The Sentimental Agents in the Volyen Empire. Doris Lessing

subsided again on the bed, staring.

      ‘In a few minutes we have to make our way to the Hall of Justice, room number three, in order to talk to Calder and his mates,’ I said.

      He shook his head, as if trying to dislodge buzzing thoughts.

      ‘Arranged by you,’ I said.

      ‘Klorathy,’ he asked from his old self, tentative, stubborn honest, ‘I have been a bit crazy, I think?’

      ‘Yes, you have. But please try to hold on to what you are now, for we must go to this so-called trial or confrontation.’

      ‘What are you going to do with me?’ he asked.

      ‘Well, if you can maintain yourself as you are now – nothing. Otherwise, I’m afraid you must undergo Total Immersion.’

      ‘But that’s terrible, isn’t it?’

      ‘Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.’

      The council chamber or judgment room of the Volyen administration is arranged to demonstrate the principles of justice: right and wrong; good and bad; punisher and punished. On one side of the circular chamber, which is panelled with some shiny brown stone so that the movements of the individuals inside the chamber are reflected in the gleams of dull colour, stands the apparatus of judgment itself: an imposing chair or throne, subsidiary but similar thronelike chairs, boxes for the accusers and witnesses – most of them bound to be hostile to the pitiful representatives of the natives on the other side of the court, where a dozen bare benches are ranged.

      Two focuses of opinion is what this Volyen court is designed to hold; if opinion can possibly be the word for what always ends in the imprisonment and torture or execution of the people on one side of the court, whereas those on the other side go off to their homes to be refreshed and made ready for another day of determining justice.

      But we were three focuses of opinion, and instinctively, without need for argument, we made our way to the area where the lowly benches stood, ignoring the pomp of the court itself, and arranged them into a rough triangle. Calder and those with him took their places on one side. Krolgul, though with hesitation that looked rather like an attractive diffidence, sat all by himself on another. As usual, he was wearing clothes assembled to seem like a uniform that summed up a situation: a sober tunic in grey, baggy service trousers, and a grey-green scarf around his neck, of the kind used by everyone here to shield his eyes from the glare that comes off the still-unmelted glaciers and snow fields. He looked the picture of responsible service.

      But really he was confused. That was because of his creature Incent, who was tagging along with me in a dulled, exhausted condition that made it seem as if he had been drugged or hypnotized. And that was what not only Krolgul but also the Volyenadnans thought had happened. Calder, in fact, did not at once recognize the glossy and persuasive Incent in this pale, slow youth who slumped beside me on the bench. And it certainly did not suit me either, for it was Incent whom I wanted to put forward a point of view not Krolgul’s.

      Just as Krolgul had wanted Incent to speak for him.

      And so there we were, sitting quietly on our benches, and no one spoke.

      Nor was this a situation without danger, since the use of this court for such a purpose was of course not allowed. Incent had shouted, entirely on impulse, from some platform in the poor part of the city, ‘We shall take our cause to the heart of Volyen itself!’

      So ‘Volyen itself’ could be expected to show up at any moment, in the shape of the police, if not the army.

      At last Calder stood up, though there was no need for anyone to stand: he stood because he had been taught by the Volyens that he must stand in the presence of superiors. A great slab of a man, dense and heavy in texture as the schists and shales and compacted clays he worked with, he looked at Incent and remarked, ‘Our young hero doesn’t seem to have much to say for himself today.’

      I said, without standing, that Incent, as he and all the Volyens knew, had had plenty to say, in fact had not stopped talking for days, if not weeks, and had keeled over exhausted only a few hours ago. I said this in a low, humorous voice, to match the quiet, almost ironical tones of Calder.

      ‘Well, then?’ demanded Calder. I noted with pleasure how he sat down again.

      ‘May I suggest,’ I said, ‘that you state the position. After all, it is you and your people who would suffer the consequences of any action.’

      ‘That’s right, that’s right,’ came a chorus from the men behind Calder. And I saw that this was indeed what they had all been saying to one another: ‘It is all right for him, isn’t it, but it is us who’ll be going to prison for it.’

      I had taken a risk, of course, because I did not want Krolgul to stand up and launch himself into oratory. I wanted the tone kept low and sensible. He was lounging there on his bench, watching everything without seeming to, and trying to make Incent meet his eyes so that he could once again get the boy under his influence.

      I could feel Incent beside me as a blank, a void. He was not Krolgul’s then, nor was he himself; he was not acting as a conduit for the strengths and powers of the planet so that Krolgul could tap them; he was not letting the virtues of Canopus drain away through him. He was nothing. And I hoped I could keep him so until the healing powers of Canopus could begin to work.

      Krolgul maintained silence. He was banking on getting Incent back under his will.

      Calder, after consulting briefly with his fellows, remarked in a bluff but angry voice: ‘We are here because you people invited us – Volyen or Sirius or Canopus, it’s all the same to us. Our situation has become intolerable, and we’ll listen to any suggestion.’

      ‘Neither Volyen, nor Sirius, nor Canopus – but Shammat,’ I said. ‘Krolgul of Shammat.’

      I risked a great deal in saying this. For if Canopus was not much more than the reminder of long-ago tales and legends, then Shammat was nothing, no more than curses and expletives whose source they had forgotten.

      ‘Shammat, is it?’ said Calder, and he was getting angry. His mechanisms were being overloaded; he could not take it all in. ‘Well, whoever it is, we are here, to listen. So which of you will start?’

      I said softly, ‘Why not you, Calder?’

      Calder said angrily, standing up to do so, ‘Our situation is this, that we all of us work, day and night, for all of our lives, which are short and difficult and painful, and the results of our work go to Volyen. And that’s all there is to it.’

      ‘And,’ I prompted, ‘according to Krolgul of Shammat, you ought to remedy this by rising, though how this “rising” is to be done is not specified, and by murdering Grice the Governor-General? That’s it, isn’t it? And your troubles will then be at an end.’

      When they heard it stated like this, there was a stirring and murmuring among the men around Calder. Who stood up and said, for the benefit of invisible recorders and spies: ‘I have never said that, or anything like it, nor has any one of us.’

      ‘No,’ I said, ‘but that has been the theme of certain recent speeches. And I have said that there might be alternative things to do. And I am prepared to put them forward.’

      And now Krolgul acted. He did no more than, as it were, murmur or remark to himself, ‘Greasy-guts Grice. Grice the Greedy.’ And remained seated, hands locked around his knees, smiling as if listening to some secret music.

      At this Incent stirred and came to himself. ‘That’s it,’ he shouted, or half-shouted, the smile that goes with his self-hypnosis back on his face, ‘Grice … Grim-guts … Greasy …’ And subsided again.

      ‘Well, our young master has woken up, it seems,’ remarked Calder.

      Meanwhile, I had observed that straight ahead of where I sat, high on the brown wall, was reflected a pale patch where there