“Oh, I’m listening,” Korak said.
“I came away with the feeling that I’d spent the evening suspended over an exploding catastrophe, but as long as no harm was done to anyone I’ll have to confess that I’m satisfied with the way things turned out. It’s unfortunate that Franff isn’t interested in giving art lectures, he really could make a unique contribution, but at least his first and last speaking engagement was a financial success. Lilya paid him well, and he seemed to have no qualms about keeping the whole fee even though he didn’t speak for anything like the agreed hour. He and Anna will be able to live in good style for a year, or in reasonable comfort for perhaps as long as five years.”
“Would he give an art lecture if he were hired for that specific purpose?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know how long nonors live, but he must be extremely old, and his experiences on Sornor took an inevitable toll. Artists who know him say that sometimes he’s perfectly lucid, and other times his memory fails him or he has difficulty in concentrating.”
“We might try him with an audience limited to understanding people interested in art, just to see what happens.”
“We might,” Wargen said, “but I’m satisfied to leave things as they are. He no longer has financial worries, and according to the art critic Hualt, Anna’s casual remark was worth every bit of the money Lilya paid. The paint-mixing habits of artists of Chord’s generation were considered so commonplace that no one thought to describe them for posterity. Then artists’ habits changed, and posterity was left flapping about how Chord and his contemporaries achieved their effects. Now Anna has revealed all, or at least Hualt thinks she has, he’ll know for certain after he does some experimenting. Are you listening?”
“I’m listening,” the World Manager said. “And thinking. You aren’t enthused about the chances of persuading Franff to lecture on art subjects?”
“I’m afraid not. It’d be a risky thing.”
Korak sighed. “He took out a license this morning.”
“Franff?”
“A license as a public lecturer. Did Lilya’s money corrupt him, or did he just find out that he likes talking about every life being a monument to all life?”
“He certainly enjoyed delivering his message.”
“That’s what I was afraid of.”
Three days later Bron Demron came to Wargen with a strange, incoherent report that had reached him from a small rural village sixty miles north of Donov Metro. “I’ve been in this business for forty years,” he said bewilderedly, “and I’ve never encountered anything like this. It makes no sense at all.”
It made too much sense to Wargen. He left immediately and traveled north through a prosperous agricultural region, enjoying the touch of spring that lay on the land until he remembered that the wandering artists should have been on the move and he had seen none. That afternoon he overtook a large, slow-moving cart that was enclosed in the fashion of carts used by artists and drawn by two lumbering wrranels.
Anna rode in the cart; Franff walked leisurely at her side and from time to time moved forward and seemed to commune in some silent language with the ungainly wrranels. They halted wherever they found an audience. Anna’s gentle fingers placed the microphone fabric around Franff’s throat, and he talked. Field workers pausing for a few gulps of adde froze where they stood and listened in astonishment. On the oval of a village, curious shop owners and housewives gathered about the cart.
The message was brief. Franff stated his thesis, expanded it clumsily for a few minutes, and fell silent. Then Anna would remove the microphone fabric, and the wrranels, without any spoken command, would nudge the cart forward. The reaction of the audiences varied from dumbfoundedness to frank puzzlement.
But Wargen could detect no hostility. A Donovian farmer suddenly confronted with an animaloidal apparition informing him that the bugs eating his fromt plants were his cousins reacted with bewilderment but showed no inclination to stone the speaker.
Further, most of these rural Donovians had never seen an animaloid. Obviously Franff was doing no harm and should be permitted to keep his license, and by showing the Donovians what a peaceful harmless creature an animaloid could be, he probably was contributing more than any governmental policy to the prevention of riots on Donov. In the ultimate scheme of things, the old nonor’s message might weigh as a more potent Good Work than the elaborate promotions of Jaward Jorno.
Wargen turned back, and Franff’s whispered, amplified voice drifted after him. “Life is life’s greatest gift. Guard the life of another creature as you would your own, because it is your own. On life’s scale of values, the smallest is no less precious to the creature who owns it than the largest. Every life is a monument.”
Thoughtfully Wargen drove away.
13
Only those few tourists who took their sight-seeing with fanatical seriousness got up in time for the morning boat to Zrilund. There were rarely any artists on hand to perform for them, and few townspeople about, and they could ponder the famous scenes in uninterrupted solitude until the first ferry arrived and artists and tourists met in the town oval like two converging plagues.
By that time the early tourists had worked up an appetite or at least a thirst. They circled the oval in search of a decent place to cat or drink, and most of them selected the Zrilund Town Hostel.
When the ferry left and the early tourists moved on, the hostel’s dining room was all but deserted. Arnen Brance and Gof Milfro, who had eaten a late breakfast in silence while wincing at the gay patter of the tourists, now ordered adde and settled back in the relaxed manner of old friends who meet rarely and have much to talk about.
“I hadn’t an inkling that you were in town until I looked out the window and saw your ugly face strutting past,” Milfro said. “What is going on here?”
Brance interrupted a leisurely draught of spiced adde to ask with a grin, “How would I know?”
“I came out for a visit with Franff,” Milfro said. “Franff and Anna are gone. One of the artists claims they went to a rev in Donov Metro and never came back. I think he was drunk. I think everyone in Zrilund is drunk. When was the last time the old Zrilund Theater was used?”
“I don’t remember. Years ago.”
“Last night it was packed like a swarm of gulper fish, and there were people outside who wanted to get in but couldn’t. I tried to find out what was happening, but all the artists I know are members of secret committees. They talk in conspiratorial whispers until an old friend happens by, and then they look embarrassed and say nothing at all. I didn’t even hear any gossip about you until I saw you this morning, and then my landlord told me with a perfectly straight face that you’d bought a house in town and were no longer an impoverished, web-footed kruckul farmer. I wouldn’t have believed him, but there was an irrational tone of respect in his voice when he pronounced your name, as though on some occasion within his memory you’d patronized his establishment and paid cash. Why didn’t you let me know? I could have looked you up last night and saved the price of my room.”
“I should have let you know,” Brance agreed. “It happened rather suddenly, you see, and I haven’t decided yet whether I should believe it myself.”
“Then it is true. Where’d you manage to steal enough money to buy a house?”
Brance told him.
Harnasharn’s generous advance on the paintings had been invested in Franff’s flight to freedom, every don of it, and in addition Brance and Milfro had been forced to solicit contributions and to borrow. The money Jorno had paid them for the meszs’ art lessons had gone to repay some of the loans. Brance returned to his hovel more impoverished than ever but immensely satisfied.
Then one of the slug’s paintings caught the fancy of a multimillionaire’s wife. She had remodeled her rev room, and she was searching for paintings to match the new decor. She registered a bid, raised it twice, and finally demanded to see the artist so she could negotiate a price. Harnasharn did no
t have to inquire to know Brance’s probable reaction, and he refused. Grimly the woman kept entering higher bids, and these eventually reached a figure more appropriate to a mature work of a long-deceased master than a new painting by an unknown living artist. Finally the woman stormed into Harnasharn’s office, told him curtly that she wanted this nonsense halted, and doubled her most recent offer.
Harnasharn made the damp pilgrimage to Bottom Farm. “I think she’ll raise her bid one more time,” he told Brance. “If she doesn’t, I think I could negotiate a somewhat higher price. Frankly, I wouldn’t have expected an offer like this during my lifetime—or yours. I recommend that you accept.”
“Decorating rev rooms,” Brance said scornfully, “is an appropriate activity for my talent, but the slug is an artist.”
“True, but the disgrace—if you want to call it that—is temporary. It’ll last only until the next time she remodels her rev room. Eventually her art collection will pass to an important institution, which will be delighted to receive it. Even in disgrace the slug’s painting will have excellent company. She’s also decorating her rev room with two Etesffs and a Chord, not to mention a number of artists who were highly talented but less famous. There’s no possible way for an artist to keep his paintings out of millionaires’ rev rooms. The only question to decide is whether you’ll sell now, when you can enjoy all that money, or whether you’ll die broke and let your heirs get rich placing the paintings in millionaires’ rev rooms.”
Brance decided to sell. He repaid the money Harnasharn had advanced to him, and he loaned his kruckul farm to his nearest swamp neighbor, who didn’t want it. On a small court off the Street or Artisans in Zrilund Town, he found a house that suited him. Its half dozen rooms gave him a feeling of triumphant luxury after the harsh years at Bottom Farm.
The house had a garden surrounded by a high wall, and there Brance built a stone enclosure. He brought in genuine Zrilund swamp mud in small quantities until the pen was filled, and then he put his slug in residence. Around the edges of the enclosure he planted a putrid blooming swamp plant, so that any neighbor who looked down from a distant upper-story window would direct his suspicious thoughts, if he had any, at Brance’s preferences in flowers. The nearby houses had no upper stories. As for the fetid swamp odor that inevitably accompanied a slug, its potency was blanketed, in that particular location, by emanations from adjoining gardens. All of Brance’s neighbors kept wrranels.
Brance’s tastes were simple and he wanted for nothing. He had no ambition. He was immensely happy where he was, he had ample money to last him a long lifetime, and—Rearm Hylat had a widowed daughter—he even toyed with the idea of marrying. Of all the satisfactions that money brought to him, none equaled those he experienced when he was able to extend hospitality to an old friend or carry home a keg of adde without first negotiating credit or a loan.
The few close friends Brance had in Zrilund took to referring to him as Poofz Paafz, after a celebrated character of Donovian folklore. Paafz was a cowardly little thief, filthy in person and morals, and so stupid that he was invariably caught within minutes, severely beaten, and booted into the world to steal again because no jailer would accept such a scruffy client. Then, according to the legend, a miracle occurred: Paafz was instantaneously transformed into a pillar of civic respectability and a man of substance because he managed to steal something successfully.
“Delighted to hear that, old man,” Milfro said. “Now I know where I’ll borrow my fare back to the Plai. You still haven’t told me why the mob at the theater, or what’s going on around here.”
“No one bothers to consult me about it. My neighbors know I wouldn’t care.”
“Either that, or they’re innately suspicious of men who wear beards and keep pet swamp slugs.”
Brance scowled. “My neighbors don’t know about the slug, and they won’t if my alleged friends will stop running off at the mouth in public places. As for what’s going on, here’s Hylat. Why don’t you ask him—he knows everything.” He waved a hand. “Join us, Hylat, and have an adde on the house.”
The lanky landlord drew himself a mug of adde and came to their table, his long face veneered in its usual layers of gloom.
“What was going on at the theater?” Brance asked him.
“Town meeting,” Hylat said.
Brance regarded him incredulously. “Really? An official gathering of the good citizens of this decaying community? That’s hard to believe. Years ago, when you tried to get up a town meeting about some petty crisis or other, no one came. What were they meeting about?”
“Some petty crisis or other,” Hylat said bitterly. “I didn’t go. If I have time to waste, I can find more pleasant ways of doing it.” He raised his mug, lowered it without drinking. “Do you remember the old Zrilund Merchants’ Association?”
Brance shook his head.
“Well, there was one. Had a high-sounding motto about the preservation of the island and courtesy and fair value to visitors and what not, but too many Zrilund merchants wanted to use it to keep price’s high and value negligible, They figured the tourist boom wouldn’t last anyway, and they might as well milk it while they could, Which they did, and a lot of them got rich and got out. Some of those who stayed are still trying to milk it, only now they think they have an inalienable right to every tourist who comes to Donov.”
“So why the meeting?”
“They’re considering what to do about Jorno’s new resort.”
Brance set his mug down with a thump. “What to do about it? Just how do you mean that?”
“A lot of people think Jorno aims to put Zrilund out of the tourist business. One of his assistants said publicly that Zrilund wouldn’t last a year after Jorno’s resort opened. Well, Virrab has been open for months and my business is about the same as usual—meaning that it’s bad, but at least it isn’t getting any worse.”
“If Zrilund had one thing that Virrab has, it could put Virrab out of business,” Brance said.
“What’s that?”
“A far-sighted millionaire like Jaward Jorno.”
Hylat said scornfully, “There’s enough tourist trade on Donov to keep a hundred Zrilunds and Virrabs operating at capacity, but more and more of it goes to the fun resorts, with one-day side trips to art colonies for people who want to brag about how culturally uplifting their vacations were. What we need to do is improve this place so people will want to come here for more than a wrranel cart ride and a few souvenir stops. If we do that we’ll have good business regardless of what Jorno does.”
“Is that what the meeting was about? Improving Zrilund?”
Hylat snorted. “The fools are muttering about putting Jorno out of business—getting his license revoked, getting him blacklisted by the resort associations, and what not.” He drained his mug and got to his feet. “The fools! If Jorno wanted to, he could buy this island and push it overboard. Years ago I suggested that each hostel put up a few artists without charge and give them special rates on food. We rarely have overnight guests anyway, so we could attract first-rate artists to Zrilund at no cost to anyone. No one would go along with me. Now Jorno has some of the best artists on Donov staying at his resort just because he gives them free quarters and food at cost. And these fools are holding meetings to protest about Jorno taking away the artists—who weren’t at Zrilund anyway.” He shook his head mournfully and strode away.
“Hylat is out of place on Zrilund,” Brance observed.
“An honest man among thieves,” Milfro agreed.
Brance chuckled. “I appreciate the insult, but you’re wrong. I’m Poofz Paafz.”
“Thieves or no, Hylat is a few light-years behind the times. The days are gone forever when free lodging and low-priced meals would bring serious artists to Zrilund.”
“I’m not so sure. Layout a few new ways and line them with interesting imported trees and shrubs. Put up a few buildings in strikingly different architectural styles. Make a new road along the cliff
s—there are fantastic views that only the birds can appreciate now. If there were fresh subjects to paint under Zrilund’s light, you couldn’t keep artists away. As for the tourists, Zrilund has the climate and beaches and natural beauty to be the finest resort on Donov, and what are the Zrilunders doing with that? One boat a day plus the underwater ferries, and when a tourist arrives the first thing he has to do is climb a dozen flights of steps, after which he enjoys that wonderful sea only if he can think like a bird. As for accommodations, Hylat offers the best, and what Hylat offers would be third rate anywhere else. It’s a shame.”
“I agree. All Zrilund needs is a far-sighted millionaire. Stupid townspeople and lousy artists aren’t likely to solve its problems, even if one of the artists does own a slug that—” Milfro broke off as Brance’s scowl deepened.
“I don’t like this development,” Brance said. “Zrilunders always have complained, but in the past they didn’t have anyone to blame for their troubles but themselves.”
An artist looked into the room, saw them, and called out, “You’re artists, aren’t you? Coming to the meeting tonight?”
Brance and Milfro exchanged glances. “What meeting?” Brance asked.
“Artists’ meeting. Zrilund theater. Right after the last ferry leaves. We’d like to have everyone there.”
“What’s the meeting about?”
“The new artists’ colony. Virrab Island.”
“What about it?”
“Haven’t you heard about Jorno’s restrictions? He’s spending lots of money to develop and publicize the place, and paintings of it will he popular—and profitable—and no one can work there unless he’s on Jorno’s special list.” His voice hardened. “Meszs can work there—animaloids—but we can’t. We’re going to do something about that.”
“What have you got against animaloids?” Brance asked.
The Light That Never Was Page 15