Jack Vance - The Languages of Pao

The joke at last became stale and half-forgotten; only emotional scar-tissue remained.

After the passing of Gitan Netsko, Beran once more began to frequent the space-port—as much in hopes of garnering news of Pao as watching the incoming women. On his fourth visit he was startled to see debarking from the lighter a large group of young men—forty or fifty—almost certainly Paonese. When he drew close enough to hear their speech, his assumption was verified; they were Paonese indeed!

He approached one of the group as they stood waiting for registration, a tall sober-faced youth no older than himself. He forced himself to speak casually. “How goes it on Pao?”

The newcomer appraised him carefully, as if calculating how much veracity he could risk. In the end he made a non-committal reply. “As well as might be, times and conditions as they are.”

Beran had expected little more. “What do you do here on Breakness, so many of you in a group?”

“We are apprentice linguists, here for advanced study.”

“‘Linguists’? On Pao? What innovation is this?”

The newcomer studied Beran. “You speak Paonese with a native accent. Strange you know so little of current affairs.”

“I have lived on Breakness for eight years. You are the second Paonese I have seen in this time.”

“I see … Well, there have been changes. Today on Pao one must know five languages merely to ask for a glass of wine.”

The line advanced toward the desk. Beran kept pace, as one time before he had kept pace with Gitan Netsko. As he watched the names being noted into a register, into his mind came a notion which excited him to such an extent that he could hardly speak … “How long will you study on Breakness?” he asked huskily.

“A year.”

Beran stepped back, made a careful estimate of the situation. The plan seemed feasible; in any case, what could he lose? He glanced down at his clothes: typical Breakness wear. Retiring to a corner, he pulled off his blouse and singlet; by reversing their order, and allowing them to hang loose outside his trousers, he achieved an effect approximately Paonese.

He fell in at the end of the line. The youth ahead of him looked back curiously, but made no comment. Presently he came to the registration desk. The clerk was a young Institute don four or five years older than himself. He seemed bored with his task and barely glanced up when Beran came to the desk.

“Name?” asked the clerk in heavy Paonese.

“Ercole Paraio.”

The clerk broodingly scanned the list. “What are the symbols?”

Beran spelled forth the fictitious name.

“Strange,” muttered the clerk. “It’s not on the roster … Some inefficient fool …” His voice dwindled; he twitched the sheet. “The symbols again?”

Beran spelled the name, and the clerk added it to the registration manifest. “Very well—here is your pass-book. Carry it at all times on Breakness. You will surrender it when you return to Pao.”

Beran followed the others to a waiting vehicle, and in the new identity of Ercole Paraio, rode down the slope to a new dormitory. It seemed a fantastic hope … And yet—why not? The apprentice linguists had no reason to accuse him; their minds were occupied by the novelty of Breakness. Who would investigate Beran, the neglected ward of Palafox? No one. Each student of the Institute was responsible only to himself. As Ercole Paraio, he could find enough freedom to maintain the identity of Beran Panasper, until such time as Beran should disappear … and if his ploy were discovered, what then? What harm could come?

Beran, with the other apprentice linguists from Pao, was assigned a sleeping cubicle and a place at the refectory table. In the morning the lessons would begin.

The class was convocated the next morning in a bare stone hall roofed with clear glass. The wan sunlight slanted in, cut the wall with a division between light and shade.

A young Institute don named Finisterle, one of Palafox’s many sons, appeared to address the group. Beran had noticed him many times—in the corridors of the Institute, tall, even more gaunt than the Breakness norm, with Palafox’s prow-like nose and commanding forehead, but with brooding brown eyes and a dark-oak skin inherited from his nameless mother. He spoke in a quiet, almost gentle voice, looking from face to face, and Beran wondered whether Finisterle would recognize him, and if he did, what his reaction might be.

“In a sense, you are an experimental group,” said Finisterle. “It is necessary that many Paonese learn many languages swiftly. Training here on Breakness may be a means to this end.

“Perhaps in some of your minds is confusion. Why, you ask, must we learn three new languages?

“In your case, the answer is simple: you will be an elite managerial corps—you will coordinate, you will expedite, you will instruct.

“But this does not completely answer your question. Why, you ask, must anyone learn a new language? The response to this question is found in the science of dynamic linguistics. Here are the basic precepts, which I will enunciate without proof or argument, and which, for the time being at least, you must accept arbitrarily.

“Language determines the pattern of thought, the sequence in which various types of reactions follow acts.

“No language is neutral. All languages contribute impulse to the mass mind, some more vigorously than others. I repeat, we know of no ‘neutral’ language—and there is no ‘best’ or ‘optimum’ language, although Language A may be more suitable for Context X than Language B.

“In an even wider frame of reference, we note that every language imposes a certain world-view upon the mass mind. What is the ‘true’ world-picture? Is there a language to express this ‘true’ world-picture? First, there is no reason to believe that a ‘true’ world-picture, if it existed, would be a valuable or advantageous tool. Second, there is no standard to define the ‘true’ world-picture. ‘Truth’ is contained in the preconceptions of him who seeks to define it. Any organization of ideas whatever presupposes a judgment on the world.”

Beran sat listening in vague wonder. Finisterle spoke in Paonese, with very little of the staccato Breakness accent. His ideas were considerably more moderate and equivocal than any others that Beran had heard expressed around the Institute.

Finisterle spoke further, describing the routine of study, and as he spoke it seemed that his eyes rested ever more frequently and frowningly upon Beran. Beran’s heart began to sink.

But when Finisterle had finished his speech, he made no move to accost Beran, and seemed, rather, to ignore him. Beran thought perhaps he had gone unrecognized after all.

Beran tried to maintain at least the semblance of his former life at the Institute, and made himself conspicuous about the various studios, research libraries and classrooms, so that there should be no apparent diminution in his activity.

On the third day, entering a depiction booth at the library, he almost bumped into Finisterle emerging. The two looked eye to eye. Then Finisterle stepped aside with a polite excuse, and went his way. Beran, his face hot as fire, entered the booth, but was too upset to code for the film he had come to study.

Then the next morning, as luck would have it, he was assigned to a recitation class conducted by Finisterle, and found himself seated across a dark teak table from this ubiquitous son of Palafox.

Finisterle’s expression did not change; he was grave and polite when he spoke to Beran—but Beran thought he saw a sardonic spark in the other man’s eyes. Finisterle seemed too grave, too solicitous, too courteous.

Beran’s nerves could stand no further suspense. After the class he waited in his seat while the others departed.