The Light That Never Was

by Lloyd Biggle, Jr.

  “Anna’s showing her age, too,” Milfro said.

  “Is the fountain showing its age?” Franff whispered.

  “No, the fountain hasn’t changed, except that it’s hard to see it for fake artists and tourists.”

  “I would like to try to see it. I was the only artist who never painted it—I loved it too much. And I would like to see Anna. I painted her when she was young—did you know that? One of the paintings hung in the Sornorian National Gallery until someone decided that paintings by animaloids are not art. Anna the good. Anna the beautiful. Anna the bright and wonderful.”

  “She’s an old woman, Franff,” Milfro said. “Better you should remember her the way she was in that painting.”

  “Nonsense,” Franff whispered. “I knew her for thirty years. Age does not corrupt the spirit, and Anna was as good and beautiful at fifty as she was at twenty. I will see her if I can and thank her for my memories.”

  “If we don’t find an attorney, you may be on your way back to Sornor on today’s ship. What is holding up those dunces?”

  “What’s that tourist doing?” Milfro asked.

  “Resting his feet,” Brance said. “Halls of Justice are the only places in Donov Metro where tourists can sit down. What if we can’t get an attorney?”

  “I suppose the arbiter will give us a list of available hacks, but in that case we’d be better off without one.”

  An artist hurried in. They jumped lip to greet him, and he raised his hands forlornly and announced that they’d already been turned down by half the attorneys in Donov Metro. Wargen was wondering how much longer he could safely feign a napping tourist when a familiar figure entered the room and strode scornfully past the guards: Jaward Jorno.

  He paused, bowed deeply, and introduced himself. “I happened to overhear some friends of yours discussing your problem. Perhaps I can help you.”

  Brance regarded him suspiciously. “I’ve never heard anyone discussing you. Who are you?”

  Jorno said good-naturedly, “Listen. The idea of even one nonor escaping the Sornor carnage is offensive to certain interplanetary interests, and those interests have power and money and frequently hire attorneys. Even on Donov they frequently hire attorneys. No attorney who thinks he has a chance at any of that money, now or in the future, will consent to represent you. I also have money and such power as money brings me, and I frequently hire attorneys. I’ve sent for one, and he’ll come as soon as he’s able and do what he can for you—not from humanitarian impulses, but because he’s collected large sums from me in the past and has every expectation of continuing to do so. While we’re waiting, I’d like to hear more about your problem. I devoted much of my youth to the study of law—my father was determined to make an attorney of me, and it’s the only one of his Fancies that I no longer resent. Knowledge of the law has unexpected uses and applications throughout one’s life.”

  “How do we know you’re not a police spy?” Brance demanded.

  “Why would they bother?” Milfro asked. “They have their case, and they already know what our problem is.”

  “There’s a lot they don’t know.”

  “We don’t have to tell him that. If we try to handle this ourselves, Franff is certain to be sent back to Sornor and you know what’ll happen to him there. Mr. Jorno has offered to help us, and we can’t afford to turn down anybody’s help. We’ll have to trust him.”

  “Yes. Well—” Brance was still eyeing Jorno suspiciously. “We’ll have to trust you, but we won’t trust you more than we have to. You know about the rioting on Sornor. We had to get Franff off—the Sornorian government announced that he was dead, but it went right on looking for him, and if it’d found him he would have been dead a moment later and never seen again. We have friends there, never mind whom, and we made arrangements, never mind how. We got him off, and we got him through the port here, and we would have got away with it cleanly if it hadn’t been for those dratted Sornorians from the embassy. I don’t know how they got wind of it, but they kept a watch on us, and after dark last night they tried to break in and grab Franff. They didn’t find him, but they raised such a ruckus they brought the police down on us, and the police arrested Franff and all of us, and here we are.”

  “What did you plan to do with Franff?” Jorno asked.

  “Does that matter?” Brance asked politely.

  “It might matter a great deal. I’m looking for something to build a case on. Can we claim that he’s an innocent tourist who’s mislaid his papers, or do we present him as a fugitive from injustice, knowing full well that the Sornorians will have forged a damning case against him, or could he be a well-intentioned immigrant who didn’t know the proper procedures, or what is he?”

  “We had so many problems in getting him here that we didn’t make plans beyond that.”

  “No plans at all? How many other nonors are there on Donov?”

  “As far as I know, none.”

  “That makes him rather conspicuous—the only one of his kind on an entire world. Did you think no one would notice?”

  “Look,” Brance said hotly. “The urgent thing was to get him off Sornor. On Donov he’s been arrested, but he’s still alive and he’ll have a hearing. That’s a substantial improvement over Sornor. As for what we planned to do with him, he’s an artist. All of us are artists or ex-artists. We got him his permit, which is the usual procedure, and we thought he could—well—make like an artist.”

  “How many animaloid artists are there on Donov right now?”

  “Except for Franff, none.”

  “I suppose you assumed that if he worked energetically enough making like an artist, no one would notice that he’s a nonor. What kind of permit?”

  “Just a permit. Every alien artist has one. It’s only a formality, or so the Donovian government has always maintained. Donov welcomes artists.”

  “I never thought about it, but I suppose it must. It has so many of them. May I see the permit?”

  Brance handed it over, and Jorno studied it silently, his dark, intense face twisted by a faint scowl. “This,” he announced finally, “gives Franff permission to remain on Donov for a period of three years while engaged in the study or practice or art, renewable on application subject to provisions of Code 129. What code is that?”

  “One that says artists have to behave themselves and not become public charges. I’ve heard that Donov can require an artist to furnish bond as a guarantee that he has sufficient money for living expenses and his return passage, but I’ve never heard of it being done. The Artists’ Council assumes responsibility for indigent artists.”

  Jorno tapped the paper with one finger. “How’d you get this?”

  “By asking for it.”

  “Franff didn’t have to apply in person?”

  “No. I’m listed as his sponsor, you see. The artist can apply himself, but the government prefers that application be made by an artist already in residence, or by a citizen of Donov—someone who agrees to assume responsibility for the newcomer.”

  “I had no notion that the regulations were so lenient. Did you show this permit to the police?”

  “We haven’t had a chance.”

  Jorno tapped the paper again. “Franff is on Donov legally. This is his permission to be here. You openly applied for this and received it prior to his arrival. Therefore you are accused of crimes that never happened—there was no conspiracy and no illegal entry.”

  “That s nice to know, ” Brance said, “but it doesn’t help us with our worst problem. Sornor has charged Franff with being a fugitive from justice. If Sornor’s application for extradition is successful, it won’t matter whether Franff is here legally or not. He’ll be sent back.”

  “Do you have a statement of charges?”

  Brance produced another paper. “It’s quite a statement. If we knew how, we could prove that none of these things happened. If they did happen, we could prove it was while Franff was in hiding after the government announced hi
s death or while he was in space on the way here—if we knew how.”

  Jorno glanced at the paper and whistled softly. “Was Franff the leader of the animaloids on Sornor?”

  “No. The nonors didn’t have a leader, because it wasn’t an uprising. It was simply a case of an entire population of animaloids running for its life and only too often unsuccessfully.”

  Jorno said impatiently, “I know. I know better than you realize.”

  “The Sornorians don’t want any witnesses at large telling other worlds what they’ve done, and especially they don’t want Franff at large because he has a certain fame as an artist and for that reason people might pay attention to him.”

  “Listen,” Jorno said. “You may not be aware that extradition is an extremely serious matter. When a government files such a request, it places its full integrity behind the charges, and the request is either without fault or it’s worthless. This request is worthless. I think we won’t wait for my attorney. I can settle the Donovian charges myself in two minutes. The extradition proceedings will probably drag on for months, but there’s no chance at all that Franff will be extradited. All we’ll do today is ask for time to prepare a reply. I’ll get all of you released, and then I’d like to ask a favor.”

  “If it’s anything we can possibly do, we’ll do it,” Brance said fervently.

  “I think it is. I’d like to hire some artists.”

  Milfro laughed heartily. “If you offer an artist money, he doesn’t consider that he’s doing you a favor. What do you want painted?”

  “Nothing,” Jorno said, “I want some art lessons.

  “Have you studied my report?” Neal Wargen asked the World Manager.

  Ian Korak nodded. “I’ve listened to it twice. We’d already requested the recall of the entire embassy staff.”

  “What about the transparently false extradition charges? Among other things, Franff is accused of complicity in the murder of more than twenty humans, and official government releases as well as the reports of all alien observers stress that no humans were killed on Sornor. It’s doubtful that any were even injured.”

  “Arbiter Garf is no fool. He’ll investigate the charges thoroughly, and Franff is free to remain here while he’s investigating. If Sornor is wise it’ll withdraw the request. It might have made a case with just one charge, but the ambassador stupidly thought the more iniquity the better. It’s in the arbiter’s hands, though, and as far as we’re concerned the case is closed. What did you want to see me about?”

  “Jaward Jorno.”

  “His appearance as Franff’s attorney? Another of his Good Works, I suppose.”

  “He just left Donov Metro with either thirty-seven or thirty-nine artists. The two men I had scanning him counted differently.”

  “Is that supposed to be interesting?”

  “I find it fascinating.”

  “Your report mentions his interest in hiring artists. That isn’t an uncommon thing on Donov, you know. I’ve had occasion to hire artists myself.”

  “These particular artists are no longer on Donov,” Wargen said. “They left today on Jorno’s space yacht. Let me change the question. Do you remember Jorno mentioning a battered old ship containing three hundred animaloid refugees from Mestil?”

  “Certainly. That was why he came to see me. It was in orbit somewhere—Tymoff, wasn’t it?—and not permitted to land.”

  “I just thought you’d like to know that those refugees are coming to Donov.”

  Korak smiled. “Indeed. To go into orbit?”

  “No, sir. To land. They’ll have proper clearance from all relevant authorities.”

  “There’s no possible way they could obtain it.”

  “Ah, but there is. Have you read Code 129 lately?”

  Korak was silent for a full minute. Finally he asked, “Three hundred animaloids claiming that they’re artists? Surely no port or customs or immigration official would swallow that!”

  “They’ll swallow it because it’ll be true. These animaloids will of course not claim to be good artists, but if we amend Code 129 so as to make it applicable only to good artists, we’ll lose nine-tenths or our artist population and that’ll include a lot of bad artists who’ll later become good. The other tenth would probably leave too, in protest. The point I’m trying to make is this. These thirty-seven or thirty-nine artists aren’t going to paint anything for Jorno, and they aren’t going to instruct him. They’re going to teach three hundred animaloids how to paint. As soon as they have done so, at least adequately enough so that the animaloids can handle sprayers without dropping them and produce paintings that are recognizable as such even if deplorably bad, that ship will land on Donov.”

  “You say the artists have already left?”

  “They left today,” Wargen said. “Were you thinking of stopping them?”

  “Of course not. I was wondering how much time we have. I’ll speak with Immigration in the morning. If need be, I’ll ask the Quorum to devise special legislation. I’d like to wind up this diplomatic crisis with Sornor before I commence one with Mestil.”

  “It’s too late to do anything at all about these particular animaloids. Before Jorno left he took out three hundred three-year artist permits.”

  Some days later the animaloids arrived—not one ship, but ten; and not three hundred, but three thousand. Jaward Jorno had cannily taken out artist permits for the entire three thousand, three hundred in Donov Metro and the remainder a few at a time from every tax office on Donov.

  8

  Harnasharn’s anonymous paintings remained on display for the scheduled month, attracting an increasing amount of attention and even cautious critical approval, and then Harnasharn quietly moved them to his permanent exhibit. There had been no hint of a rumor as to the artist’s identity, but Wargen remained concerned.

  He decided to send Eritha Korak to Zrilund. Harnasharn’s assistant had made an inexplicable visit there shortly before Harnasharn had posted his anonymous exhibit, and Wargen drew the inevitable conclusion, even though a discreet investigation turned up no trace of an animaloid artist on Zrilund.

  He didn’t mention the paintings to Eritha because there was no need for her to track down their source—Harnasharn would tell them that if they asked. Wargen’s concern was that there might be an undercurrent of talk that could result in dangerous rumors. He also wanted to know if Donov’s artists had anything else on their minds that might properly be the concern of the government, and for that Zrilund was as good a place to start as any.

  He saw Eritha off to Zrilund, telling her only that he wanted regular reports on what the artists were talking about. Then he gave himself the luxury of an entire morning devoted to meditating the paradoxes of coincidence that he found in M’Don’s riot reports.

  There was the utterly commonplace world of Cuque. Not even its own scientists had evidenced much interest in the fact that at irregular intervals, and for unknown reasons, an alga of its tropical oceans proliferated monstrously. Neither was it thought unusual that during its period of uncontrolled growth the alga became poisonous. Such outbursts had been occurring throughout man’s long history on Cuque without occasioning reaction other than mild expressions of scientific curiosity.

  The coincidence arose from the fact that the most recent outburst came immediately after the world’s animaloids, the llorms, had their fishing rights curtailed. The alga was a staple food of many minute forms of sea life, and whenever it became poisonous those life forms died, and so did predators and scavengers that fed on them in a chain of death that littered the seas with corpses. Thus it had always happened, but this time Cuque was swept with rumors that the llorms had poisoned the ocean to retaliate for their loss of fishing rights. Before the authorities were aware of what was happening, the world was torn by rioting.

  There was a second coincidence. The riots occurred almost precisely when that spiraling galactic wind of hatred would have touched Cuque. The Cuque riots happened in exact sequen
ce with those of twenty-three other worlds.

  Wargen pushed the Cuque file aside and took up that of Franff’s world of Sornor. A fungus occasionally damaged native grasses. This year it suddenly raged out of control and laid waste to vast tracts of choice grassland. By coincidence the nonors, a grazing animaloid, had just petitioned unsuccessfully for an extension of their reservation pasturage. The populace instantly assumed that the nonors were poisoning the grazing land that had been denied to them. By further coincidence, the resulting riots occurred in sequence with those of twenty-three other worlds.

  The apparent cause of rioting on each world was an accident or a natural phenomenon that had happened frequently in the past. By coincidence this most recent occurrence came immediately after a dispute or altercation between humans and animaloids, which as usual the animaloids had lost. Incredibly, the humans blamed the animaloids and attempted to destroy them.

  Wargen could have accepted such a coincidence on one world, or perhaps several. There were twenty-four.

  The outbreaks of rioting could be charted on a star map as a time sequence.

  Shaking his head he leafed through the other files. On the world of Bbrona, where most buildings were of wood, there had been an outbreak of fires. Such had happened often enough before, such would continue to happen as long as Bbrona’s buildings were constructed of flammable materials. This one occurred immediately after a human-animaloid confrontation, and the humans called it arson.

  And rioted. Precisely on schedule.

  On Proplif, where a certain insect sporadically destroyed grain crops, it had done so again and the animaloids were blamed.

  On K-Dwlla…

  On Pfordaan…

  On Laffitraum…

  On twenty-four worlds: A confrontation, followed by some form of familiar local affliction, followed by rioting. That series of events could not have occurred in sequence on twenty-four worlds without planning, and planning required that such natural phenomena as the proliferation of an alga or a grass fungus happen on schedule, which was impossible.