The Enemy of My Enemy (15 page)

He gave a dramatic sigh and looked closely at Tonorosant. The latter echoed the sigh and moved his hands in an appropriate gesture. Phonorioth beamed. Part of his story, certainly, was true — the red glints in his sparse hair, the scattering of freckles, the slight but perceptible pallor of his skin — all confirmed his claim to partial Pemathi descent. Other elements of the story were of course nonsense.

“Being thus myself a child of two worlds, I have found it natural to be of what help I can to others who, though not at all of Pemathi descent,” he laughed, toothily, wetly, “are in any case also of Tarnisi descent in part. Many lies will doubtless have been told you, but you will have discredited them, I must hope. For instance, the lie that the Tarnisi ancestors of the rural people of whom so many live in Greenrivers village were in ancient times cast out because of being diseased or insane. Oh, such a foul lie! Dreamed up to justify slander, oppression, injustice and scorn! Now, the truth of the matter is, that in former times there existed no barriers to inter-ethnic marriage. This is the truth of the origins of this community, so sadly mistreated.”

The truth, as Tonorosant realized, was that both accounts were probably partly true and partly false. It was like enough that at one time the barriers were lower and voluntary unions had been formed. It was also like enough that outcasts for any reason from the Tarnisi community in times past had found refuge with and become part of the aboriginal nation. But what need was there to consider the remote past? — when Tonorosant well knew, and any Tarnisi who had ever seen active duty on a suppression campaign must well know, that sexual intercourse between the two groups was at such times a matter of simple fact and, indeed, formed no small part of the attractions of the campaign … . And surely not all the women who had fled and shrieked had run very fast, for that matter … .

For another matter, not every Tarnisi assigned to duty in the Outlands had gone there and lived there with a wife. It was a reasonable assumption that these had not all been celibate. But be the explanations what they may, and certainly they must be many, there did exist a community of part-Tarnisi stock, and by the law of averages at least some members of this community in the course of time would themselves conceive children by Tarnisi parents. Some of these would marry among themselves. Some would drift back into the maternal, native community.

And others … others, of course, would attempt to enter the parental, Tarnisi community. And some of them, by that same law of averages, were bound to succeed. Hence in part the hatred and scorn which accompanied the hated name of
Quasi
. And the refusal of the lackland class even to mention the word. — For that matter, the scrupulous care with which Phonorioth had avoided so far mentioning another word.

Feeling his way carefully, Tonorosant said, “Having been raised in another country, as the Sapient informed you, I did not grow up with the same intense prejudices which so many … too many, I think … of my people have.” His host blinked and blinked and smiled and edged nearer. “I have been interested in the reported activities of a certain tulan and his friends to see that more justice is shown — ” here it came, “the Volanth. What do you think about this, my cousin’s kin? You will agree, I must hope?”

The old scholar thrust his lower lip out just a trifle and proceeded to look noncommittal and stroke his long, clean white beard. At the mention of the word, Phonorioth had jumped as though scalded; immediately and while Tonorosant was still talking he, Phonorioth, had begun and continued to shake his head violently.

“No!” he exclaimed, as soon as his visitor stopped. “No, no! No, ah! Mistake, the Sir Tonorosant — oh, a great mistake. ‘Justice,’ it is not a question of justice for the … the Volanth. It is only a question of justice for us, for
us!
One cannot compare treatment of civilized with uncivilized peoples. We — we — I ask you, only be fair in your reply — have we not the Seven Signs as well? Do we not also live in houses, read and write, obey the laws, study the classics, paint leaves? Not the others! Not those … ah, they are animals, brutes. I could tell you tales of outrages they have committed against us, they would disgust you. It is disgusting just to look upon them! No, no, I assure you, I am against every and any attempt to confuse us with them. It can only harm our legitimate cause. I would act against them with utmost rigor, sir. Drive them back, I say! Drive them back!” He stopped, wiped his face with a trembling hand. And the old man looked at Tonorosant with an expressionless face.

In came the refreshments, and perhaps at just the right time, too. Tonorosant left it to his older guide to make small talk and carry on the conversation. He himself had much to think of. Once again he saw (although his own background had never left him in any doubt) the error of the belief that “suffering purified.” Suffering seldom if ever did anything of the sort; suffering seldom if ever convinced a sufferer that suffering in itself was always wrong, because in between this conception and the sufferer almost invariably intervened the immediate and intensely felt conviction that this particular suffering was wrong — that
his
particular suffering was wrong. And, his own suffering over, or at least abated, his whole soul was and remained bent and intent on the end, not that no one should suffer, ever, but that he himself should not suffer, ever. Even if others should suffer.

It might be sad, then, to see how the Quasi Tarnisi, Phonorioth, himself scorned the Volanth. But it was far from surprising. He had spoken with pride of his Pemathi grandfather, his Tarnisi grandmother. He had carefully made no mention of any Volanth forebear, yet he must certainly have had one, however remote. Here, in this community, it was evidently a matter of prestige to be even part Pemathi; the Pemathi had a fairly respected place, after all, and it was certainly higher than that of the Quasi.
But the Volanth had no place!
And it was no wonder, though it was a shame, that their partial descendants hated them. Helots of helots, uncouth, brutal and brutalized, what could they do for their demi-cousins, except remind them of their hated origin?

It was again nothing unexpected that the Quasi, part Tarnisi, part Volanth, should hate — not the Tarnisi who hated them — but the Volanth who by comparison must be guiltless of very great offense. Yes, true, naturally, the Quasi resented the Tarnisi attitude towards themselves, the Quasi. But that was all which they resented in the Tarnisi. Aside from this grievous fault, which they would alter if they could, they held the Tarnisi to be faultless. But who would, who could admire the coarse and outcast Volanth? Tarnisi = Civilization; Volanth = Savagery. True or false, for better or for worse. It was the cultured, smooth Tarnisi whom one imitated, towards whom one aspired. Thus, by iniquitous irony, the styles and standards of the oppressors had become the ideals of even the oppressed. And the relationship from down, looking up, was one of mingled hate-love and love-hate. But from down, looking even farther down, it was nothing but hate.

“ — thus,” continued Phonorioth, forgetfully wiping at his full mouth with the back of his hand, “we must say: While we will ever appreciate, I must hope, the successful efforts of the Tulan to enable us to register our land titles here in the village, we must absolutely refute his notion that our cause is in any way connected with the beasts of Volanths — ”

There was more, but after a while Tonorosant felt he had had enough. It was pathetic, the way the man almost clung to them in hopes of prolonging their stay. They drove on through the shanty-village towards the promise of clean, green quiet in the trees and town ahead. “I had a curious impression as I came into the house,” Tonorosant said, “that I saw a rather hideous old woman crouching in front of the mirror for a moment.”

“Likely enough,” the old man said, placidly.

“It was just for a flash of a second, but it seemed to me that she was plucking hairs from her face!”

“Likely enough.”

“Who could it have been?”

“Oh … his mother … likely enough … .”

Jolted into turning his head, Tonorosant looked towards the Sapient, but as his float was not in precise alignment with the other, he actually looked past him. And received an even greater jolt. He looked directly into the open front of a low and dirty drink shop. Amidst the throng of Quasi one seemed to stand out — a man somewhat but not much better dressed than the others, his arm around a loose-bodied woman, he pressing a glass to her lips, she mock-pushing him away. The man didn’t look out the front of the groggery, but he moved a bit, urging the glass, and he showed his face — drunken, bitter, yet somehow more relaxed … and somehow, very much in place here.

And everything else about him fell very much into place.

“If a Quasi wanted to pass for Tarnisi, it might make sense not to aim too high, mightn’t it? and to pose as, say, a lacklander?”

Still placid, “Likely enough,” the old sage said again.

The drink shop fell behind. The pleasures of Tarnis Town lay ahead. And behind, too, with all his sullen joys, the man at the dirty bar. Here, at least, Cominthal had no need to pose at all.

The land sloped away and upward as far as the light but incessant rains permitted the eye to see. It was not a country of trees and it was not a cheerful country. The floats had no need of roads or even paths, but something which had worn one deep into the earth. The terrain seemed ancient and weary, the landscape was sullen and wet. Aero-3D shots were being taken all up and down a reticulated area, and from designated spots within each rectangle both core- and surface-samples had to be taken. The somewhat stocky middle-aged man with Tonorosant had long since ceased to be amused.

“Maybe I should have stayed where I was and let
them
reprocess me. At least it would have been dry.”

His companion said nothing, continued to set up the drill. Water streamed off both of them and along the ground.

“A tactful silence. But why? I’m sure that you know what I’m talking about.”

“Joint, please.”

He handed the joint, watched it being fitted into place, shrugged his broad shoulders. “After all, if I weren’t the same as you, would I know anything about it?” the stout fellow tried again. No answer. “And if you aren’t the same as me, how is it that you don’t try to convince me you don’t know what I’m talking ab — ” The drill spun into action. A burst of mud and air splattered against him. He jumped back and looked on with rueful good humor, shaking his head. The drill did not go very deep or take too long. In a matter of moments he helped slip the core in the container.

At the float Tonorosant said, “Come on … . You’re getting us all wet.” He reached over his still-stumbling helper and adjusted the hood.

“How come you don’t say something like, ‘You will not wish us to perish by an untimely drowning, I must hope?’ See what I mean? You’re a simulee … or something … just like I am. Besides, it already
is
all wet in here. Ah, well. Onward and upward to the next enchanted valley.” Beside him, fumbling for the control switch, Tonorosant laughed. “Well, I few! A human being is hidden inside of you after all. Victory,” crowed the other man, whose name was Storiogath. “Well, now that the beginnings of communication are observed between us — what in the Hell is this all about?”

Tonorosant shrugged. “Non-military levies are as legal as any other kind. A survey is wanted and a survey is being made.”

Storiogath poured a hot drink into two cups, handed one of them to the other. “Then you think that the pro-Lords faction is right?
They
claim it’s all part of a long-range plan to bring the Volanth under more effective control.”

Tonorosant inhaled the spicy steam, sipped. “It could be so,” he admitted, after a moment.

His companion gurgled noisily. “Like Hell it could, my sister’s armpit. What are the soil samples for, then? The gang that swears by the Guardians, one in particular I have in mind, he
has
to be a genuine native or exile, because he’s too stupid ever to have made enough money to — you know —
he
assures me that the Inside Word in his clique is that this is all being done to facilitate assignment of new lands. To those who haven’t got any now.”

“Mmm,” Tonorosant murmured, noncommittally.

Below, the land split apart into a gully, then came together again. Somewhere off in the septentrional distances a patch of light broke through the sky, lengthened, made way for another. A wheel of light turned around above them. Then, one by one, the spokes faded and were gone and all the dimness of the shallow rains returned.

“But I can’t swallow that one, either. I don’t believe that the Guardians want any new lands to be available. This whole program of theirs is intended to weaken the Lords by creating a demand for the
old
lands that the Lords gave away way back when. I wonder what’s behind it all. Don’t you?”

Tonorosant glanced at the man. There seemed to be something behind what he had said. But there was so much to wonder about these days. The little box attached to the patrols suddenly began to click and chatter. “Oh, burrs. Time to make another sampling,” Storiogath grumbled. “And me still wet from the last one.”

Guided by the noise, now loud, now soft, now shrill, now deep, from the little box, they maneuvered the float about. The box gave a little purr of contentment, then fell silent. They put the float down and got out again. The surface sample was a mere dab, a second to take and a second to drop into the container already labeled with the coordinates of the sector; it was setting up the drill which took more time. Tonorosant got a rather low-grade satisfaction from performing the task correctly; Storiogath plainly didn’t. He jiggled, grunted, dropped as many things as there were to drop, sucked air through his teeth, groaned, wished he were back in Tarnis Town and that it were sunshine again. But by this time the work of drilling and de-coring had become familiar enough so that Tonorosant was able to do it by himself. He looked up after sliding the top back onto the core container and saw that his supposed helper had wandered away, was standing by himself on a rise of ground, outlined against the pearly mists and soft, slanting rain. Something watchful, wary in his look and stance.