It has occurred to Grice that the Volyen he has arrived on is not the Volyen he left. Riots and disorders, arson and looting! 'But Volyens aren't like that,' he keeps protesting. 'We aren't like that at all. We are good-natured and kind, we are reasonable people.'
Yet another impossibility has had to be fitted into his already tortured mental balances. When the worst that can be said about Volyen has been said – that there is unemployment, for instance, that the immigrant populations from the other planets are not fully accepted as citizens, that the standard of living is falling because of the loss of Empire – when all this has been said, the lot of the poorest citizen on
Volyen is better than that of the richest on Motz. As Stil expostulates, while he gloomily accompanies Grice everywhere in this task of his of 'keeping an eye' on him, 'You call this poverty? You tell me these people are rioting because they are poor? No, you'll have to explain to me, please! No, you just give me this poverty of yours, and let me take it back to my settlement. It would be riches for a year, what I can see wasted here, in just this one street.'
Grice has succeeded in accommodating this, as he has everything else, as part of his grand 'Indictment.'
Grice could not find a lawyer to take his case, so he went to the Defender of the Public, a person specifically appointed to make sure legitimate grievances are heard. This gendeman leafed through the many hundreds of pages of the 'Indictment' with the quizzical look which Grice was too much of an expert on his own kind not to understand. Before the Defender could throw him out, in the whimsical and charming way Grice himself had used often enough, Grice said, 'Do you remember me, Spascock? We were at Infant School together in '53.' The official admitted that, although he did not remember Grice, he had in fact been at that Infant School. 'Do you remember Vera?' 'Of course I remember Vera. One of the most fortunate influences on my life. My parents were more often than not on tours of duty on Volyenadna, and I am afraid I was rather starved of ordinary family affection.' 'You have never met Vera since then?' Grice continued excitedly. (I have a detailed account of this meeting from Incent, who was present: Incent and Grice have become great friends, not surprisingly.) Spas-cock was uncomfortable, and could not hide it. 'Because I did meet Vera much later, and her influence on my life was crucial.'
Vera, charming and warmhearted girl, had gone for a holiday on Volyenadna, seen the suffering of the indigenous population under Volyen rule, and for the first time understood that the pleasant conditions on Volyen were not only not available to its colonies, but also that these conditions existed because of its colonies. Vera suffered an instant conversion to a belief in the Virtue of Sirius, and in short became an agent, but in the rather ambiguous way typical of the time. A few excited visits to a Sirian Embassy, some casual encounters at official receptions, an invitation to visit 'Sirius' – in this case Alput, which most favourably impressed her – and then nothing happened. Quite soon she learned what a horrible tyranny Sirius was, and literally 'forgot' her period of being an admirer of Sirius. But during this period she had been instrumental in introducing two ex-pupils, now grown up, to an admiration of Sirius. One of these was Grice, the other Spascock. She had in fact recruited them.
'In my view, people in our position should stand together,' said Grice to Spascock.
Spascock, trying to smile, said he would look through the 'Indictment' and let Grice know. 'And who,' he inqured, as Grice and Incent left,'is your friend?'
'He comes from far away, very far away indeed,' said Grice, knowing how this must affect Spascock, who went straight back to his desk and began reading the 'Indictment.'
'Oh, no,' he kept groaning, 'oh, no, it really isn't on... but this is absolutely lunatic... it is utterly...' And then the telephone began ringing with colleagues of all kinds, high and low – but some very high indeed – and Spascock found every one of these interesting conversations, all apparently about something else entirely, unmistakable reasons why he should in fact allow this case of Grice's to go forward.
'Yes, I am reading it,' he spluttered and groaned to person after person, each of whom had remarked something to the effect that 'Grice, you know, our colleague,' had brought a copy of his Indictment. 'Yes, but it may all be true, I am not saying it isn't, it's all very fascinating, I am sure, but, but... yes, very well. Very well. I hear you.'
'But surely,' Spascock moaned, as he sat alone in his office after about the twentieth telephone call, 'we can't all be...?' And of course they all weren't, but did wonder if anything they had ever done or said...? Or were, but did not know to what an extent they were deemed to be 'sleeping,' or at least dozing, by Sirius; or were in fact actively engaged in undoing Volyen in any way that occurred to their ingenuity; or were in close contact with some secret Sirian taskmaster.
This case is going to take place. Grice is in a fever of pleasure. It is this relish of his that is perturbing his comrade and ally. That Volyen should be 'exposed, once and for all,' and 'brought to the bar of history' seems to Incent only just, for while he is really very much better, certain sequences of words do still set him off easily; but bis nature makes any form of pleasure suspect to him, except that which he experiences when contemplating his own deficiencies. In fact, his disapproval of Grice amounts to a form of envy. He has been heard to mutter, while Grice writhes with relish as he amends his Indictment to include yet another phrase that demolishes Volyen hypocrisy, 'But Grice, I've been much worse than that, often, myself!'
A message from AM S on Motz begs that he be allowed to transfer here: he has developed, he says, a taste for the contemplation of farce. 'Oh, Klorathy,' he cried, 'how can I bear these admirable Motzans! They never do anything that cannot be expected to result in a solid achievement of some kind. They never make a remark that isn't rooted 'in life itself.' Where are those famous 'contradictions' that I have come to enjoy now that Governor Grice has gone? There's only one now, and that is that these Motzans, whether they like it or not, are also Sirians. And they are saved by their total lack of imagination, for their minds work like this: We are good. We are Sirians. Therefore Sirians are good. They are preparing for the invasion of Volyen in the same spirit that is theirs when they take over a stretch of sand and turn it into a settlement. Because of Grice, they can see Volyen only as needing their guidance. When I suggest, in the slightly whimsical manner that I have perfected here to gain me immunity from their solemnities (and which, of course, rightly earns their mistrust), that perhaps not everyone on Volyen is like Grice, their eyes glaze over: they are all like one another, since they have been 'forged in the fire' (forgive me) of their common hardship, and so they cannot conceive of a planet full of diversity. Klorathy, rescue me, let me come to Volyen.'
To which I answered: 'You may not recognize this in yourself, but this 'whimsicality,' the deliberate half-concealed mockery, the 'enjoyment' is exacdy the same indulgence in, the inner surrender to, the potentiality for anarchy in yourself, that caused a whole generation of upper-class Volyens to become agents (to one degree or another) of Sirius. Do you not recognize the atmosphere, the 'note'? I remember myself giving a series of classes, which I know you attended, on this particular period on Volyen, since it illustrated so well the laws of inner disaffection, of treachery. Do you not remember the lecture that was given under the tide 'For If It Prosper, None Dare Call It Treason'? Obviously you do not remember. You are not an agent of Canopus in this (I admit) not very attractive little corner of the Galaxy in order to develop a taste for the study of historical anomaly. Which is nearly always rooted in conceit – it is no accident that it was the class on Volyen brought up to consider itself as natural rulers who were trained with that deep and pervasive frivolity – the pride of those who consider themselves better than others. The enjoyment of the anomalies that are always present when planets clash is from pride. Very well, I will admit that a little of this is allowable, even necessary, to save oneself from the depression and discouragement that lie in wait for us as we contemplate the wastefulness with which the Galaxy, or, as the Volyens put it, Nature, accomplishes its purpose. But one step beyond this small allowance, and you have taken off into contempt for those around you, and will soon be inflated by pleasure in your own cleverness. Agent AM 5 of Canopus – will you kindly do your work, as instructed, and moderate your enjoyment in it! As it happens, you are scheduled to come to Volyen with the invading Motzan armies, but do not imagine you will find much to enjoy in that.'
In response to this rebuke, or, rather, reminder, I have received a sober acknowledgement that it was necessary.
The preliminary hearing has taken place. Spascock, in a last spasm of professional indignation, submitted formally that the case should be disallowed. This was in a small chamber off the regular court. Spascock, three Assessors, Grice, Incent, some court officials. The Assessors were all uncomfortable, and showed it.
'On what are you basing your Indictment?' asked the Chief Assessor.
'On this first clause of our Volyen Constitution,' said Grice, who was standing there upright, burning-eyed, feeling himself the Judgment of History on Volyen personified.
'Read it.'
"'Volyen undertakes to protect and to provide for all its citizens in accordance with the development at a given time of its natural resources and with the evolution and growth of knowledge about the laws of Volyen nature and the laws of the dynamics of Volyen society."'
Grice listened to this as if every word was an accusation no one could disagree with, and stood triumphant, waiting.
The three Assessors avoided one another's eyes.
Spascock said, 'In my opinion, it is preposterous.'
'Why, Spasky?' demanded Grice. 'Sorry. I mean, Defender. Either Volyen means what it – she – he says, or does not. What is the point of having a Constitution when it is considered ridiculous even to ask if it is being honoured?'
Incent, who was looking very unhappy, said to Grice, 'Well, yes, we all know that, but – '
'What do you know?' This particular clause, the key clause of the whole Constitution, was put there because when the Constitution was reformed, it was discovered that the laws then had no relation at all with modern sociological and psychological knowledge. Then, and again now, the laws are an anomaly.'
'Just a minute,' said the Chief Assessor. 'Who is Volyen in this context? Precisely who or what is it who "undertakes"?'
'Obviously, the government.'
'That isn't so easy, is it?' said Spascock. 'Governments come and go. Is "Volyen," then, the Permanent Officials?'
'Of course not. It is obvious what Volyen is,' said Grice. 'It is the spirit of continuity...' And, since Spascock and the Chief Assessor were about to challenge this rather tenuous concept, he said, 'If "Volyen" can "undertake," there has to be something permanent to do the undertaking, even if this something isn't easy to define.'
'Logical enough,' said Spascock, 'but in my view, nonsense. For one thing, if "Volyen" were to be continually reforming its own structures in accordance with the developments of scientific research, it would have to have some body or organ in existence to monitor these developments, and to incorporate them into the said structures.'
'You have made my point, I think,' said Grice.
'But,' said Spascock, 'it would have to agree about the results of modern research. And that is not so easy.'
'Extremely easy,' said Grice, 'if it wanted to.'
'It...?' said the Chief Assessor. Normally he looks like one: judicious, cool, detached from pettiness. But he was uneasy and angry – and everyone knew why. Pressures from above.
'Look at it like this,' said Incent, obviously making an effort to support Grice, though it was evident it was an effort. 'If they felt it necessary to put that clause first, because our knowledge about ourselves had outgrown our legal and social structures, then there could not have been any agreement.'
'Our?' inquired Spascock coldly of Incent, who is so obviously an alien and is known as coming 'from far away' to everyone.
'I was identifying with Volyen,' muttered Incent.
'With what?' inquired the Chief Assessor, with an at-tempt at humour.
A long unhappy silence at this point. It is not easy for professionals to go against their training. Ordinarily such a case would not even have reached this stage.
'I do not see how you can possibly deny,' said Grice, with his manner of formalized contempt, 'that there is a Constitution which makes certain promises.'
'We do not deny it,' said Spascock.
'And that these promises have not been kept.'
'That is another matter.'
'I propose to prove it.'
'I have a suggestion. We should appoint a Select Committee – '
'Oh, no, you must be joking,' said Grice.
' – to determine the exact meaning of Volyen, "it" in this context, "undertake," "provide for," and particularly "in accordance with.'"
'Agreed,' said all three Assessors together.
'Very well,' said Grice. 'You are legally in the right. But I hereby demand the right to be heard by my Peers.'
'Oh, Gricey,' said the Defender, 'do you have to?'
'Yes, Defender of the Public,' said Grice, 'I do.'
Knowing that they were defeated, the Assessors and Spascock sat in angry resignation, while the court officials went out and brought into the chamber the first twelve individuals they could see.
The mood on Volyen is changing fast. Together with the unrest caused by the rumours of imminent invasion, there is also a rising elation and excitement. Everyone is restless, and they all run about looking for stimulation and events that will feed their need for it. The court officials' usual dignified and formal behaviour was modified almost into carelessness, something not far from contempt.
'You there, come along, you are wanted as a Peer for a real lulu of a court case...' 'You'd never believe what they have cooked up this time – you'll get a good laugh, if nothing else.'
That was the spirit of the summons to the Peers. Seven soldiers, five civilians, crowded into the Peer-box, smiling and in the holiday mood that for some reason is evoked in Volyens by the approach of war. The Chief Assessor frowned at them, and they composed their faces, to hear: 'Do you agree or not that Grice, Governor of Volyenadna, has the right to cause trial to be made of Volyen for neglecting its duty to its citizens, as laid out in the Constitution?'
The Peers exchanged glances, only just suppressing smiles. 'We agree, all right,' they said. 'Right on!' 'Wow!' 'Yes, we'd like a bit of that...'
'Oh, very well,' said Spascock, 'very well. But let the Select Committee be summoned and set to work.'
After this, Incent went to Grice and said that 'objective conditions made this Trial a galactic anomaly.' Grice is intrigued by the thoughts aroused in him by Incent, and words like 'galactic' induce in him a condition whereby, as he says, he 'feels as if his mind becomes filled with cool air.' But on this occasion his view of Incent worked against Incent's intentions.
'You people from "far away" can't understand our local conditions.'
'But I am living here, aren't I?'
'It doesn't matter; you have to be born here too.'
'You aren't much of an advertisement for it, then. Look at the mess you are all in.' 'Yes, but this Trial will help, in a small and modest way to...'
'Grice, believe me, this Trial is simply – inappropriate.' 'What a word to use, when things are so desperate! There you are, that's what I mean. You are cold, heartless!' 'Can't you see that – '
'Look, tell me truthfully, does Volyen do what its Constitution promises?'
'No, of course not. But galactically speaking, one can say that happy is the planet which has no need of a Constitution.'
'And you can joke!'
'I wasn't – but why not?'
'And in the meantime Justice is being...' The word Justice, on top of galactic, finally dissolved Grice. He sat with tears streaming, and turned bis face so that Incent could see them.
'And anyway, it is quite wrong to say that you can understand local problems only when you are among them. On the contrary. And I am a proof of it. And so are you.'
You will see that Incent is recovering fast.
But he has again been travelling over Volyen telling anyone who will listen about their animal brains and their higher brains. 'You see,' he exhorts earnestly, 'when you are in a pack or a herd, then the instincts appropriate to these conditions rule you. When you are stampeding along a street in a herd, you have to let out rhythmic, repetitive cries, you have to burn and break and destroy, you have to kill. But when you are sitting quietly alone, as you are with me, then your higher brains rule you, and you are in that condition responsive to higher impulses, don't you see?'
Incent earns only agreement and intelligent comprehension from these Volyens when they are 'sitting quiedy'; but these same Volyens, when rushing about in their herds, seeing Incent exhorting them from the pavement, or from the lamppost he has climbed to be heard better, merely curse him or ignore him completely. 'Don't you see,' he has been heard to say afterwards to such a Volyen, who is shamefaced and embarrassed and saying, 'I don't understand what got into me!', 'the thing is, you must never, ever, allow yourself to become part of a mob, or you won't be able to help yourself.'
'But that is all very well! We are always in groups of one kind or another, aren't we? Well, nearly always.'
In such efforts Incent has been spending his time, and meanwhile Krolgul prowls, and watches for an opportunity to regain sway over him. But Incent, on seeing Krolgul, or even hearing that he is in the neighbourhood, runs away.
The following conversation has taken place between Incent and me.
'Incent, at some point you must face Krolgul.'
'I can't. I'm afraid.'
'But you are stronger now. You can stand up to him.'
'I'm afraid of his words-of-power.'
I am afraid too, for Incent, and, seeing this, Incent cried out: 'Why did you put me in this position, this key position?'
'You volunteered, Incent.'
'I did? I must have been mad. Why didn'tyou stop me?' 'I, as your tutor, encouraged you!' 'But it is too much for me.'
'Others of our agents have volunteered to come to your aid, and have already arrived and are at work through the Volyen "Empire," and that is one reason why you are stronger. Instead of one "conduit," there are several.'
'Well,' he muttered, 'I suppose it won't be long before they go bad too.'
Johor, I really wish you could see our Incent at such moments of dramatic self-presentation. We know a modest, thoughtful individual, who even when in the garb of Volyen retained – on Canopus – these qualities. But here, imagine him as he flings himself into a reclining position, head on a long nervous hand, a black mane flowing over slender shoulders, and the vast black eyes of his (vanity-motivated, I am afraid) choice gazing at me. But really his look is inward, as it were in satisfied contemplation of an inner wound or shock. And then the lift of the eyes up and out, in a stare that proudly accepts infinite dolour.
'So far they are all doing nicely. Not one has gone bad. And for that we have partly to thank you, for standing firm. But really, Incent, you must see that it is time you came completely to yourself. It is really nonproductive, at this moment when all of Volyen is in the grip of mob emotion, to explain the mechanisms of mob emotion in this reasonable, low-voltage way of yours.'
'But I can't bear it, I can't,' he cried, 'seeing them when they allow themselves to become... just animals...' With his face in his hands, he wept.
'Incent. Be yourself.'
'If I don't recover completely, then would you subject me to another dose of Total Immersion?' 'I certainly hadn't thought of it.' 'But if you did, what would you choose to Immerse me in?'
You can imagine that I heard this with unease.
'I don't think anyone has ever been subjected twice to Total Immersion.'
'Oh, don't tell me, it hasn't been necessary! Not everyone is as weak as I am!' This with satisfaction, and flinging out his arms as if to receive and accept blame.
'Only a strong person can withstand TI.'
'Oh, really? And I did, didn't I? Well, tell me what other delights you have up your sleeve.'
'Incent, it sounds to me as if you are enjoying your TI in retrospect, even if you didn't at the time.'
At this he sobered up at once, and said, responsibly, 'No, no, no, Klorathy. Never. I know painful experiences, in these latitudes, can acquire pleasurable associations, in memory – I remember your warning me. But no, never. Don't you see, I want you to – if you like – frighten me?'
'You are saying that you can't remain yourself, can't choose balance, when I say to you that it is of importance to Volyen, and to our Power here, that you do. But that you might be frightened into good sense and balance by what amounts to a threat?'
'Am I saying that? Well, if so, so be it! I can't help it. Then frighten me, Klorathy. I need it, obviously.'
'Very well,' I said, and Incent arranged himself, his hands already gripped together, his eyes with their characteristic look of being ready to listen, as if his ears were not enough. 'It was on another planet, where a suddenly developing technology had enabled a war to impoverish large areas, to the extent that the inhabitants were desperate. Some people who saw themselves as being specially gifted for the manipulation of population, and whose first and strongest talent was the use of words, Rhetoric, used this desperation to install themselves in power. Right from the very beginning, the announcement was, by the first leader of these tyrants, "We stand for organized Terror," a statement applauded and admired by his followers and by many people outside this particular – '
'I seem to sense a resemblance?' remarked Incent gloomily.
'Yes, I am describing the same planet as that I described in the "court" on Volyenadna. It was not long after that other revolution, which so soon brought to birth compulsive murderers, and then a tyrant. The Rhetoricians, who at least had the clear sight to recognize the dangers to themselves, had studied the first revolution, whose excesses and brutalities they so much admired, and had agreed among themselves not to kill one another, but only the populations whom they intended to "liberate," if these resisted being liberated. Just as, in the first revolution, cries like "We can be reborn only through blood" reached the primitive centres in every one of the more brutal, so in this second revolution "the energy and mass nature of Terror must be encouraged" aroused frenzies of admiration. For these Rhetoricians knew they would only keep power if enemies, real or imagined, could be provided to keep the attention of the masses off their continued sufferings. The enslaved ones died in their millions, from starvation, from disease, and above all from the attention of the Terror, now organized into a surveillance system that covered an empire the size of a sixth of the planet. And of course the Rhetoricians killed one another, just as if they had never made a pact among themselves not to. They saw themselves as in control of events, not as puppets of forces they had unleashed. And a new tyrant came, as has to happen when there is social chaos. And the populations went on dying or being murdered. But if nothing else, the inhabitants of that planet are fecund, and they soon replaced any losses of population from disease or catastrophe, even from their own machineries for murder.' I was watching Incent closely but could see little response in him. He continued to sit there quietly, attentively, but the tension in him had lessened. 'What was perhaps more remarkable than anything else was that, while the mass murder, torture, and the most brutal methods of population control ever used anywhere before on that planet were well publicized, people in other, more favoured, parts of the planet, even parts that were well organized and pleasant, admired the tyranny. The fact is, there are always individuals who can respond only to violent and sensational descriptions of – ' Here Incent looked embarrassed and made a gesture as if to say: Enough!' – They need the stimulus of violent words and violent thoughts. Very many, in all parts of that planet, secretly liked the idea of "Terror," of the torture and the organized brutality, enjoyed the idea of being the rulers of a population kept in conditions not far from slavery, thought with an arousal of their sensational apparatus of prison camps where millions of people died.'
Incent was regarding me steadily, and into those expressive eyes had come a look not far from humour.
'Incent,' I said, 'it is not possible to find anything comic in this nasty little history.'
'No, but perhaps I could be,' said Incent, and flung himself down on his back, his limbs wide, in a posture of surrender. 'Well – go on.'
'But I have made my point. Which is not the slaughter of millions upon millions, either by negligence or intention; not the imposition of the machinery of Terror; not the enslavement of populations. But that all of these developments were described in words for purposes of enslavement, or manipulation, or concealment, or arousal; that tyrants were described as benefactors, butchers as social surgeons, sadists as saints, campaigns to wipe out whole nations as acts beneficial to these nations, war as peace, and a slow social degeneration, a descent into barbarism, as progress. Words, words, words, words... And when local diagnosticians told them of their condition, they cried enthusiastically, "What wonderfully interesting words!" and went on as before.'
'I am listening.'
I did not go on, but contemplated my pupil, as I know you sometimes view me, Johor.
'Klorathy, if you had prescribed for me Total Immersion in this history, what would have been my role?'
'Can you ask? You would have been one of the instruments of the Terror. You would have murdered innumerable decent people by any means that you could devise, you would have been constantly developing ways to torture, to enslave through the skilled use of propaganda, and conditioning, and through the threat of death, torture, and prison. You would soon have been killed, according to the law that like attracts like, but I would have arranged for you at once to return and take a new place inside this machinery of brutality, where you would have continued to do all these things, while talking, about comradeship, social responsibility, peace, friendship, and so oh and so forth.'
Again, there was a long silence.
And then he slowly sat up. 'I have never been more fascinated,' he announced at length, with that relish in examination of his own processes that seems very far from lessening. 'I know perfectly well that if I had experienced TI in this history, I would be grovelling here, crying and screaming, trying only to forget it. I'm glad to say I've already forgotten that other awful TI! I would be begging for you to expunge every thought of it from my mind. I'd be crying out to the Cosmos against its cruelties. But, you know, I can listen as much as I like, but I can't make it seem real. In fact, it all sounds rather – no, not attractive, not that – but interesting... The fact is, Klorathy, I don't believe it. No, no, I don't mean it didn't happen, I don't mean it isn't still happening. I mean, I can't make it seem real. It is like a tale, an old tale, an old story of distant fighting somewhere, a long time ago.'
'I'm not complaining, Incent! Surely this is a sign you are improving. Tell me, you didn't find any response in yourself to words like blood, Terror, and the rest?'
'No, only a sort of "Oh, not again."'
Very good. Well, how about this: The tree of liberty must be refreshed from time to time with the blood of patriots and tyrants. It is its natural manure.'
Incent shrugged and shook his head.
'We promise you we will purge from our midst every filthy traitor and all human scum and disgusting manifestations of outworn philosophy. We will fling all this outworn garbage onto the refuse tips of history.'
At the word history Incent flinched, but smiled to himself.
'The worms and maggots that have crept into our healthy new society will be squeezed out and exposed before the bar of history for what they are – the squalid leftovers from an outmoded past.'
Incent shook his head. He was looking rather pleased with himself.
'Do you think I am cured, Klorathy?'
'You certainly wouldn't have stood up to that even as recently as before your meeting with Grice.'
'True enough. Grice has been a shock to me. I can tell you. I look at him and think, There but for the grace of...'
'You aren't safe yet, Incent.'
'I do so want to be of use again. I can't bear to think how I've allowed myself to be used by Krolgul. Oh, Klorathy, how can I have done it?' And he jumped up, smiled tragically, and rushed out.
Have you guessed what I am going to say now? Yes, he succumbed, and almost at once, to Krolgol, who was lying in wait for him. Incent was running along the streets, elated and smiling. He saw coming towards him a crowd, and among them individuals he knew. They were not a shouting, screaming, destructive mob, they marched quiedy, maintaining a decision made earlier at a public meeting place to proceed with discipline and responsibility. The leaders called out comradely greetings.
'Where are you going?' he called back.
'We are going to demand a general mobilization to defend Volyen against Sirius,' was the reply. 'Those traitors up there, they'll let us be overrun before they'll do anything. Sirian spies, all of them,' was the reply.
By now Incent was walking beside the leaders in the opposite direction to the one he had been taking. 'A very good idea,' said Incent. 'Though you'll be overrun anyway,' he added, as if to himself, and saw the leaders look at one another and then draw away from him. 'But never mind,' he said cheerfully, still imbued with the perspectives of our recent lesson. 'Their invasion won't last long. How can it? Sirius has so much overreached itself.' He saw their angry, rejecting faces, and said: 'Well, I don't see how you can get angry with facts.'
'Facts, is it?' said one of the leaders. 'Sounds more like treachery to me.'
'Treachery?' gasped Incent, now running along beside them. 'All Empires have a term, and often before they end they expand suddenly, as if they are crazed and fevered – '
'We are not interested in defeatist talk,' shouted one of the leaders, and pushed Incent away. At this the crowd marching behind him let out an angry growl, then shouts of 'Traitor!'
A leader said, 'It's scum like you we are out to get – all that rotten lot up there. You are one of them, from the sound of it.'
'I'm not,' said Incent, still running beside them, even holding out a hand to someone he knew. And then, at this moment, he recognized who it was.
'Krolgul!' he said.
And it was in these circumstances that poor Incent underwent his test.
'Political innocent!' said Krolgul.
'I am?'
'Revisionist,' hissed Krolgul.
'Oh, don't be silly,' said Incent, but he was affected. 'Can't you see, it doesn't mean anything?'
Krolgul had pulled him into the middle of the little group of leaders at the head of the mass, so that he was surrounded by threatening faces.
'So it doesn't mean anything? You are insulting the thoughts of the Sacred Leader, are you?'
'No, no, of course not, I'm not – '
'Reactionary,' was the next word-of-power, stronger than the first, and Incent was weakened seriously by it.
But he was struggling still. 'How can I be? What does it mean? What am I reacting to? from?' he demanded, while the people around him were cursing and growling like so many animals. Their independence of demeanour, their self-discipline, their determination not to be a mob – all this had gone, and it was Incent who had caused it; Incent under the smiling manipulation of Krolgul, who was the very image of a worthy, responsible revolutionary, his eyes alive with the determination to destroy everything in the path of historical inevitability, or whatever the formulation was, his face full of the vitality of triumphant cruelty.
'Bourgeois!' hissed Krolgul, and Incent nearly gave in.
But still Incent was himself. Just.
'Fascist,' said Krolgul suddenly. And that was that. Incent shuddered to his depths. In a moment he was one of them, shouting and screaming: Death to... Down with... Blood...
And so on.
But do not be too concerned. I can feel that Incent is far from being in the pitiable state he was before; there is no great empty gap there where the substance of Volyen is sucked into the needs of Shammat. No, he is whole and strong. And he is in fact exerting a moderating influence on the committee of fanatics around him. When he says, 'But surely that doesn't mean anything,' as his response to some rousing bit of word-making, they often are checked and, though admittedly only temporarily, show disposition to think.
And Krolgul is beside himself with frustration. Our other agents stand firm. Incent is not his. Krolgul has used his strongest word-of-power, and there is nothing he can fall back on.
The next public excitement is Grice's Trial of Volyen, which I shall attend.