A great deal of the recent vocabulary of Dovzan of course came from offworld, along with the industrial technologies; but that they should borrow a word for a native institution in order to outlaw it? Odd indeed. And she should have noticed it. She would have noticed it, if she had not tuned out the word, the thing, the subject, whenever it came up. Wrong. Wrong.
Tong had become a bit distracted; the item he had been searching for had turned up at last, and he set his noter to retrieve and decode. This took some time. "Akan microfiling leaves something to be desired," he said, poking a final key.
"’Everything breaks down on schedule,’" Sutty said. "That’s the only Akan joke I know. The trouble with it is, it’s true."
"But consider what they’ve accomplished in seventy years!" The Envoy sat back, warmly discursive, his hat slightly askew. "Rightly or wrongly, they were given the blueprint for a G86." G86 was Hainish historians’ shorthand jargon for a society in fast-forward industrial technological mode. "And they devoured that information in one gulp. Remade their culture, established the Corporate worldstate, got a spaceship off to Hain — all in a single human lifetime! Amazing people, really. Amazing unity of discipline!"
Sutty nodded dutifully.
"But there must have been resistance along the way. This anti-religious obsession… Even if we triggered it along with the technological expansion…"
It was decent of him, Sutty thought, to keep saying "we," as if the Ekumen had been responsible for Terra’s intervention in Aka. That was the underlying Hainish element in Ekumenical thinking: Take responsibility.
The Envoy was pursuing his thought. "The mechanisms of control are so pervasive and effective, they must have been set up in response to something powerful, don’t you think? If resistance to the Corporate State centered in a religion — a well-established, widespread religion — that would explain the Corporation’s suppression of religious practices. And the attempt to set up national theism as a replacement. God as Reason, the Hammer of Pure Science, all that. In the name of which to destroy the temples, ban the preachings. What do you think?"
"I think it understandable," Sutty said.
It was perhaps not the response he had expected. They were silent for a minute.
"The old writing, the ideograms," Tong said, "you can read them fluently?"
"It was all there was to learn when I was in training. It was the only writing on Aka, seventy years ago."
"Of course," he said, with the disarming Chiffewarian gesture that signified Please forgive the idiot. "Coming from only twelve years’ distance, you see, I learned only the modern script."
"Sometimes I’ve wondered if I’m the only person on Aka who can read the ideograms. A foreigner, an offworlder. Surely not."
"Surely not. Although the Dovzans are a systematic people. So systematic that when they banned the old script, they also systematically destroyed whatever was written in it — poems, plays, history, philosophy. Everything, you think?"
She remembered the increasing bewilderment of her early weeks in Dovza City: her incredulity at the scant and vapid contents of what they called libraries, the blank wall that met all her attempts at research, when she had still believed there had to be some remnants, somewhere, of the literature of an entire world.
"If they find any books or texts, even now, they destroy them," she said. "One of the principal bureaus of the Ministry of Poetry is the Office of Book Location. They find books, confiscate them, and send them to be pulped for building material. Insulating material. The old books are referred to as pulpables. A woman there told me that she was going to be sent to another bureau because there were no more pulpables in Dovza. It was clean, she said. Cleansed."
She heard her voice getting edgy. She looked away, tried to ease the tension in her shoulders.
Tong Ov remained calm. "An entire history lost, wiped out, as if by a terrible disaster," he said. "Extraordinary!"
"Not that unusual," she said, very edgily— Wrong. She rearranged her shoulders again, breathed in once and out once, and spoke with conscious quietness. "The few Akan poems and drawings that were reconstructed at the Terran Ansible Center would be illegal here. I had copies with me in my noter. I erased them."
"Yes. Yes, quite right. We can’t introduce anything that they don’t want to have lying about."
"I hated to do it. I felt I was colluding."
"The margin between collusion and respect can be narrow," Tong said. "Unfortunately, we exist in that margin, here."
For a moment she felt a dark gravity in him. He was looking away, looking far away. Then he was back with her, genial and serene.
"But then," he said, "there are a good many scraps of the old calligraphy painted up here and there around the city, aren’t there? No doubt it’s considered harmless since no one now can read it… And things tend to survive in out-of-the-way places. I was down in the river district one evening — it’s quite disreputable,
I shouldn’t have been there, but now and then one can wander about in a city this size without one’s hosts knowing it. At least I pretend they don’t. At any rate, I heard some unusual music. Wooden instruments. Illegal intervals."
She looked her question.
"Composers are required by the Corporation State to use what I know as the Terran octave."
Sutty looked stupid.
Tong sang an octave.
Sutty tried to look intelligent.
"They call it the Scientific Scale of Intervals, here," Tong said. And still seeing no great sign of understanding, he asked, smiling, "Does Akan music sound rather more familiar to you than you had expected?"
"I hadn’t thought about it — I don’t know. I can’t carry a tune. I don’t know what keys are."
Tong’s smile grew broad. "To my ear Akan music sounds as if none of them knew what a key is. Well, what I heard down in the river district wasn’t like the music on the loudspeakers at all. Different intervals. Very subtle harmonies. ’Drug music,’ the people there called it. I gathered that drug music is played by faith healers, witch doctors. So one way and another I managed eventually to arrange a chat with one of these doctors. He said, ’We know some of the old songs and medicines. We don’t know the stories.
We can’t tell them. The people who told the stories are gone.’ I pressed him a little, and he said, ’Maybe some of them are still up the river there. In the mountains.’" Tong Ov smiled again, but wistfully. "I longed for more, but of course my presence there put him at risk." He made rather a long pause. "One has this sense, sometimes, that…"
"That it’s all our fault."
After a moment he said, "Yes. It is. But since we’re here, we have to try to keep our presence light."
Chiffewarians took responsibility, but did not cultivate guilt the way Terrans did. She knew she had misinterpreted him. She knew he was surprised by what she had said. But she could not keep anything light. She said nothing.
"What do you think the witch doctor meant, about stories and the people who told them?"
She tried to get her mind around the question but couldn’t. She could not follow him any further. She knew what the saying meant: to come to the end of your tether. Her tether choked her, tight around her throat.
She said, "I thought you sent for me to tell me you were transferring me."
"Off the planet? No! No, no," Tong said, with surprise and a quiet kindness.
"I shouldn’t have been sent here."
"Why do you say that?"
"I trained as a linguist and in literature. Aka has one language left and no literature. I wanted to be a historian. How can I, on a world that’s destroyed its history?"