The Light That Never Was

by Lloyd Biggle, Jr.

  Brance laughed. “Ex-artist, you mean. Why odd? Ex-artists must eat. The old duffer who owned this place was a friend of mine, and when he got fed up with it and offered it to me I grabbed it without apologies. I’d given up painting, and I wanted to go to the most inartistic place imaginable.”

  “You found it,” Gwyll said fervently, resisting the impulse to stomp the drying mud from his shoes and legs. In the dim light he could see little of the hovel’s interior. He slowly munched the bread, which, like the drink, had a strong, spicy flavor. Brance hovered nearby, almost invisible in the gloom, recounting the nutritional virtues of kruckul roots.

  Gwyll swallowed the last of the bread and drained the mug. “Thanks. I suppose I’d better get through the worst of the mud before it’s completely dark.”

  “You won’t,” Brance said. “Both moons will be up in another hour or two. Better wait.”

  Gwyll shrugged resignedly. “I’m in no hurry. I probably won’t be able to get back to Nor Harbor before morning. Why won’t you tell me who the artist is?”

  “Because I can’t,” Brance said slowly. “Because I don’t dare. Did you mean that about looking for a new job?”

  “You said you’d met L.H.”

  “He was being nice at the time, but I can easily imagine—look here. You seem like a decent enough person. Will you swear to keep this between yourself and L.H. and make him swear to that before you tell him?”

  “Yes—”

  “Come along, then.”

  He led Gwyll from the hovel. A smaller mound, a sort of outbuilding, stood a few paces to the rear, and there Gwyll blinked in a sudden flash of light as Brance lit a candle. He brought out a crude palette and a piece of art fabric stretched over a thick frame.

  “You take the candle,” he said.

  In the candlelight Brance’s eyes gleamed wildly, and it occurred to Gwyll that the man had behaved somewhat irrationally from the beginning. “You asked for it,” Brance said. He laughed gleefully. “Follow me.”

  Carrying the candle awkwardly—he had never seen one before except in paintings—Gwyll stumbled after him into the thickening darkness. They halted beside a stone-walled enclosure, a square that measured three or four strides across. Gwyll’s candle revealed nothing within it but creamy mud.

  Brance leaned over and wedged the art fabric between the wall and a protruding rock. He placed the palette on another rock and slowly backed away.

  “Don’t hold the light so close!” he hissed. “Here—let me have it.”

  The mud stirred. What looked like a quivering puddle of slime spread slowly across its surface and reared up suddenly. It assumed a shape, became a bloated oval of pulsating, mud-encrusted jelly, and flowed toward the palette.

  A sudden wave of revulsion left Gwyll trembling. His stomach revolted against the nauseating stench, and his mind utterly rejected the disgusting, blotched, shimmering mucosity of the creature’s body. The mere thought that such a slimy mass was alive appalled and horrified. He clenched his teeth until his jaws ached, but he continued to watch.

  It reached the palette and reared itself above it, a froth of foul scum through which the lips of the paint cups seemed dimly visible.

  And then it began to paint. A multitude of fine filaments darted to and fro, and on the fabric a speck of paint appeared, and then another… five minutes passed, ten minutes, the picture grew with infinite slowness. When finally Brance blew out the candle a mere square inch had been covered. The colors were only dimly distinguishable in the feeble, flickering light, but already Gwyll could recognize the texture.

  He did not want to believe. He said, “You mean—that thing—painted—”

  “It won’t work long when there’s a light,” Brance said.

  Gwyll repeated weakly, “That thing painted—”

  “The painting Milfro sent to you. Yes.”

  He tugged gently at Gwyll’s arm and led him away.

  “I can’t believe it,” Gwyll muttered. “It paints in the dark?”

  “It doesn’t see as we see. Obviously. It must perceive some light that’s invisible to us. Certainly it paints things that never were—that couldn’t be, in the universe we know. I’ve never been able to identify anything in its paintings, and yet I’ve felt from the beginning that it must be painting what it sees. I suppose my human prejudices won’t let me credit it with the imagination of genius.”

  “What is it?”

  “Scientists have a thoroughly unpronounceable name for it, but to the natives it’s just a swamp slug. It’s never been found anywhere except on this island, which is probably why so little is known about it. I took photographs to the zoology professors at Nor University and none of them had ever seen one. They offered to buy it. Said they’d like to study it.” He laughed harshly. “They offered me ten dons for it, which seems like a rather low price to pay for a great artist—but of course they didn’t know about the paintings. They thought they were making a very generous offer for a rare but inconsequential kind of gastropod, and they seemed offended when I told them to come over and catch their own. Maybe it’s just as well that they didn’t try. The natives tell me the things used to be common, but these days you almost never see one, what with more and more of the swamp being drained and cultivated. This is the only one I’ve ever seen.”

  “Do you have other paintings?”

  “Seven,” Brance said. “Seven plus the one I sent to Milfro. It was a long time before it got the idea that the whole fabric could be one composition, and even now it doesn’t often produce a large painting. With four of the eight I had to cut the fabric down to fit the part that it painted.”

  “Does it work all night?”

  “On a dark night. Tonight it’ll stop when the moons come up. It paints slowly, as you saw, and the next night it won’t always start where it left off. It took me four years to get those eight paintings. Drat Milfro—I just wanted an opinion, not a visitation. Anyway, L.H. can’t fire you for not putting this artist under contract. Sorry I can’t offer you a bed, but the only one I have you wouldn’t like. I can’t even lend you a light to walk back with, but I’ll go as far as my neighbor’s with you and see if you can borrow his.”

  “That’s very kind of you.”

  “And remember your oath!” Brance’s voice cut savagely through the darkness. “If a word of this leaks out, I’ll kill the person responsible.”

  Gwyll started back to Zrilund Town with the feeble beam of the neighbor’s small handlight picking out the uncertain borders of the road. His memory was still replete with what he had seen and smelled, and after a couple of miles he finally lost control, and along with it the scant lunch he had eaten on the ferry and the nutritious products of the kruckul root.

  At Zrilund Town he did something he wouldn’t have had the courage for as recently as that afternoon. He pried the fat com agent from his dinner to open the Zrilund Communications Center, and he kept him waiting—and fuming—until he got a clear channel to Donov Metro and routed Lester Harnasharn from his bed.

  Harnasharn, looking ludicrous with a night covering perched jauntily on his bald head, did not even seem perturbed. “Did you get him?” he demanded.

  Gwyll hesitated. The com agent stood looking on, and there were possibly dozens of people listening in. “There’s a very substantial matter of ethics involved,” he said.

  “I understand. He’s already committed himself elsewhere.”

  “Not that kind of ethics. I think it’s a matter that you’d want to handle yourself.”

  “I’ll leave at once.”

  “There’s no hurry. The only boat scheduled from the mainland operates at eight in the morning—which is afternoon to you.”

  “Then why did you get me out of bed?”

  “Because I haven’t been to bed, and once I get there, if I can find one, I’m not getting up in the middle of the night to send a message. Anyway, I thought you’d like to know.”

  Harnasharn chuckled. “Thanks. What happe
ned to you? Is it raining mud on Zrilund?”

  “That’s as good a way to describe it as any.”

  “I’ll dress for it.” He chuckled again. “Before you look for that bed I suggest you find a bath.” He cut the connection.

  “I’d suggest the Zrilund Town Hostel,” the com agent said dryly. “Fourth right from the corner. Hylat’ll let you have the bath and bed and maybe a bit of supper, which you look as though you could use.”

  Gwyll thanked him and paid for the call. The bath and bed would be welcome, but his stomach wasn’t yet in condition to tolerate any thought of food.

  Twenty-one hours later, Lester Harnasharn perched on the edge of Brance’s pen peering in fascination as the slug hung over the art fabric, filaments tirelessly in motion.

  “If I wasn’t seeing it with my own eyes—” he muttered.

  Brance said nothing. Gwyll, holding the candle, was too preoccupied with his nausea to speak.

  “Are those things tongues?” Harnasharn demanded.

  “They could be,” Brance admitted. “I’ve never been able to locate its head, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t have one. I guess tongues is as apt a description as any.”

  “It dips each one into the paint, and then—where does it mix the colors? On its tongues, or right on the fabric?”

  “I don’t know. It may mix in some secretion of its own, which would account for the unusual texture. I do know it won’t use any kind of paint that doesn’t have a vegetable base.”

  “Vegetable? Did you give those paintings a spray set?”

  “Of course.”

  “And it sees something that never was,” Harnasharn mused. “That must be it—I think. Those paintings certainly give me the impression of looking at something I’ve never seen before, or of looking at something familiar in a way that makes it seem like looking into another dimension.” He turned angrily. “But they’re art, confound it! Splendid art! I don’t care if the being that created them is human, or a slimy worm, or a hunk of rock. Harnasharn Galleries has never demanded an artist’s pedigree. Of course I’ll exhibit those paintings, and I’ll be proud to do it.”

  Brance laughed sardonically. “Will you exhibit them anonymously, or are you planning a reception to introduce my slug to the critics?”

  “What do you suggest?” Harnasharn asked. “The slug belongs to you, so legally the paintings must be your property. The contract would have to be drawn in your name and you’d have to sign it. For all of its obvious talent, the slug’s signature, even if it could produce one, would have very little legal standing.”

  “Brance could sign the paintings,” Gwyll suggested.

  “No.” Harnasharn shook his head emphatically. “A painting signed by a person who did not paint it is a fraud, regardless of the circumstances. I’m willing to exhibit a slug’s paintings if I think they’re good enough, but not if they’re signed by anyone but the artist. I won’t knowingly admit a fraud to Harnasharn Galleries.”

  “I wouldn’t even try to sign them,” Brance said. “The texture is so peculiar that the mere touch of a brush or spray botches it. I’ve tried to finish some of its aborted efforts, and you couldn’t imagine the mess I made of them.”

  “Very well. Then we’ll have to exhibit anonymously. I’ll make you an outright offer for the eight paintings; or I’ll contract to exhibit them and handle their sale at auction at our usual commission with the option to buy any or all at the highest bid price less commission; or—and I recommend this—I’ll give them a special showing and then place them in our permanent exhibit on a deferred-sale basis and hold them until bids reach the figures we agree upon. I’d guess that in five years they’ll be worth several times what you could get for them now. And of course I’ll advance you a reasonable amount. What do you say?”

  “It sounds like a very fair offer,” Brance admitted.

  “Have you ever heard of Harnasharn Galleries making an unfair offer?”

  “No. But the problem, you see, is that I don’t know if I want to sell. This is the only great art that I’m ever likely to own. I’m selfish enough to want it for myself. Anyway, why expose such beautiful things to the vulgar gaze of the crassly stupid?”

  Harnasharn seemed amused. “You aren’t the first artist who’s delivered that particular lecture to me.”

  “Then you should have your answer ready.”

  “I do. ‘A thing of beauty is a joy forever,’ as the old proverb says. You’re selfish enough to want the paintings for yourself. I’m generous enough to want to share them. I simply point out that beauty, shared, doesn’t diminish or depreciate. You can share it and still keep it for yourself. Let me exhibit the paintings on a deferred-sale basis, giving you the option of recall and making any sale subject to your approval. It’s as simple as that. While we’re waiting for an offer you’re willing to accept, you can share this beauty by way of our permanent exhibit and in reproductions and filmstrips.”

  “If you put it that way—”

  “I do. If you have something to write on I’ll make out a contract. It wouldn’t be prudent to try to name or describe the artist, so I’ll simply refer to paintings of a certain style, and we can include any future output under the same description. I assume that there will be more. How long do these things live?”

  “According to local tradition this one is still a baby, and I’ve had it for six years. The first settlers found huge slugs here, but they were so repulsive that they were killed the moment anyone saw one.”

  “Where can I write?”

  “There’s a table of sorts in the house?”

  They turned away, and Gwyll took a final, shuddering look at the dim form of the slug as they moved off: slimy body hunched over the fabric, the multitude of filaments tirelessly weaving, weaving, extracting from the darkness the dazzling essence of pure light.

  2

  They were two old men with years enough between them to know that failing eyesight sometimes enables one to see more clearly, and their friendship had stood firmly since the days when the Government Common was a wrranel pasture. Below them the gardens were vibrant with color, and across the common a few artists had gathered to paint the odd, purplish effect of the long shadow that Donov University’s tower cast on the massive, creamy marble of the Cirque, the World Management Building. To their left stood the delicate, fluted facade of the Donovian Institute of Art; to their right, the graceful silhouette of the World Library.

  It was a scene worth painting, and because the artist Garnow had once done so, from this very balcony, it was also famous. World Manager Ian Korak knew it so perfectly in all of its detail that he still enjoyed it despite his near blindness. On this day, however, his clouded eyes were deeply troubled and his thoughts were not of the view.

  He said meditatively, “My friend, we have to face the fact that diplomatic posts on Donov are either a haven for the weary or a sinecure for the incompetent. Ambassadors come and go without even bothering to present their credentials. The so-called permanent embassy staffs have such a turnover of personnel that there isn’t one individual among them whom I’ve known long enough and well enough to call a friend and with whom I can have the kind of confidential discussion one needs to have on sensitive subjects. One of the worlds where the situation is most critical is Mestil, and the new Mestillian ambassador only arrived yesterday. That’s one problem. The other is that these diplomats haven’t been home for years and know only what their governments choose to tell them. Even if they were fully cooperative, it’s doubtful that I could learn much.”

  Master Trader Har M’Don ruffled his massive stack of white hair and asked querulously, “Then why try?”

  “Because I’m worried. Because it seems as though a disease has infected this sector of the galaxy, and a disease as virulent as this one may be contagious. Neal Wargen has organized all the available information, and he thinks the riots have a pattern.”

  M’Don smiled. “Don’t most social phenomena have patterns?”


  “Is hatred a social phenomenon?”

  “Hatred is beyond my comprehension. I don’t hate anyone or anything.”

  “At our ages, my friend, any kind of emotion is a luxury. I’m wondering if the emotion of hatred, at least, isn’t a luxury the human race can no longer afford. Humanity is extremely old, and it should have outgrown such emotions as you and I have outgrown them, but it hasn’t. There are animaloids whose capacities in many ways exceed or at least splendidly complement ours, and we should have accepted them as partners in the scheme of things before they asked. The day may come when humanity needs every partner it can find. But we didn’t accept them, and they did ask, and then they demanded, and still humanity is attempting to ignore them—except in this sector, where they’re being exterminated.”

  M’Don said doubtfully, “You’re exaggerating, aren’t you? Any decent—thinking person would have to concede that the animaloids are treated shamefully, but—equality? Could an animaloid with hoofs operate a computer?”

  “Of course—if a computer were designed to be operated by an intelligent animal with hoofs. We design them exclusively for the digital or vocal capabilities of humans, and then we call the animaloids inferior because they’re physically incapable of using them. Worse, all too often what we unjustly consider inferior, we hate. Before any species indulges in such a wasteful luxury, it ought to ask itself what might happen if the hatred were returned.”

  “There’s more than one way of looking at that,” M’Don objected. “Remember the Aamull massacre? And that business on Xeniol—come to think of it, they called that a partnership, but very few of the human partners survived.”

  Korak nodded. “Which is only to say that some animaloids are as vicious as some humans, and on both Aamull and Xeniol the animaloids received justice. Why can’t those who aren’t vicious receive justice?” He pushed himself to his feet and stepped to the edge of the balcony. “I worry about this. We humans have developed so many divergent types of our own, as we spread across the galaxy, that we should have been more tolerant of other species. But we found, among other things, beings that looked amazingly human and had a minimal intellectual capacity, and creatures with intellects at least equal to ours that were obviously, sometimes disgustingly, animal in appearance. To our eternal shame we’ve accorded the brainless humanoids more respect than the intelligent animaloids. Fifty years ago animaloids on Mestil petitioned to have the franchise based upon intelligence rather than appearance. They’re still petitioning, or they were until the Mestillians answered the petitions with mass murder. Other places, other requests, and they ask so little: The right to use public facilities on an equal basis with humans. Denied. The right to laws based on their own customs and capabilities. Denied. The right to share in the making of the laws that govern them, to share in the determination of the taxes they pay and how the money should be spent. All denied. The most serious thing of all is that our language—all human languages—lack a word. How would you describe a close friendship between a human and an animaloid?”