The Light That Never Was

by Lloyd Biggle, Jr.

  Wargen nodded. “He’s perplexed, and so am I. They occur on a vast scale, and yet they’re so trivial—a few pieces of a housewife’s laundry, a small amount of fruit from an orchard, a tool that a worker has laid aside for a moment. Nothing of value is taken, hut a tremendous number of people have been inconvenienced, and those people are angry. Fortunately we know how he’s doing it, or we think we do. We’re working up a plan to catch him.”

  “I’m glad to hear that.”

  “I’ve sent for Eritha.”

  “To ask about the swamp slug?”

  “Yes,” Wargen said. “I’d also like to know if Zrilund is hatching any more true rumors.”

  He was chagrined that he had wasted so much time by not taking the thefts seriously, and more concerned about them than he cared to admit; and the immediate cause of his worry was a report he had just received from M’Don about the world of Tworth, one of seven riot worlds concerning which he’d had no detailed information. Tworth showed a long history of bad feeling between humans and animaloids, and in this instance the animaloids seemed to have occasioned most of it—they were a thoroughly untrustworthy lot.

  What interested Wargen was that the Tworth riots had been touched off by a rash of thefts committed, or apparently committed, by animaloids.

  If thefts allegedly by animaloids could cause rioting on Tworth, could thefts allegedly by artists cause rioting on Donov? People were becoming angry, and already there had been incidents where artists were ordered out of towns and villages. The people knew that genuine artists weren’t responsible for the thefts, but when they encountered a man in artist’s clothing they had no way of knowing whether he was genuine or a fake artist ready to steal and run at the first opportunity.

  In the absence of a human-animaloid relationship to exploit, was it possible that someone was attempting to turn the people of Donov against the artists?

  Something had to be done, and quickly.

  Eritha arrived in Wargen’s office like a spritely breeze from the Zrilund chalk cliffs, jaunty in turban and cloak, making the artist costume look—almost—respectable, and she instantly spoiled the effect by saying accusingly, “What a place to send a person to learn to paint!”

  “What better place is there?” Wargen asked innocently as he escorted her to the elevator. “The works of all those masters to emulate, great traditions to inspire you—”

  “There’s more mold than greatness in Zrilund’s traditions. It’s an awful place. The townspeople are embittered beyond redemption. The tourists aren’t believable even after you’ve seen them. Most of the painters could do really good work if they wanted to, but they’d rather paint souvenirs. The only person on Zrilund who had the makings of a real artist went commercial overnight. Now he does the same painting over and over, and sells it for an appalling price, and it’s such a startlingly strange thing that any tourist who can afford it seems to think he’s getting a great bargain. It’s all my fault. I had to go and suggest that things don’t look like they are.”

  Wargen was regarding her strangely. “What do they look like?”

  But they had reached the lair, and Eritha was advancing on her grandfather. “Shame on you for blighting Donov with tourists! They’ve made Zrilund a dreadful place.”

  “There’s always the fountain,” Wargen suggested.

  “True, but I’m not going to try to paint that. It’s the one beautiful and interesting thing Zrilund has left, except for Franff.”

  “I forgot to mention that,” Wargen told Korak. “Franff has returned to Zrilund.”

  “He arrived day before yesterday,” Eritha said. “He brought an extremely old woman named Anna with him, she used to be some kind of model.”

  “Some kind of model!” the World Manager exclaimed. “You, a student of art, think Anna Lango was ‘some kind of model?’ When you leave here you’re to go directly to the Institute’s Zrilund Collection and spend the day studying paintings that Anna Lango modeled for. There are at least two dozen in the collection, and all of them are masterpieces—as was she. She was the most beautiful young woman I’ve ever seen. Franff painted her several times, and one of those paintings was a masterpiece, too, and he refused to let Donov have it because he was patriotic. He let it go to Sornor, and I heard that Sornor has burned it.”

  “Burned it!” Eritha exclaimed. “The poor fellow.”

  “In the current madness, great art painted by an animaloid gets burned. Animals can’t paint, and therefore—but to continue with Anna Lango. She’d had an unhappy love affair and swore off romance for the rest of her life. She and Franff shared a dwelling For years, and it was a social center for all the prominent artists on Donov. Then Franff went home to help his species in what he rightly predicted would be a grim struggle for survival. Does he still paint?”

  Eritha shook her head sadly. “He only just arrived, but I don’t think he’ll ever paint again. His eyes are failing, and he wouldn’t be able to hold the sprayers, he’s lost so many teeth. And his spirit is utterly shattered. One of his friends from happier days is letting him and Anna stay in a little house that has a spectacular view of the cliffs. Anna is almost blind herself, so neither of them can admire it, but they seem awfully happy in just knowing that it’s there. They’re dreadfully old and so very tired—they sit together in the sun, and she braids his mane as she used to do, and they invoke the ghosts of their departed friends with soft whispers.”

  “And Sornor is still trying to extradite him,” Korak said angrily. “Fortunately there’s no chance at all that it’ll succeed. Arbiter Garf keeps asking for more evidence, and Sornor keeps supplying it, and every bit of it is transparently fraudulent. When Garf is ready he’ll file a complete report with the Interplanetary Tribunal, after which Sornor will have grave difficulty in extraditing anyone, human or animaloid, from anywhere, or even in placing its bonds and contracts. Sornor must be aware of that danger, but it’s determined to pursue Franff until it destroys itself.”

  “We’ve taken the necessary steps to protect Franff,” Wargen said. “Aside from that, is there anything you want me to do about him—or for him?”

  “Yes. Take the new Sornorian ambassador to see him.”

  “What would that accomplish?”

  Korak gestured tiredly. “Nothing, I suppose. I thought perhaps if His Excellency could have a glimpse of that noble old artist and his friend reminiscing together he might experience a flash of insight into what life is about, but you’re right. It would only disgust him.” He turned to his granddaughter. “Do any of the Zrilund artists keep pets?”

  “Of course.”

  “What sort of pets?”

  “All sorts.”

  “Do any of them keep Zrilund swamp slugs as pets?”

  Eritha stared at him. “That sounds like a strange sort of thing to make a pet of!”

  “Ever see one?” Wargen asked.

  “A Zrilund swamp slug? I’ve never even heard of such a thing!”

  “It’s extremely rare,” Wargen said. “There may not even be such a thing. Were you serious about wanting to leave Zrilund?”

  She nodded. “Now that Todd W’iil has gone commercial, there isn’t a person on the entire island who’ll even talk about art, and no one takes a Zrilund artist seriously. Gerald Gwyll—that’s Harnasharn’s assistant—was in Zrilund recently, and he—”

  “If no one takes Zrilund artists seriously, what was Harnasharn’s man doing there?”

  “He has an old friend there, someone who runs a farm back in the island. On his way to visit his friend he did a quick turn through the oval looking at all the paintings, including mine, and he left shaking his head. If I associate with those non-artists much longer, my reputation will become blighted. Can’t I go down to Garffi for a few months? The tourists haven’t discovered Garffi, and there are real artists working there.”

  Korak turned questioningly to Wargen.

  “She’s probably right,” Wargen said. “If we want her to find out
what the artists are talking about, Zrilund’s the wrong place for her. Let her go to Garffi.”

  “Very well. But first she goes to the Institute and learns something about Anna Lango.”

  “I think I do remember her,” Eritha said. “Todd W’iil had a copy of something or other by Etesff showing a young girl in tourist costume posed against the chalk. I think the model—”

  “Something or other by Etesff!” Korak exclaimed. “Does she have a letter in her hand?”

  “Letter? I think maybe—”

  “Etesff’s ‘The Assignation!’ Something or other by Etesff, indeed. It’s one of his most famous works, and you, a student of art—”

  Eritha fled.

  Wargen said thoughtfully, “I’ll have a talk with Harnasharn about sending his assistant to Zrilund. Since there are no artists there, it makes people wonder. Gwyll probably went to investigate the tourist rumor about the swamp slug, and by the time he tracks it down, if he ever does, he’ll have started a dozen worse rumors. If we can keep Gwyll away from Zrilund, I think we can forget the slug. It’s got to be a very unsubstantial bogy if Eritha never heard of it.”

  “I agree. Tell her why you asked, though, just in case she does hear it mentioned. Right now we have another kind of bogy that’s worrying me, and this one has substance. Since you’re unable to learn anything at all about Jorno’s animaloids, I want you to call on him in your official capacity as my First Secretary. You’ll be preparing a report for the Quorum, and you’ll need complete information about the refugees. Naturally you’ll insist on seeing everything for yourself.”

  “Certainly,” Wargen agreed. “But before I go, would you mind if I took the time to catch a thief or two?”

  “Please do,” Korak said.

  Reasoning that the thief could not vanish so efficiently without an accessory in a vehicle, Wargen arranged with Demron to seal off an area completely the moment a theft was reported. After three failures, in which Demron got his men onto the scene too late, they captured a small van complete with thief, artist’s clothing, accessory, and stolen property. The two men were from the world of Rubron, which was not a riot world. They refused to answer questions, and the arbiter fined them and ordered them expelled from Donov. Wargen left for Rinoly in a vastly relaxed mood.

  Jaward Jorno himself met Wargen at the precinct capital and drove him through the bleak Rinoly countryside. This was a different Jorno from the elegantly turned out fop of Ronony Gynth’s rev. He looked thin rather than slender, and his dark face bore a darker overlay that bespoke hours in the sun. He wore work clothing and a tastefully sedate version of the tourist’s cloak.

  As he drove, he talked about his animaloids. “The meszs,” he said. “The original inhabitants of Mestil. Have you met them?”

  “Only in pictures,” Wargen said.

  “They suffer the misfortune of looking almost human. They’re highly intelligent, they’re talented in the arts, and they make brilliant scientists, mathematicians, and philosophers. They’re also competent technologists and engineers, even without training. Anyone of them can build anything. Unfortunately, they’re much too gentle and trusting to survive in this harsh universe. Until humanity arrived on Mestil their language had no words for ‘war’ or ‘fight’ or even ‘quarrel.’ They had a splendid civilization—in my opinion one vastly superior to what Mestil has now. The mesz tragedy is that they are similar enough to man to arouse his animosity and dissimilar enough so that he feels no obligation to treat them humanely. You want to know about their potential contribution to Donov, I suppose.”

  “If they have one, I’ll be very interested to hear about it, but that isn’t why I’m here. Whenever possible our World Manager solves his problems by anticipating them and taking action before they happen. Sooner or later someone will stand up in the Quorum and ask questions about these refugees of yours. Are they healthy? Do they have decent shelter and a proper diet? Are they well-treated? Is their morale good? What do they do with their time? Is there any likelihood of trouble between them and the citizens of Donov? What is the potential impact of three thousand meszs on the economy of this region, on the tourist trade, on our diplomatic relations with Mestil, and so on. When the questions are asked, we want to have the answers ready.”

  “You didn’t have to come all the way down here for that,” Jorno protested. “If you’d asked me—”

  “Excuse me, but I did have to come. When those questions are asked in the Quorum, it wouldn’t do to answer them by saying, ‘Jaward Jorno, the man who brought these animaloids to Donov, says their diet is adequate. Jorno says there is no likelihood of trouble. Jorno says—’ ”

  “You’re quite right. And you’re welcome here any time, with or without advance notice. If you think it advisable I’ll also extend an invitation to the Quorum to send a committee or come en masse.”

  “Thank you. Perhaps at the time that questions are raised, such an invitation—”

  “Whenever the World Manager thinks best.”

  They turned off before they reached the lavish old buildings of Jorno’s estate and followed the new road to the shore. Jorno halted on a rise of ground overlooking the pier. “Out there—” He pointed at the long, dim smudge of land beyond the gently swelling waves. “Mestil Island. I asked them what they wanted it named, and they wanted some remembrance of their native world, so I had the name changed officially.”

  “Do you own all of the islands?” Wargen asked.

  Jorno nodded. “Only two are large enough for development. The other is Virrab Island—up that way. It doesn’t belong to the chain, it’s a geological freak. It’s as lovely as Zrilund was before tourists and artists ruined it. Someday I may promote a resort there.”

  “How many of the meszs are staying on the mainland?”

  “None at all. These are queer times, and I want no trouble between humans and animaloids on Donov, it’s the one thing that would ruin my plans. The local people are profiting hugely from the meszs—I buy materials and supplies locally whenever possible, and it’s created a business boom in these parts—and one would think that those profiting would be the last to cause trouble, but after what I’ve seen on other worlds I’m taking no chances. The meszs will remain on their island.”

  Jorno handed Wargen into a cavernous flat-bottomed scow. It was already loaded and rode deeply in the water—the center compartment was filled with round building stone, and at either end, bags were carelessly intermixed with unmarked metal containers. Jorno said with engaging apology, “It’s not exactly a plush ride, but there’s no passenger craft available—I have no need for one—and you’ll have to ride with the freight because we’re too pressed for time to let the boat waste a trip.”

  “Three thousand mouths,” Wargen murmured, “require a lot of feeding.”

  When they stepped onto the Mestil Island pier, Jorno was instantly surrounded by meszs. Some bowed jerkily, some touched wrists with him, and some even tried, in a pathetic expression of devotion, merely to touch his garments. All greeted him with broad smiles.

  Jorno had been right—they suffered the misfortune of looking almost human. They were shorter than humans, slighter in stature, and they had long body hair on their arms but none at all on their heads. They seemed to have a profusion of fingers at the end of each arm and no hands at all. Their earless skulls were short and narrow and grotesquely elongated to a cranial capacity exceeding that of humans. Their eyes were wide set, their noses a smear of tissue with wide nostril gaps, and their mouths a repulsive, circular sucking device. Some animaloids possessed their own intrinsic beauty—Franff’s species, for example, which was also different enough from humanity to be judged on its own merits. The meszs, at the same time startlingly similar and distortedly different, revolted and repelled. They were simply hideous. Wargen found himself wondering what further absurdities were concealed by their baggy clothing.

  He followed Jorno up the gently sloping road. A short distance inland a village was taking sha
pe, with neat stone houses arranged in tight squares, eight to the square, and broad avenues of packed white stone.

  “There isn’t much to see,” Jorno said. “They’ve been working awfully hard—how they are working! The first thing they did was plant gardens, and fortunately they’re now able to have their own kinds of food. They’re strict vegetarians and very selective, and they have to liquefy everything they eat.”

  Wargen was counting the houses—there seemed very few of them for three thousand meszs—and puzzling at the odd architecture. The buildings were oval in shape, with rippled walls and elongated, vaulted roofs. “They must be rather crowded,” he observed.

  “The village is only about one-third completed.”

  “Has the population grown any since they arrived?”

  Jorno shook his head. “They’ve been restricting births for a long, long time—they didn’t want their children born into the slavery they were reduced to on Mestil. If they’re happy here, and if they think their children would be happy, they may reproduce again.” He smiled. “You can tell the Quorum that they will voluntarily stabilize their population at whatever figure this small island will support.”

  “Will they grow crops commercially?”

  “They’ll grow only their own special foodstuffs—which can’t be obtained on Donov and for which there would be no market except for themselves. They will not compete with the natives in agriculture or in anything else. It would arouse resentment, and these poor creatures have had enough trouble. There’s a businessman in Donov Metro who has filmstrips of the Mestil massacres—you’ll notice I don’t call them riots. I think you should see them.”

  “I already have. And I have one misgiving. about your project. What will the meszs do when their village is completed? This level and fertile land should be easy to cultivate. Surely a few meszs with proper equipment could take care of the entire island. What will the others do?”