I am afraid I must report that this was a bad attack. I had to have him confined to the hospital for a few days.
But I have worse to tell you. While there, I went to see how poor Incent was and, finding him comparatively sensible and able to talk about his situation, asked for his permission to administer a test.
It was the simplest possible test, based on the word history.
At this word itself, he was able to maintain composure. The word historical caused his pulse to quicken, but then it steadied. At historical processes, he remained firm. Perspective of history – so far so good. Winds of history – he showed signs of agitation. These did not decrease. I then decided, wrongly, to increase the dose, trying logic of history. At this point I began to realize the hopelessness of it, for his breathing was rapid, his face pale, his pupils dilating. Inevitability of … lessons of … historical tasks……
But it was not until dustbin of history that I gave up. He was on his feet, wildly exultant, both arms held up, preparatory to launching himself into declamation, and I said, ‘Incent, what are we going to do with you?’
Which flight of Rhetoric must be excused by the circumstances.
I gave instructions for him to have the best of care.
He has escaped. I did not have to be told where. I am leaving for Volyenadna, where Krolgul is active. I shall report again from there.
KLORATHY TO JOHOR, FROM MOON I OF VOLYEN, VOLYENADNA.
This is not the most attractive of planets. The ice sheets which until recently covered it have retreated to the poles, leaving behind a characteristic landscape. This is harsh and dry, scarred by the violent movements of ice and of wind. The vegetation is meagre and dull. The rivers are savage, still carrying melting snow and ice, hard to navigate, offering little in the way of pleasure and relaxation.
The original inhabitants, evolved from creatures of the ice, were heavy, thick, slow, and strong. The great hands that Ormarin is so proud of built walls of ice blocks and hauled animals from half-frozen water, strangled, hammered, wrenched, broke, tore, made tools from antlers and bones. Invasions of less hardy peoples (unlike Moon II, this planet was conquered and settled more than once by Planets S-PE 70 and S-PE 71) did not weaken the stock, because the conditions continued harsh, and those who did not adapt died.
The history of this planet, then, not so unlike that of Volyendesta, exemplifies the power of the natural environment. This is a dour and melancholy people, slow to move, but with terrible rages and fits of madness, and even now, in the wary turn of a head, the glare of eyes that seem to listen as much as to look, you can see how their ancestors waited for sounds that could never be anything but warnings and threats – the whining howl of the wind, the creak of straining ice, the thud of snow massing on snow.
The latest conquest, by Volyen, has worsened conditions. Because of the planet’s abundant minerals, everywhere you look are factories, mines, whole cities that exist only to extract and process minerals for the use of Volyen. The natives who work these mines live in slave conditions, and die young of diseases caused mostly by poverty or dusts and radiations resulting from the processing of the minerals. The ruling class of the planet lives either on Volyen or in the few more favoured areas of this moon supported and maintained by Volyen; its members do their best not to know about the terrible lives of their compatriots.
So extreme are the conditions on Volyenadna that I think it is permissible to call it a slave planet, and this, as I am sure you are not surprised to hear, is how Krolgul apostrophizes it: ‘O slave planet, how long will you bear your chains?’
I arrived on a grim and grey day near a grim and grey city, walked into the central square and found Krolgul addressing a grey, grim, and silent crowd: ‘O slave planet, O Volyenadna, how long will you bear your chains?’
There was a long groan from the crowd, but then it fell silent again. Listening.
Krolgul was standing on a plinth, that supported an imposing statue of a miner holding up clenched fists and glaring over the heads of the crowd; he was deliberately copying this pose – a famous one, for the statue is used as a symbol for the workers’ movements. Near Krolgul, his nervous, agitated stance in sharp contrast to Krolgul’s, stood Incent, sometimes smiling, sometimes scowling, for he was not able to find or maintain a satisfactory public pose. Krolgul saw me, as I intended. In this crowd of heavy, slow people, there were three who stood out: me, basic Canopean, but here seen as ‘Volyen,’ as anything alien has to be; Incent, so slight and lithe and nervous; and Krolgul, though he does everything to look Volyenadnan.
You may remember Krolgul as a large, not to say fleshy, easygoing, affable goodfellow, all eagerness to please: his adaptation on this planet is quite a triumph of self-discipline, for he has created a dedicated, brooding, heroic personal known to live in a bare room on less than a worker’s wage, he has a smile so rare that it has inspired ballads.
… Volyen’s minions fired.
Our dead lay on the ground.
Krolgul frowned.
‘We shall march,’ we cried,
In accents stern and wild.
And Krolgul smiled.
The trouble here is that these people are so slow to move, and Krolgul has been given little occasion for smiling. What he wants them to do is ‘rise all at once, once and for all’ and take over everything.
What is preventing this is the basic common sense of the Volyenadnans, who know from the bitterest experience that the Volyen armies are efficient and ruthless.
So Krolgul started to build up a head of hate, at first directed towards ‘all Volyen,’ and then, this proving too general a target to be effective, at Lord Grice, the Volyen Governor, whose name has acquired, like additional titles, epithets such as Greasy, Gross, Greatfat, Greenguts. To such a point that a citizen may be heard saying something like ‘Lord Grice Greatfat visited so-and-so yesterday,’ but so much a matter of habit has this become that he himself might not be aware of it. And even Lord Grice, so the rumour has it, was once heard to introduce himself on a ceremonial visit to a local governor, ‘I’m Grice the Greasy, don’t you know……’
As a matter of fact, he is a tall, dry, rather weedy fellow, of a natural melancholy much enhanced by the rigours of this planet, and full of doubts as to his role as Governor.
This genuine representative of Volyen was at a window of the Residency that stands on the square, listening to Krolgul and making no attempt at all to conceal himself.
He was a threat to Krolgul’s oratory, because the people in the square had only to turn their heads to see this criminal …
‘And what are we to say about that arch-charlatan Grice the Greedy! In one person we see embodied the whole villainy of the Volyen tyranny! Sucking the blood of the …’ And so on.
The crowd had begun to growl and stir. These lethargic, stolid people were at last showing signs of action.
Krolgul, however, did not want them actually to storm the Residency. He intended to use Grice as a means for a good while yet. Therefore, he skilfully swung them into song. We will march, We will march, We will overthrow … and the mass roared into song.
A few youths at the back of the crowd, longing for action, turned towards the Residency, saw in a window on the first floor a solitary figure, swarmed up onto the balcony, and confronted this observer with shouts of ‘We’ve come to get him! Don’t try to hide him. Where’s Grice the Guts?’
‘Here,’ said Grice, coming forward with modest alacrity.
At which the louts spat at him, aimed a kick or two in his direction, and told him to warn Grice-Guts they were ‘coming to do him.’ They then jumped back into the