The Light That Never Was

by Lloyd Biggle, Jr.

  Milfro fixed the nearest clerk in an intense but guileless gaze. “Look, friend. I have a crate of art supplies on that Sornor liner. I have fifty artists waiting for them, and I have a hired transport waiting for me. Every minute of delay wastes fifty minutes of artists’ time and costs me money. Would you kindly effect delivery before the paints coagulate?”

  The clerk sniffed haughtily. Viewed closeup Milfro was threadbare and distinctly untidy, if not actually dirty, and whatever his status as an artist, it was certain that his contribution to the Central Tax Office was minuscule. The answer came in tones of measured coldness. “My good man, I’m sure that your shipment is being handled as efficiently as possible.” The clerk turned away.

  Milfro leaned across the narrow counter and gripped his arm. With his other hand he removed his turban. His shaven head, in juxtaposition with his thickly foliaged face, gave him an unexpectedly fierce appearance. The clerk shrank visibly.

  “On this world,” Milfro proclaimed oracularly, “the word ‘efficiently’ is used in many contexts, but in none of them does it actually mean ‘efficiently.’ Someone in this office had better understand the word the way I do, or I’m going to remove a clerk’s ears and ask them why not.” He released the clerk and pointed a finger. “Donov has always represented itself as being hospitable to artists. Are you authoring a change in world policy?”

  “Why, no, but—”

  Milfro leaned forward. “My shipment. Now!”

  The clerk gulped, took the shipment order, and departed.

  Milfro turned, briefly contemplated the vast silence that filled the lobby behind him, and then picked his way through the stunned and motionless claimants and workers. He entered the supervisor’s office, marched past the startled receptionist before he could voice a protest, marched past two blankly staring assistant supervisors, and pointed a finger impalingly at the occupant of the large desk at the rear of the room.

  “How long,” he bellowed, “must an outraged public suffer these crass insults?”

  The supervisor, a mild-looking, elderly man, timidly edged his chair backward, his eyes bulging with astonishment.

  “I have transport waiting,” Milfro continued thunderously. “Hired transport. And I must pay rent while these oafs you call customs clerks pare their nails and discuss each other’s sordid domestic entanglements. Bah! Would it please your World Quorum if we artists decided to take our persons, our purchasing power—it isn’t much for any one of us, but the aggregate must amount to a sizable sum for a slum world such as this one—the marketing of our paintings, and the tourist trade that depends on us, to some world capable of a grudging appreciation? Do you want to see Donov crumble in economic ruin because your subordinates refuse to do their work and you spend your days napping behind this desk?”

  The supervisor said stiffly, “If you have a complaint—”

  “Complaints!” Milfro roared. “Not just one. Complaints. Your clerks are guilty of stupidity, negligence, and fraud. Not to mention ignorance, incompetence, and discourtesy. Do I get my shipment while I still have enough money to pay for the transport, or don’t I?”

  The supervisor got to his feet. Milfro strode away quickly, making the man trot to keep up with him. They arrived at the clerk’s station just as that unfortunate individual rode up with the crate. He shuttled it neatly onto the dock and hopped off the carrier, and Milfro said sarcastically, “My apologies. I thought it arrived on the Sornor liner. I didn’t know you’d have to go to Sornor after it.”

  The supervisor protested, “But the Sornor liner only arrived—”

  “I came for my shipment, not a debate.” Milfro slammed down the invoice. “Tear it apart and do your dirty work. But I’m warning you—if you ding one capsule of paint or tear one piece of fabric or knock one sprayer out of adjustment—”

  The clerk circled the huge crate, broke the seal with trembling fingers, and carefully pried open the inspection panel. Milfro bent over his shoulder breathing disdainful snorts. The supervisor hovered nearby, uncertain as to why he was there and equally uncertain as to whether he should leave. His presence did not soothe the clerk’s nervousness.

  The shipment consisted of an enormous bale of art fabric with small cases of art supplies packed at one end. The clerk performed the most perfunctory of examinations and snapped the inspection panel into place.

  He stamped the invoice. “Your fee—”

  “Fee!” Milfro screamed. “The Metro Artists are a registered nonprofit association—you can’t imagine how non-profit they are!” He turned on the supervisor. “Don’t any of your clerks know the regulations? Don’t you know the regulations? For your information, article seven, paragraph four, under the heading, ‘Special Exemptions,’ explicitly states—”

  The supervisor himself, with hands trembling as violently as those of the clerk, stamped FEE WAIVED on Milfro’s invoice and handed it to him. “Sorry to have inconvenienced you,” he muttered. The panic-stricken clerk somehow managed to shuttle the crate onto a conveyor. When he finished the supervisor was waiting for him. Milfro calmly turned his back on them and violated a clearly posted regulation by riding the conveyor with his crate.

  At the call dock he intimidated a lift operator into depositing the crate gently—very gently—into his waiting transport. He climbed in beside the driver, who nodded his red beard approvingly and grinned at him. The driver touched a button, the motor hummed, and they lifted six inches and floated away.

  “How’d it go?” Arnen Brance asked.

  “Easy. A touch of luck all the way, no mislaid papers, they didn’t even have trouble finding the thing, and the clerk gave us a big assist by trying to collect a fee. The supervisor was preparing to dissect him as I left. If he’ll just stay out of his office long enough to—what are you dawdling for?”

  “This is Donov Metro,” Brance announced dryly. “A city. All traffic is patroled, and if one does not observe certain categorical and arbitrary regulations and follow traffic lanes, a referee swoops down from up yonder and asks why not.”

  “I see. Slowest is quickest.”

  “Something like that.”

  “Either way I don’t like it. The moment that pup from the Sornorian embassy decides to admit that he’s been had, it becomes a question of simple addition and not enough time. I don’t suppose the referees pay much attention to those categorical and arbitrary regulations when they pursue customs violators. Do we dare to open it?”

  Brance took a deep breath and shook his head.

  “Do you realize—”

  “Of course!” Brance snapped.

  They floated low over the short grass of the throughway, with Milfro turning from time to time for an anxious look behind them.

  “If it’s referees you’re expecting,” Brance said finally, “try looking straight up.”

  “They’ll figure we’re heading for the city. If we’d found a hangout in the opposite direction we might have gained some time.”

  “We would have found the police there waiting for us. Wild-looking artists don’t normally congregate in quiet suburbs. Those who do can expect to be spied on. Didn’t you know that Donov has a secret police?”

  “No! Donov? What would Donov want with a secret police? If it’s ever operated in my neighborhood, it’s been invisible.”

  “Of course it has. If everyone knew when it operated, it wouldn’t be secret. The likes of us aren’t safe unless we go where everyone else is at least as disreputable as we are.”

  “We also aren’t safe until we get there. There’s a bright yellow flier overhead.”

  “It’s a dirty shame, ” Brance said resignedly. “Just a little longer—”

  “Now can I open it?”

  Brance shook his head. “Even if they catch us we may be able to bluff our way out.”

  “Then let’s get moving.”

  “Not until we’re challenged. There’s a chance they won’t be able to identify us, and until they do we’ve got to be the most law
-abiding transport in Donov Metro.”

  “You’re sure the com equipment is properly bollixed?”

  “The first referee that tries to signal is going to think he needs a refresher course.”

  A light flashed; a buzzer rasped. Milfro said tensely, “It’s your show,” and climbed into the rear compartment where he began removing seals and labels. Brance shot the transport into a turning lane and an instant later settled it at street level. He turned, turned again, and they gained a residential section and followed a narrow, winding local service way. Glancing upward, he swore softly. The referee hovered above him, much lower than before.

  The light flashed; the buzzer rasped.

  Milfro shouted, “Head for the tunnel!”

  Brance shook his head. “Our only chance is to play innocent. That will—maybe—keep them uncertain about us and they just might wait long enough. The moment we try to get away, they’ll nab us.”

  “How much longer?” Milfro demanded.

  “I don’t even know where we are.”

  They were somewhere in New City, a vast, conglomeratic community of residences for the lower orders. Dreary, multistoried brick buildings lined the street, each huddled against its neighbors in neat, angular dullness. Each had its gleaming power mast and—apparently—its hoards of children, who scattered as Brance approached, mouthing shrill taunts. Milfro snarled back at them from the cargo opening.

  The street curved, and an intersection loomed directly ahead. Brance breathed a sigh of relief and humped up to a turning level. For a long moment they floated in a swarm of traffic, Brance anxiously nudging his way from lane to lane to put himself beside, or under, or over, vehicles similar enough to their transport to confuse the referee.

  And now he knew where he was. Again he humped up to a turning level and drifted under a large transport traveling the intercity altitude. He made his turn and floated clear, and instantly the light flashed, the buzzer rasped.

  “Now there’s three of the miscreants,” Milfro growled.

  “If they’ll let us have another five minutes—”

  “Do they know we’re not receiving their stop signal?”

  “Yes, but they may not know what we are receiving.”

  The flashing and buzzing continued. A yellow flier sank to the level above; Brance calmly slipped under it and matched its speed.

  Another two minutes passed. Then Milfro swore, and Brance knew without looking that he was boxed. A yellow flier settled in just ahead of him, and behind him another was locked in at the level above waiting for an opening. As the referee ahead of him turned to hand-signal, Brance abruptly shot to a lower turning level and slipped into a side street.

  For precious seconds he lost them completely. Now they had a choice between maneuvering to a turning level and following him or returning to patrol altitude and starting over again. Either would take time. He turned, turned again, hoping that none of the referees would make a lucky guess and cut him off. Milfro was purring, “Slick! Slick!” Brance silenced him and told him to keep watch.

  Now they were in Old City. In a rural setting, any of these venerable, picturesque buildings, with their steep, tiled roofs, leering gables, and gaping courtyards, would have been a charming art subject, but an entire street lined with such edifices overpowered the imagination. Brance had never heard of any artist attempting to paint it.

  They turned in at a courtyard, and as Brance maneuvered the transport’s cargo door against a building entrance, Milfro sighted a referee drifting overhead.

  He swore, and Brance shouted, “Everyone out! We have thirty seconds!”

  The courtyard quickly filled with artists. Eager hands lifted the crate onto a weight frame and rolled it away. Another, identical-looking crate was pushed into position behind the transport, and Milfro began attaching labels and seals to it.

  A yellow flier settled into the courtyard. Milfro, his task completed, strode forward protestingly. An angry argument ensued, and finally he gestured to Brance.

  “This miscreant,” he said scornfully, “claims he can make this illegal and outrageous invasion of private property on the basis of Code 21—he claims to have witnessed a violation of the law. Did you break traffic regulations on the way back?”

  “Not to my knowledge,” Brance said.

  “Why didn’t you stop on order?” the referee demanded.

  “I received no such order.”

  “Orders were transmitted repeatedly.”

  “None were received and you know that. Better go home and check your com equipment.”

  The referee was a young man, obviously uncertain of himself, and as a circle of scowling artists closed in on him, he sought to prop up his waning confidence with bluster. He said stubbornly, “I’m citing you for operating a vehicle without properly functioning communications.”

  “Just in case you aren’t aware of it,” Brance said, “regulations make the proprietor of a rented vehicle responsible for its communications. Write that citation on the transport company. All I received was a command to clear for emergency traffic, which I obeyed.”

  The referee pocketed his citation.

  “What violation did you witness?” Brance demanded.

  “You were ordered to stop repeatedly.”

  “No such order was received, and you had no business transmitting one without a violation. What was it?”

  “Smuggling.”

  Brance said incredulously, “You’re claiming to have witnessed an act of smuggling?”

  “On the basis of information received—”

  “You’re violating the law, fellow. You’ve landed that crate illegally on private property. Bust off, or we’ll have you at the Hall of Justice in the morning.”

  “You picked up a customs package on the basis of a false declaration,” the referee persisted.

  “Let’s see your writ.”

  “One is on the way.”

  “Glad to hear that—I’ve always wanted to see one,” Brance said with a grin. “Now tell me what law lets you camp on private property because there is, you think, a writ somewhere else.”

  “I’m guarding that shipment until the writ arrives,” the referee said stubbornly. Brance turned to Milfro. “He’s made his accusation before a dozen witnesses. Take his identification and send someone to the district arbiter to file a complaint. In the meantime, we’re going to have to open that crate, or some of the boys will miss their Port Ornal connections. If there’s anything wrong with the shipment, I’d like to know about it myself. Why don’t we let him check the invoice as we unpack—under protest, of course. If he finds anything that isn’t listed he can have it.”

  Milfro turned to the referee. “Is that satisfactory?”

  The referee nodded.

  Milfro chased a messenger off to the arbiter’s office, and then he led the referee to the substitute crate and opened the inspection panel. “Here, you lazy oafs, come and help out!” he called. “His honor will check the invoice, and when we’ve finished he’ll ofter to eat it. This box—” He lifted a carton through the panel. “This box is supposed to contain a gross of paint sprayers, sixteen-head size, medium-pressure capacity.”

  The referee ran a finger down the invoice. “Paint sprayers, sixteen-head size, medium-pressure capacity,” he acknowledged. Milfro opened the carton and began to count.

  Brance quietly edged away.

  He moved along a hallway, took a quick look behind him to make certain that he hadn’t been followed, entered a room, looked behind him again, and then pushed aside a wall panel.

  He stepped through, and the panel swung shut behind him. In the center of a small, windowless room stood the crate from customs. It had been opened with frantic haste, the sides ripped away, the delicate paint containers and sprayers kicked aside, the bale of fabric slit open.

  It was hollow. In the center an animal huddled—seated, after a fashion, on an oxygen tank, its forelegs extended stiffly, its eyes closed, its ears drooping lifelessly, i
ts lustrous fur ruffled and matted. The oxygen mask hung limply over its frothing snout.

  “Dead?” Brance demanded hoarsely.

  The eyes opened. The creature shook the mask off, took a great, shuddering breath. Its ears jerked, it lurched forward onto its four hoofs and struggled upright. The long neck slowly uncoiled. A husky, whispering, blurred voice asked, “Whose funeral is this? Not mine, I hope.”

  Brance flung himself forward and embraced the long, silken neck. “Franff!” he sobbed.

  6

  Ian Korak assumed the management of a world that had no capital city. The meeting place of the World Quorum shifted according to legislative whim or political manipulation. Shifted along with it were files containing twenty-four expensive surveys of sites that urban engineers had recommended for a world capital, minutes of twenty-four lengthy hearings during which politicians had rejected the sites proposed by the engineers, thirty-seven legislative reports advocating other sites, and thirty-seven expensive engineering surveys proving that any of these would be a disastrous choice.

  “Gentlemen,” Korak told the Quorum, “the engineers are searching for an ideal location. Donov doesn’t have one. You politicians are searching for a location that will please everyone. Donov doesn’t have one of those, either. Let me make the choice. It won’t be ideal, and it won’t please everyone, but at least other worlds will stop referring to Donov as a world where the Quorum stands because there is no seat or government.”

  The Quorum incautiously gave him the authority that he wanted. lie selected and acquired the site for a capital city, and the engineers and politicians immediately stopped arguing among themselves and began raging at Ian Korak, Predictably, the Quorum attempted to veto the choice by withholding funds.

  Korak thought the site delightful. There was a broad river with a vast sweep of rolling plain on one side and encroaching, steep hills on the other. There was a deep bay and stretches of contrasting seashore. There was even a freakish little desert in one of the converging valleys. Korak prevented its being irrigated out of existence, and eventually it found owners who liked it the way it was.