The Sirian Experiments

I changed my garments, putting on my Sirian garb of the Colonial Service from some impulse, of which I was fully conscious, to stand on an exact and accurate footing with Nasar. I then asked if I might enter, and having repeated it and heard his “Very well then, come in!”—I went in. He was stretched out full length, on his side, head propped on his elbow. He was dishevelled. His eyes were red. So dejected was he that I could have believed him surrounded by a thick black cloud. He was certainly quite repulsive, and I heard myself mutter: “But he’s so ugly!” So much for the outward form of attraction! And I could not help remembering the “insect people” who were superior, so Klorathy said, and whom I found repulsive.

And he knew what I was thinking, for while he did not look up, he smiled briefly and bitterly. He said, “Help yourself if you are hungry.” He had brought some sort of tea, and bread. I filled a cup for myself and refilled his, a service that he did not acknowledge, for he stared unblinking, seeing very little. I wondered briefly if I should seat myself low, like him; or put myself in a magisterial chair—for that there going to be a confrontation I had no doubt. But in the end I took my cup to a window opening and looked out, which is what I wanted to do. I was able to see to the northeast, where the snow had stopped falling. And to the southeast, where it was retreating. The tall thin brown cones were reappearing from white obliterating clouds, and the cold fluffy masses seemed to pile themselves halfway up—but of course this was an illusion. Already around the bases of the towers now the snow had stopped falling, armies of small figures were at work making tu

There was an idea—no, a memory—persistently presenting itself in my mind: this was that I recognised the black emotions that emanated from Nasar. Not so very long ago, one of our officials on Planet 9 had become demoralised after having been left there—so I thought, and so I put forward on his behalf—for too long. He had allowed himself to become a tool of an anti-Sirian party. I had been sent to adjudicate the situation. There was no doubt he was guilty, and I took him back to our Home Planet where, unfortunately, he was executed.

I believed him capable of rehabilitation. He had radiated this same sullen explosive anger that, not being allowed to express itself outwardly, was as if the whole organism was vibrating on a strong discordant note.

I could see that Nasar was not able to keep still, but continually shifted position, how he jerked and twitched, how his eyes roved and glanced everywhere, how he sighed and then flung back his head, gasped, and again stared sombrely in front of him. But he was watching me, too, I could see that he was calculating—on guard, preparing himself. Was he pla

“Quite so,” said he suddenly. “But no, I shall not go back. I’ve been able to break it at last. And I suppose for that I have to thank you.”

I was reflecting on how, and when, he was able to know I thought, as he went on: “But there is a price to pay, dear Sirius. And I am sure you will not be surprised to know what it is.”

At this it came into my head that he going to demand the prescribed artefacts from me: that I had by no means finished with that pressure.

“Exactly so,” he said. “As you can see, I no longer have the things I need to protect me here…” “You have given them away,” I said—dry enough.

At which he leaped up, and began striding around and about the room, sometimes stopping and standing quite still, eyes staring, mouth open; then going on again, restless, discoordinated, driven—it was making me feel quite ill watching him, so I turned my back and looked out past the brown spires into the back of the retreating storm, and heard the winds whine and whisper around the grey sky.

“I have to have them,” he said. “I have to.”

“And so do I. I was invited here. I am here because of that. And I was given the things. And told how to use them. And I do not feel entitled to give them away.”

“To give them back—to Nasar of Canopus.”

“I was told most specifically not to give them to anybody,” I said.

I felt his eyes on me, and turned and he stood staring—trapped. That is how he felt.

And now I knew what he was thinking, and I said, “There is nothing to stop you from taking them. You are stronger than me. But then, Canopus has always been in a position simply to take.”

I saw him shudder as if a black force had let him go, so that he could stand up straight, and breathe more easily.

“Thank you for reminding me," he said. Oh, not without humour—and I heard that note with enough relief! But he had spoken also with a note of responsibility. For he looked at me differently. “Yes, thank you. Thank you, Sirius.” He stood, as if waiting for more.

I turned and faced him fully. I was conscious of every sort of irony, and sorrow in this situation: I, in my garb of the top administration, but still of Sirius, and Canopus, our magnanimous superior, but in the shape of this criminal official. The word was taken up by him at once.

“You have criminals,” he said, smiling. “With us—we merely fall by the wayside.” And he laughed genuinely; and the laugh changed, as it were, midway, and the haunted driven one was back, and once again he was being impelled to stride around and across and back and forth.

“What do you do with your criminals, Sirius? What would happen to me, if I were one of yours?”

“I think you would be executed.”

“Yes. That is what I thought. And suppose I agree with you and not with my own dear Empire? Suppose I think I ought to be executed?”

“You want to be punished?” I enquired, as I dry as I could manage. And again I saw him straighten, the black weight on him lift.

He said, just as dry, “Yes, perhaps that is it. But Sirius, when I say that they have made a mistake, I mean it. I have not been strong enough for my work.”

“Do you never get leave?” I asked. “They surely do not put you here indefinitely—not for the long ages you tell me you have been stationed here.”

And now he came to stand by me, in my window embrasure, leaning against the i

“I take it,” said he, “that you are of the liberal party on Sirius.”

“Yes, I am.”

“Poor Sirius,” he said softly, those dark-bronze, or copper, or amber eyes full and strong on my face. “Poor, poor Sirius.”

Now this was quite unexpected, and I was thrown off my balance with him. We stood there, very close, looking into each other’s faces. I was not now thinking of Klorathy, or of my search for his real friendship, or anything of the sort: I felt near, because of what Nasar had said, to some sort of mystery or understanding.

I waited until I could speak moderately, and said: “Why do you not simply go back home and tell them what you are saying to me.”

“Because I done so already.”

“So you have been on leave?”

“Yes. But it was a long time ago—just after what these poor wretches call ‘the Punishment.’ But Sirius, to spend time there—and then to return here—do you know what that means? How one feels? How utterly intolerable…” and he struck off and away again, and began his despairing pacing.

“In short,” he said, “it is not worthwhile to go home if one has to come back. And in my case I have to come back. That is what they say. This is my place. This hellhole. Shikasta the disgraced and the shameful one. This.”

“Rohanda is very beautiful,” I said, with a sigh for my long stay on the Southern Continent, before the failure of the Lock. “No planet in our system is anything near as beautiful or as rich…” I was looking at the golden light in the grey sky to the southeast where the storm had now quite gone away. The brown cone nearest to this one showed the most elegant pattern of black markings all the way up, each touched with white: the snow underlined each window opening, and the symmetry and balance of the patterns gave me the deepest satisfaction; and that is what Rohanda—I was simply not prepared to use their niggardly little word for it—so plentifully did offer. A rich food for the senses—always and generously.