The Left Hand Of Darkness (SF Masterworks) Read online

  The face that turned towards me, reddened and cratered by firelight and shadow, was as flat and cruel as the moon. Winter’s dull rufous moon. Argaven was less kingly, less manly, than he looked at a distance among his courtiers. His voice was thin, and he held his fierce lunatic head at an angle of bizarre arrogance.

  ‘My lord, what I have to say is gone out of my head, I only just now learned of Lord Estraven’s disgrace.’

  Argaven smiled at that, a stretched, staring grin. He laughed shrilly like an angry woman pretending to be amused. ‘Damn him,’ he said, ‘the proud, posturing, perjuring traitor! You dined with him last night, eh? And he told you what a powerful fellow he is, and how he runs the king, and how easy you’ll find me to deal with since he’s been talking to me about you – eh? Is that what he told you, Mr. Ai?’

  I hesitated.

  ‘I’ll tell you what he’s been saying to me about you, if you’ve an interest in knowing. He’s been advising me to refuse your audience, keep you hanging about waiting, maybe pack you off to Orgoreyn or the Islands. All this halfmonth he’s been telling me, damn his insolence! It’s he that got packed off to Orgoreyn, ha ha ha—!’ Again the shrill false laugh, and he clapped his hands together as he laughed. A silent immediate guard appeared between curtains at the end of the dais. Argaven snarled at him and he vanished. Still laughing and still snarling Argaven came up close and stared straight at me. The dark irises of his eyes glowed slightly orange. I was a good deal more afraid of him than I had expected to be.

  I could see no course to follow among these incoherencies but that of candour. I said, ‘I can only ask you, sir, whether I’m considered to be implicated in Estraven’s crime.’

  ‘You? No.’ He stared even more closely at me. ‘I don’t know what the devil you are, Mr. Ai, a sexual freak or an artificial monster or a visitor from the Domains of the Void, but you’re not a traitor, you’ve merely been the tool of one. I don’t punish tools. They do harm only in the hands of a bad workman. Let me give you some advice.’ Argaven said this with curious emphasis and satisfaction, and even then it occurred to me that nobody else, in two years, had ever given me advice. They answered questions, but they never openly gave advice, not even Estraven at his most helpful. It must have to do with shifgrethor. ‘Let no one else use you, Mr. Ai,’ the king was saying. ‘Keep clear of factions. Tell your own lies, do your own deeds. And trust no one. D’you know that? Trust no one. Damn that lying cold-blooded traitor, I trusted him. I put the silver chain around his damned neck. I wish I’d hanged him with it. I never trusted him. Never. Don’t trust anybody. Let him starve in the cesspits of Mishnory hunting garbage, let his bowels rot, never—’ King Argaven shook, choked, caught his breath with a retching sound, and turned his back on me. He kicked at the logs of the great fire till sparks whirled up thick in his face and fell on his hair and his black tunic, and he caught at them with open hands.

  Not turning around he spoke in a shrill painful voice: ‘Say what you’ve got to say, Mr. Ai.’

  ‘May I ask you a question, sir?’

  ‘Yes.’ He swayed from foot to foot as he stood facing the fire. I had to address his back.

  ‘Do you believe that I am what I say I am?’

  ‘Estraven had the physicians send me endless tapes about you, and more from the engineers at the Workshops who have your vehicle, and so on. They can’t all be liars, and they all say you’re not human. What then?’

  ‘Then, sir, there are others like me. That is, I’m a representative …’

  ‘Of this union, this Authority, yes, very well. What did they send you here for, is that what you want me to ask?’

  Though Argaven might be neither sane nor shrewd, he had had long practice in the evasions and challenges and rhetorical subtleties used in conversation by those whose main aim in life was the achievement and maintenance of the shifgrethor relationship on a high level. Whole areas of that relationship were still blank to me, but I knew something about the competitive, prestige-seeking aspect of it, and about the perpetual conversational duel which can result from it. That I was not duelling with Argaven, but trying to communicate with him, was itself an incommunicable fact.

  ‘I’ve made no secret of it, sir. The Ekumen wants an alliance with the nations of Gethen.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘Material profit. Increase of knowledge. The augmentation of the complexity and intensity of the field of intelligent life. The enrichment of harmony and the greater glory of God. Curiosity. Adventure. Delight.’

  I was not speaking the tongue spoken by those who rule men, the kings, conquerors, dictators, generals; in that language there was no answer to his question. Sullen and unheeding, Argaven stared at the fire, shifting from foot to foot.

  ‘How big is this kingdom out of Nowhere, this Ekumen?’

  ‘There are eighty-three habitable planets in the Ekumenical Scope, and on them about three thousand nations or anthrotypic groups—’

  ‘Three thousand? I see. Now tell me why we, one against three thousand, should have anything to do with all these nations of monsters living out in the Void?’ He turned around now to look at me, for he was still duelling, posing a rhetorical question, almost a joke. But the joke did not go deep. He was – as Estraven had warned me – uneasy, alarmed.

  ‘Three thousand nations on eighty-three worlds, sir; but the nearest to Gethen is seventeen years’ journey in ships that go at near lightspeed. If you’ve thought that Gethen might be involved in forays and harassments from such neighbours, consider the distance at which they live. Forays are worth no one’s trouble, across space.’ I did not speak of war, for a good reason, there’s no word for it in Karhidish. ‘Trade, however, is worthwhile. In ideas and techniques, communicated by ansible; in goods and artifacts, sent by manned or unmanned ships. Ambassadors, scholars, and merchants, some of them might come here; some of yours might go offworld. The Ekumen is not a kingdom, but a co-ordinator, a clearing-house for trade and knowledge; without it communication between the worlds of men would be haphazard, and trade very risky, as you can see. Men’s lives are too short to cope with the time-jumps between worlds, if there’s no network and centrality, no control, no continuity to work through; therefore, they become members of the Ekumen … We are all men, you know, sir. All of us. All the worlds of men were settled, eons ago, from one world, Hain. We vary, but we’re all sons of the same Hearth …’

  None of this caught the king’s curiosity or gave him any reassurance. I went on a bit, trying to suggest that his shifgrethor, or Karhide’s, would be enhanced, not threatened by the presence of the Ekumen, but it was no good. Argaven stood there sullen as an old she-otter in a cage, swinging back and forth, from foot to foot, back and forth, baring his teeth in a grin of pain. I stopped talking.

  ‘Are they all as black as you?’

  Gethenians are yellow-brown or red-brown, generally, but I had seen a good many as dark as myself. ‘Some are blacker,’ I said; ‘we come all colours,’ and I opened the case (politely examined by the guards of the Palace at four stages of my approach to the Red Hall) that held my ansible and some pictures. The pictures – films, photos, paintings, actives, and some cubes – were a little gallery of Man: people of Hain, Chiffewar, and the Cetians, of S and Terra and Alterra, of the Uttermosts, Kapteyn, Ollul, Four-Taurus, Rokanan, Ensbo, Cime, Gde and Sheashel Haven … The king glanced at a couple without interest. ‘What’s this?’

  ‘A person from Cime, a female.’ I had to use the word that Gethenians would apply only to a person in the culminant phase of kemmer, the alternative being their word for a female animal.

  ‘Permanently?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He dropped the cube and stood swinging from foot to foot, staring at me or a little past me, the firelight shifting on his face. ‘They’re all like that – like you?’

  This was the hurdle I could not lower for them. They must, in the end, learn to take it in their stride.

  ‘Yes. Gethenian sexual p
hysiology, so far as we yet know, is unique among human beings.’

  ‘So all of them, out on these other planets, are in permanent kemmer? A society of perverts? So Lord Tibe put it; I thought he was joking. Well, it may be the fact, but it’s a disgusting idea, Mr. Ai, and I don’t see why human beings here on earth should want or tolerate any dealings with creatures so monstrously different. But then, perhaps you’re here to tell me I have no choice in the matter.’

  ‘The choice for Karhide, is yours, sir.’

  ‘And if I send you packing, too?’

  ‘Why, I’ll go. I might try again, with another generation …’

  That hit him. He snapped, ‘Are you immortal?’

  ‘Not, not at all, sir. But the time-jumps have their uses. If I left Gethen now for the nearest world, Ollul, I’d spend seventeen years of planetary time getting there. Timejumping is a function of travelling nearly as fast as light. If I simply turned around and came back, my few hours spent on the ship would, here, amount to thirty-four years; and I could start all over.’ But the idea of timejumping, which with its false hint of immortality had fascinated everyone who listened to me, from the Horden Island fisherman on up to the Prime Minister, left him cold. He said in his shrill harsh voice, ‘What’s that?’ – pointing to the ansible.

  ‘The ansible communicator, sir.’

  ‘A radio?’

  ‘It doesn’t involve radio waves, or any form of energy. The principle it works on, the constant of simultaneity, is analogous in some ways to gravity—’ I had forgotten again that I wasn’t talking to Estraven, who had read every report on me and who listened intently and intelligently to all my explanations, but instead to a bored king. ‘What it does, sir, is produce a message at any two points simultaneously. Anywhere. One point has to be fixed, on a planet of a certain mass, but the other end is portable. That’s this end. I’ve set the coordinates for the Prime World, Hain. A NAFAL ship takes 67 years to go between Gethen and Hain, but if I write a message on that keyboard it will be received on Hain at the same moment as I write it. Is there any communication you’d care to make with the Stabiles on Hain, sir?’

  ‘I don’t speak Voidish,’ said the king with his dull, malign grin.

  ‘They’ll have an aide standing ready – I alerted them – who can handle Karhidish.’

  ‘What d’you mean? How?’

  ‘Well, as you know, sir, I’m not the first alien to come to Gethen. I was preceded by a team of Investigators, who didn’t announce their presence, but passed as well as they could for Gethenians, and travelled about in Karhide and Orgoreyn and the Archipelago for a year. They left, and reported to the Councils of the Ekumen, over forty years ago, during your grandfather’s reign. Their report was extremely favourable. And so I studied the information they’d gathered, and the languages they’d recorded, and came. Would you like to see the device working, sir?’

  ‘I don’t like tricks, Mr. Ai.’

  ‘It’s not a trick, sir. Some of your own scientists have examined—’

  ‘I’m not a scientist.’

  ‘You’re a sovereign, my lord. Your peers on the Prime World of the Ekumen wait for a word from you.’

  He looked at me savagely. In trying to flatter and interest him I had cornered him in a prestige-trap. It was all going wrong.

  ‘Very well. Ask your machine there what makes a man a traitor.’

  I typed out slowly on the keys, which were set to Karhidish characters, ‘King Argaven of Karhide asks the Stabiles on Hain what makes a man a traitor.’ The letters burned across the small screen and faded. Argaven watched, his restless shifting stilled for a minute.

  There was a pause, a long pause. Somebody seventy-two light-years away was no doubt feverishly punching demands on the language computer for Karhidish, if not on a philosophy-storage computer. At last the bright letters burned up out of the screen, hung a while, and faded slowly away: ‘To King Argaven of Karhide on Gethen, greetings. I do not know what makes a man a traitor. No man considers himself a traitor: this makes it hard to find out. Respectfully, Spimolle G. F., for the Stabiles, in Saire on Hain, 93/1491/45.’

  When the tape was recorded I pulled it out and gave it to Argaven. He dropped it on the table, walked again to the central fireplace, almost into it, and kicked the flaming logs and beat down the sparks with his hands. ‘As useful an answer as I might get from any Foreteller. Answers aren’t enough. Mr. Ai. Nor is your box, your machine there. Nor your vehicle, your ship. A bag of tricks and a trickster. You want me to believe you, your tales and messages. But why need I believe, or listen? If there are eighty thousand worlds full of monsters out there among the stars, what of it? We want nothing from them. We’ve chosen our way of life and have followed it for a long time. Karhide’s on the brink of a new epoch, a great new age. We’ll go our own way.’ He hesitated as if he had lost the thread of his argument – not his own argument, perhaps, in the first place. If Estraven was no longer the King’s Ear, somebody else was. ‘And if there were anything these Ekumens wanted from us, they wouldn’t have sent you alone. It’s a joke, a hoax. Aliens would be here by the thousand.’

  ‘But it doesn’t take a thousand men to open a door, my lord.’

  ‘It might to keep it open.’

  ‘The Ekumen will wait till you open it, sir. It will force nothing on you. I was sent alone, and remain here alone, in order to make it impossible for you to fear me.’

  ‘Fear you?’ said the king, turning his shadow-scarred face, grinning, speaking loud and high. ‘But I do fear you, Envoy. I fear those who sent you. I fear liars, and I fear tricksters, and worst I fear the bitter truth. And so I rule my country well. Because only fear rules men. Nothing else works. Nothing else lasts long enough. You are what you say you are, yet you’re a joke, a hoax. There’s nothing in between the stars but void and terror and darkness, and you come out of all that alone trying to frighten me. But I am already afraid, and I am the king. Fear is king! Now take your traps and tricks and go, there’s no more needs saying. I have ordered that you be given the freedom of Karhide.’

  So I departed from the royal presence – eck, eck, eck all down the long red floor in the red gloom of the hall, until at last the double doors shut me off from him.

  I had failed. Failed all around. What worried me as I left the King’s House and walked through the Palace grounds, however, was not my failure, but Estraven’s part in it. Why had the king exiled him for advocating the Ekumen’s cause (which seemed to be the meaning of the proclamation) if (according to the king himself) he had been doing the opposite? When had he started advising the king to steer clear of me, and why? Why was he exiled, and I let go free? Which of them had lied more, and what the devil were they lying for?

  Estraven to save his skin, I decided, and the king to save his face. The explanation was neat. But had Estraven, in fact, ever lied to me? I discovered that I did not know.

  I was passing the Corner Red Dwelling. The gates of the garden stood open. I glanced in at the serem-trees leaning white above the dark pool, the paths of pink brick lying deserted in the serene grey light of afternoon. A little snow still lay in the shadow of the rocks by the pool. I thought of Estraven waiting for me there as the snow fell last night, and felt a pang of pure pity for the man whom I had seen in yesterday’s parade sweating and superb under the weight of his panoply and power, a man at the prime of his career, potent and magnificent – gone now, down, done. Running for the border with his death three days behind him, and no man speaking to him. The death-sentence is rare in Karhide. Life on Winter is hard to live, and people there generally leave death to nature or to anger, not to law. I wondered how Estraven, with that sentence driving him, would go. Not in a car, for they were all Palace property here; would a ship or landboat give him passage? Or was he afoot on the road, carrying what he could carry with him? Karhiders go afoot, mostly; they have no beasts of burden, no flying vehicles, the weather makes slow going for powered traffic most of the year, and they are
not a people who hurry. I imagined the proud man going into exile step by step, a small trudging figure on the long road west to the Gulf. All this went through my mind and out of it as I passed the gate of the Corner Red Dwelling, and with it went my confused speculations concerning the acts and motives of Estraven and the king. I was done with them. I had failed. What next?

  I should go to Orgoreyn, Karhide’s neighbour and rival. But once I went there I might find it hard to return to Karhide, and I had unfinished business here. I had to keep in mind that my entire life could be, and might well be, used in achieving my mission for the Ekumen. No hurry. No need to rush off to Orgoreyn before I had learned more about Karhide, particularly about the Fastnesses. For two years I had been answering questions, now I would ask some. But not in Erhenrang. I had finally understood that Estraven had been warning me, and though I might distrust his warning I could not disregard it. He had been saying, however indirectly, that I should get away from the city and the court. For some reason I thought of Lord Tibe’s teeth … The king had given me the freedom of the country; I would avail myself of it. As they say in Ekumenical School, when action grows unprofitable, gather information; when information grows unprofitable, sleep. I was not sleepy, yet. I would go east to the Fastnesses, and gather information from the Foretellers, perhaps.

  4: THE NINETEENTH DAY

  An East Karhidish story, as told in Gorinhering Hearth by Tobard Chorhawa, and recorded by G. A., 93/1492.

  Lord Berosty rem ir Ipe came to Thangering Fastness and offered forty beryls and half the year’s yield from his orchards as the price of a Foretelling, and the price was acceptable. He set his question to the Weaver Odren, and the question was, On what day shall I die?

  The Foretellers gathered and went together into the darkness. At the end of darkness Odren spoke the answer: You will die on Odstreth (the 19th day of any month).