug in the press—”

“Look yourself.” Halran made room for Toskano.

“By Napoleon, it is at that,” said the chairman. “But in no language I know. I thought I had a smattering of all the tongues of Kforri.”

Halran said: “Many of the letters are like those of our alphabet, but the combinations are strange.”

“We need a linguist.” Toskano glared about and crossed glances with one of the other philosophers waiting his turn at the microscope. “Bismaak! Do you know Duerer?”

“Yes,” said Bismaak.

“Well, try to find him as quickly as you can.”

“May I look now?” said Marko.

“As you brought the cards here, I suppose you have a right to,” said Toskano.

Under the lens, Marko saw a whole page of type set in double columns. This page, he found by moving the card slightly, was one of the little gray spots, no larger than the head of a large pin. Under the glass, it was enlarged until it was just legible.

Bismaak returned with a whiskered man introduced as Duerer, who took one look into the microscope and cried: “This is Old Anglonian! I can read a little of it, but we need Domingo Bivar. He has devoted his life to the study of the few writings and inscriptions we have in that language. I’ll fetch him.”

Duerer departed at a run. After some wait, he returned in his turn with a small man, dark like an Arabistani. The newcomer, introduced as Domingo Bivar, was identified as an Iverianan by the length of his hair, which hung almost to his shoulders. Dr. Bivar looked into the microscope and began to hop up and down as if the floor had become hot.

“This is a thing most extraordinary!” he shrilled. “Let me see another of the cards, for favor.”

After further scrutiny he said: “Dr. Toskano, I must have the microscope, much notepaper, much coffee, and -the undisturbed use of the room till tomorrow. May I?”

After much palaver, it was agreed that Bivar should have unrestricted use of the microscope until the following day. The Chimei brothers made it understood that they would stay in the room to supervise.

At supper, Marko saw the entire membership of the convention. Aside from the fact that some wore the garb of distant lands, like Arabistan and Mingkwo, there was nothing special about the philosophers. They looked just like people, to Marko’s faint disappointment. But he consoled himself with the thought that if this were the case, nobody would object to recognizing him as a philosopher on the ground of appearance.

The committee for preparing the debate met after supper. Marko sat hi with the rest. ‘He soon found that his own knowledge of the Descensionist controversy was too elementary to be of much help here. When he made a suggestion, they turned on him saying:

“Yes, my dear Master Prokopiu, but if you had been here this afternoon you would know that we went over that idea first of all.”

So Marko was reduced to sitting in abashed silence while the experts tossed ideas around. They were hard at it when a knock interrupted them. In came Ulf Toskano with a bearded man hi workman’s garb. The philosophers stared at the newcomers. One of the former rose and said:

“Greetings, Patriarch Yungbor. What brings Your Excellency into the lair of the enemy?”

There was a scraping of chairs as. the others, too, recognized the head of the Holy Eclectic Church. Although some of the philosophers, to judge by their comments, were violently anti-clerical, all had been conditioned to this courtesy.

The Reverend Pier Yungbor sat down heavily at the end of the table. Ardur Mensenrat, the chairman of the committee, said: “How on Kforri did you get here? I thought all you people were under lock and key too.”

The patriarch said: “Where the flock is faithful, the shepherd can look for unexpected succor. I take it you gentlemen are planning your side of tomorrow’s debate?”

“Right,” said Mensenrat.

“I am here to make an unprecedented request. Before I make it, let me say that I have what seem to me excellent reasons. You are philosophers; you pride yourselves on keeping your minds open. Try to keep them open in this case until you have heard me out. It will be difficult.”

He stared around the table. Mensenrat said: “Proceed, esteemed sir.”

“I ask that you ‘throw the game’; that you deliberately lose to us.”

The silence became loud. Yungbor looked mildly around the long ellipse and continued:

“You naturally ask why. Well, there are two reasons. The first is practical. Alzander Mirabo, as we all know, has long been hatching war against Iveriana. Specifically, he plans to march over the Equatorial Mountains and take them through their back country. We know the present government of Iveriana, weak and distracted by revolts, could never halt this invasion.

“The Kacike is a foolish old man, who has been preserved from assassination by ambitious subordinates only by their inability to agree upon a successor. His province of Sturia has been in open revolt for years. He sends armies against the Sturians, and his soldiers sell their arms to their enemies and desert. You see how much chance the Iverianans would have against the strongest, best-disciplined army in the world.”

A philosopher spoke: “Under those conditions, wouldn’t Eropian rule be all to the good?”

“No. For one thing, the Iverianans, however they betray and murder one another, hate foreigners even more and will fight to the last against them. I have been to Iveriana and know. They would practice hit-run, guerrilla war. The Prem would burn cities and slaughter hostages in retaliation, and so on until most Iverianans were dead, together with many of our own people.

“The Eclectic Church has been exerting all its influence against this crime. So far, by playing on the Prem’s beliefs, by dangling the hope of Earth and the fear of Space before him, we have held him off. But if he decides we are mistaken, what will hold him back then?

“Another thing. By cooperating with the Syncretic Church hi Vizantia and the Latitudinal Church hi Anglonia and Barmadislam in Arabistan and so forth, we have prevented any serious outbreak of war for four decades. Would you wish to break this peace?”

Another philosopher spoke up: “Patriarch, we have our ideals too, though you may not believe it.”

“I have said no such thing,” said Yungbor.

“Specifically, we attach a value to the discovery of truth. We think it’s good in itself. In this case we think we have found a particular truth that goes under the name of Descensionism. Would you have us suppress, it?”

Yungbor replied: “No doubt you are taking for granted the validity of Czipollon’s axiom, ‘The true is the right and the right is the true.’ Now think, gentlemen. Is there any reason for accepting such an idea as true in the first instance than any other? Take Evolution, for example. Let us suppose—I concede nothing, but merely suppose for the sake of argument— that Descensionism is true. Yet by pressing your belief, by urging it upon the people and their rulers, you may break the peace and touch off a round of wars worse than any seen hitherto on this distracted planet. Be assured, the Anglonians and Vizantians and Mingkworen will not sit idly by while Mirabo aggrandizes himself at the Iverianans’ expense. They fear him enough now. And with this flying machine the Anglonians have invented, war will be more terrible than ever.

“In fact, with all these scientific advances of which you so proudly boast, you may one day be able to wipe mankind off Kforri, as the forebears of the present gods are once said in the myths to have done to one another on Earth. Then all we shall need is one lunatic in command of a nation… . Well, what is the good in such a case?”

Mensenrat said: “There is one other item, which you have not considered. Our necks.”

Yungbor wagged his beard. “That goes without saying. There are ours too. I did not bring this matter up because it is obvious what our respective preferences would be on the level of such sordid motives. I did hope that I could appeal to worthier sentiments.

“And consider this possibility, the second reason whereof I spoke. I know that many of you gentlemen do not accept our creed. You say that this is or is not objectively true, and point to cases where our finite minds have been shown to be mistaken in the past. But consider! This creed, objectively true or not, is logically valid. It has been assembled by our great theologians over half a thousand years. And by means of it we keep the people in order. We restrain their natural violence and swinish lusts. We make it possible for them to live together as civilized men.

“You think you have created civilization with your inventions and discoveries. And, in fact, people got along well enough up to fifty or seventy-five years ago, when your inventions and discoveries began to come so fast that they have revolutionized everybody’s thinking. The Church is the only stable institution they have left to cling to. But what good would inventions and discoveries be without a moral force to make people moderate their actions towards each other? How long would they be civilized if, every chance a man had, he knocked his neighbor over the head, dragged him into his kitchen, and cooked and ate him?

“You scoff. You say, 7 should never consider such an act. I lead a moral upright life without supernatural sanctions. But are you gentlemen average citizens? You know the answer to that one. Still less are you members of that large fringe who really prefer evil to good, who revel in wickedness. If you do not believe such people exist, come with me to night court—that is, if we all survive our present peril. So if you convince the Prem of your ‘truth’ and overthrow our creed, who shall guide the people? Do you think you can do so by equations and formulas, which they cannot even understand?

“Think about what I have said, gentlemen, and thank you for your courtesy in listening to me. Good night.”

When the patriach had gone, there was a moment of silence. A committeeman said: “I may not agree with him, but he’s a plausible old devil.”

“He is perfectly honest in his way,” said another.

“Oh, nonsense!” said another. “All supernaturalism is simply a scheme to enable a class of magicians called priests to live without working.”

“Oh, that’s not fair at all… .”

They argued inconclusively, shying away from the actual decision. It transpired that all of them wanted to save their heads and therefore to win the debate, but they wanted to find a reason for so doing that would not make them look like mere frightened self-seekers. Ardur Mensenrat put it acceptably:

“In the first place, we don’t really know whether our action would be the critical factor in deciding the Prem for war or peace. We have only Yungbor’s word for that. If I know Alzander Mirabo, he will have made up his mind long since. If we don’t furnish him with a pretext, somebody will.

“In the second, while we should deplore the massacre of the priesthood, if worse come to worst we think we are more important to civilization than they, and that they can be replaced more easily than we.

“Finally, if it were a question of eliminating war forever from Kforri, we might do otherwise. But it is not. Yungbor takes credit for the peace of recent decades, but the historiographers tell a different story. They say it is the result of the balance of power among the major nations. All are armed and touchy, all are full of tribal parochialism, truculent nationalism, and rancorous xenophobia. If the Prem does not go to war now, we have no assurance that somebody else will not do so next month.”

There was a common sigh of relief that Mensenrat had put so succinctly the thoughts that others, including Marko Prokopiu, were groping for. Marko’s mind had wandered during the debate, which tended to ramble and stray. In phantasy he saw himself gripping the wrist of the Stringiarch and poking the knife into her back, a couple of inches to the left of the spine where it would have a good chance of reaching the heart… .

He hesitated, fought down the horrible fear of making a fool of himself, and rapped on the table.

“Yes, Master Prokopiu?” said Mensenrat.

“If you gentlemen will excuse me,” said Marko, feeling himself blush, “although I’m but an ignorant backwoods schoolteacher, without even a legitimate degree, I have a suggestion to make.”

“Go ahead.”

“What I suggest does not conflict with the plans for the debate but might make the debate unnecessary.”

“Get to the point, sir,” said Mensenrat.

“Well, I was thinking—that is, if we could get control of the person of the Prem, we might hold him as hostage to make him let us go.”

“Preposterous!” said somebody.

“Maybe, but what have we to lose? And speaking as one who has just escaped from the Isle of Mnaenn by that means, I think I may claim some small expertise in the science of kidnaping, which has perhaps been denied you learned gentlemen.”

“What’s your plan?” said Mensenrat.

“Well, the idea has only just dawned upon me, so I shall more or less have to make it up as I go. But, briefly …”