Читать книгу The World Menders - Lloyd Biggle jr. - Страница 7

CHAPTER 4

Occasionally Liano Kurne could be found performing routine tasks in the records section. The morning after Farrari’s shattering experience with the teloid cubes she was methodically snapping his dictation capsules into the transcriber, and each time she leaned over the machine her face and arms passed through its guide light. A complex network of scars flashed into view and just as abruptly disappeared.

Farrari caught his breath and involuntarily took a step backward. He thought instantly of the durrl’s whistling scourge and the ribbons of flesh ripped from the helpless slave. Had Liano Kurne endured that?

Her husband had been killed; she had perhaps received a Branoff IV dozen of lashes just for being present. Now she worked patiently at simple tasks whenever she was able, withdrawn, strange in her moods, given to long periods of irrational, staring silence, and everyone was very kind to her.

Farrari shuddered.

Liano saw the movement and straightened up to regard him curiously. His mind was, fumbling for a response to her unspoken question when Strunk’s sudden entry diverted her attention.

“I have something for you,” he said to Farrari.

He fed a teloid cube into a projector, and Farrari found himself gazing at the Life Temple of the kru, with the massive Tower-of-a-Thousand-Eyes rising above it. He had studied the building from every angle and knew its exterior better than that of any other edifice in this land of Scorvif. The temple’s walls were so covered with relief carvings that it was virtually a picture book of art and history.

Now it stood transformed with a white drapery overhanging its entire façade, and on the drapery were painted an amazing complex of scenes: battles, hunts, ceremonials, all dominated by the larger-than-life figure of the kru.

Farrari took a second look and corrected himself sternly. Not painted—screened. “It’s wonderful!” he breathed. “But—what is it?”

“Our people in Scorv think some kind of special ceremony is in the offing,” Strunk said.

“But they don’t really know?”

Strunk shook his head. “Probably our most acute problem here is that we know so little about the doings of the aristocracy.”

“It’s a pictorial biography!” Farrari exclaimed. “The execution is magnificent. You can actually see the kru getting older. Here’s his celebrated victory over the outlanders.”

Strunk snorted. “His army chased a few ragged nomads from the south pass. Outnumbered them thirty to one and the kru was at one of the summer palaces when it happened.”

“It was the kru’s victory, though. This scene must represent an unusually bountiful harvest. They credit the kru with that, too, but I suppose they blame the years of famine on the olz. Would you make me a copy of this?”

“I already have. Take it with you.” Strunk reached for the projector’s switch.

“Wait!” Farrari exclaimed. “Look at the last picture—the one in the bottom row!”

“What about it?”

“The sequence breaks off in mid-row, and the final scene doesn’t have the kru in it!”

“So it doesn’t.” Strunk shrugged. “So?”

Farrari leaped for the doorway. “Heber!” he shouted.

Continuing to shout, he ran toward Clough’s workroom. By the time Clough heard him and came shuffling to meet him, it seemed that half the base staff had gathered in doorways to see what the disturbance was about. Farrari ignored the questions called to him and urged Clough into a stumbling trot.

“What is it?” Clough panted, as the two of them hurried into the records section.

Farrari took a deep breath. “The kru is dead!”

“Dead?” Clough raised his hands bewilderedly. “How do you know?”

Farrari pointed. Clough stared uncomprehendingly for a moment, and then his head bobbed excitedly. “Of course. It’s a common symbolism. The Vacant Throne, the Riderless Steed—in this case, the Missing God. The priests are at worship, but the God’s living presence has been taken from them. Cedd, we can stop guessing about the succession. We’ll soon know!”

The alarm buzzer emitted a thunderous rasp. At the same instant

Strunk’s voice boomed from the intercom. “Full staff—records section. Full staff—records section.”

“What’s up?” Farrari demanded.

“What’s up?” Clough echoed, beaming at him. “The kru is dead. It’ll be the first succession we’ve had an opportunity to observe. We’ve waited a long time for this—a mighty long time! Why, the study teams have been posted and briefed for years. This is quite a coup for you, young man. If you hadn’t spotted that, we might have missed our chance.”

Farrari turned to see a wave of the base’s high brass charging through the door, Coordinator Paul in the lead. He muttered, “And I’d better be right.”

A short time later he found himself sharing a dais with the teloid projection and lecturing about the drapery that he himself had first seen only twenty minutes before. His audience seemed skeptical despite Heber Clough’s angry shouting about the Vacant Throne, the Riderless Steed, and the Missing God, and peppered Farrari with questions. He kept his temper in check with difficulty. He was eager to begin his own analysis of the entire work, and instead he had to waste his time explaining the significance of what was, artistically, the least interesting picture of the group. Of all of the scenes, only the last had been produced with an absolute minimum of skill.

Then Jan Prochnow mounted the dais and peered searchingly into the projection. “I agree,” he announced. “It’s perfectly obvious. I can recall a number of similar instances. The kru will be conveyed to his eternal resting place behind whichever of the tower eyes he’s selected, his subjects will eulogize the glorious events of his reign as depicted here, and then—this is only a guess, mind you—this drapery will be replaced with a blank one signifying the coming reign of the new kru, who will of course record his own glorious deeds.”

“You have your assignments,” Coordinator Paul said. “Let’s go to work.”

Farrari claimed his teloid cube and slipped out of a side exit before a converging wave of well-intentioned staff members could overwhelm him with congratulations. He returned to his workroom and eagerly snapped the cube into his own projector.

Unhesitatingly he pronounced the tapestry a masterpiece—if tapestry it was, he could think of no better word for it. The pictures had been screened onto the finished cloth, and their outlines were fuzzy where dyes had run together. They were obviously the work of many hands, and a careful appraisal convinced Farrari that the kru’s long reign had outlasted at least three generations of artists.

The craftsmanship was excellent, the vivid colors breathtaking, the composition masterful. He puzzled long over the fact that the same culture that produced these exquisite, long-lasting dyes was so inept at paint making. The most recently retouched painting paled beside this tapestry.

He spent most of the day scrutinizing the scenes, and when finally he reached the bottom, dismissed the crudely fashioned final scene with a shrug, and sat back exhausted to switch off the projector, he realized with a sudden twitch of conscience that once again he had forgotten the people. The essential ingredient of all these brilliant pictures was the blood of the olz, who were nowhere represented. None of the three hundred and seventeen scenes portrayed a single ol.

He turned on the projector again, intending to dictate his impressions of the tapestry, but his eyes kept wandering to the triangular-leafed zrilm shrubs, or to the branch of zrilm one official— a durrl?—carried in a protective holster strapped to the flank of the gril he was riding, or to the tall hedges of zrilm that frequently appeared in the background. Were the artists satirically including the olz by proxy through the symbol of their subservience? He thought not. Zrilm was a common shrub, and the artists drew what they saw.

They drew what they saw, but they did not see the olz.

Farrari abandoned the projection. He paced his workroom briefly and then looked into the deserted corridor, realizing with a start that it had been hours since anyone had passed his doorway. Everyone else was furiously occupied. The kru’s death was probably the most significant event that had occurred since IPR had arrived on Branoff IV, and the staff would ponder it and project it and perhaps even make it the basis of a future planning that might cut short those horrendous two thousand years. To Cultural Survey AT/I Cedd Farrari, the only member of the staff without a special assignment, it meant only one more work of art to evaluate and classify.

He went to his sleeping room, sprawled on his couch, opened the IPR Field Manual. As he flipped past the capitalized truisms, his mind began to formulate arguments against them. REVOLUTION IS A CONCENTRATED EXCESS OF EVOLUTION? Not to Cedd Farrari. Evolution connotated a prolonged and inevitable natural process; revolution a violent surge of emotion. He suspected that too many of the Bureau’s sacrosanct slogans were based more upon a contrived association of words than a distillation of ideas.

FUNDAMENTAL TO ANY DEMOCRACY IS THE PEOPLE’S RIGHT TO BE WRONG? Perhaps no democracy had survived the abolishment of that principle, but neither could a democracy survive if its people erred consistently.

He was beginning to hate those blocks of leering capitals. What could this presumed wisdom mean to a people doomed to two thousand years of misery? Even that figure was only a Bureau estimate, a guess, and Farrari’s private hunch was that far too many of the Bureau’s guesses were proving overly optimistic. Otherwise its Supreme Headquarters would not have snatched so eagerly at the possibility of Cultural Survey miracles.

He slammed the manual to the floor and went for a walk. Many of the workrooms were empty, but the crowded conference rooms reverberated with talk and argument. Farrari strode past them scowling. He circled back toward his own rooms and saw Jan Prochnow still seated by the dais in the dining room. He had obtained another teloid of the tapestry, and he was staring into the projection, head tilted back, eyes narrowed, lips pursed in fierce concentration.

Farrari paused. “Is there any significance to the fact that this tapestry is covering the large relief of the kru above the main entrance?” he called.

Prochnow started, scowled resentfully at Farrari, and then turned to study the projection. “It may be the handiest place to hang the thing,” he said. “On the other hand, that relief is the one our agents call the ‘moving picture’ because it’s changed periodically. Mmm— interesting question.”

“The kru’s most recent portrait is always on display there,” Farrari persisted. “What’s the chance that they took it down when the kru died, and the tapestry is covering the blank space until his successor is crowned?”

“Interesting thought,” Prochnow mused. He scrambled to his feet. “I’ll see what I can find out.”

Farrari looked in on Heber Clough and found him poised intently over a genealogical chart. Farrari said accusingly, “Don’t tell me you’re still trying to guess the next kru!”

Clough regarded him irritably.

“Why don’t you just relax and wait a day or two?” Farrari asked. “For that matter, why all the conferences? Why not just observe and then compare notes afterward?”

“A succession of power is the most critical operation in any government,” Clough said. “Some manage the change easily, some always become embroiled in revolution or power struggle, and with others it’s unpredictable. We have to plan our observations carefully, so as not to overlook anything, because it’s often the best time to bring about a change of direction. In some societies it’s the only time. Now go away and let me work. The kru had nineteen sons, but we don’t know how many are still living or who the survivors might be. It’s a pretty problem—a pretty problem.”

Farrari departed disgustedly, had his dinner in his quarters, and went to bed. He was a long time falling asleep, but he awoke suddenly with a firm hand shaking him. Against the subdued ceiling glow he made out the shadowy figure of a man bent over him. Peter Jorrul’s voice said, “I’m taking you to Scorv. How much time do you need to get your kit together?”

Farrari sat up and muttered sleepily, “What’s that?”

“Get ready as quickly as you can. We’re waiting for you—meet me at the hangar.” He hurried away.

Farrari splashed water into his face and shook himself awake. He doubted that he’d heard Jorrul correctly, but he pulled on clothing and hurried to the hangar.

Workmen were packing supplies onto a large flying platform. Jorrul stood nearby, talking with Isa Graan. He wore native dress similar to what he’d worn on the night of Farrari’s arrival, and he carried a heavy cloak over his arm.

He glanced at Farrari and scowled. “Where’s your kit?”

“Kit?” Farrari echoed bewilderedly.

“Equipment. Tools. Whatever CS people work with.”

Graan chuckled. “He carries all of it in his head. CS people don’t work with things. They work on things.”

Jorrul stalked away. Graan said, “You’re the first specialist he’s ever taken into the field who didn’t insist on lugging half the base with him.” He studied Farrari critically. “You’ll need a cloak.”

“He didn’t tell me how long I’ll be gone. Should I take a change of clothing?”

Graan shook his head. “They’ll give you a complete outfit when you arrive. Native dress, whatever they want you to wear. But if you don’t dress warmly on that platform, you’ll freeze.” He went to a supply room and returned with a padded cloak for Farrari. As an afterthought he tossed him a blanket.

Twenty minutes later Farrari was glad to have both. Graan had installed a weather shield, but even with that protection the high mountain valleys were bitterly cold. They soared between lofty, snow-covered peaks, Jorrul handling the controls intently and Farrari huddling on a crate and pondering the power of this man. The night of Farrari’s arrival he had restricted him to base. Permanently.

Now, with a crook of his finger, he had transferred Farrari to the field team. The coordinator must have known and approved, but the procedure still seemed alarmingly informal if not irregular. Farrari didn’t object to the informality, but he resented the fact that no one had bothered to tell him what it was he was expected to do.

Jorrul turned and raised his infravisor. “Know your Scorvif geography?”

“Vaguely,” Farrari answered.

Jorrul lowered the visor with a snort of disgust. Chagrined, Farrari began to search his memory. The land of Scorvif lay amid its mountain surroundings like an elongated, six-fingered hand. At the high altitude of the fingertips the summers were cool, the winters snow-choked and frigid; but the elevation fell sharply, and through most of their lengths the broad finger valleys enjoyed mild summers and suffered cool, wet winters. The palm, being at the lowest level and nearest the equator, had mild winters and uncomfortably hot summers. Each finger funneled its streams into the land’s one river that snaked across the palm, looping around the flat hill upon which stood Scorv, the land’s only large city. In the spring the river was a thundering torrent that overflowed its banks and frequently gouged out a new course for itself. Sometimes it passed to the east of Scorv, sometimes to the west, and in especially wet springs the city stood on an island. At the land’s southern boundaries the mountains closed in on the river, narrowing and deepening it and finally tumbling it through a series of impassable cascades into a granite-lined crevass.

That much Farrari knew, but as he squinted at the dim, snow-covered slopes he was humiliated to find that he had no idea where he was. The best route for a lumbering supply platform would not be the shortest, but the one that got the platform to its destination with the least possible chance of detection. To reach the city of Scorv they would circle to the north and approach the lilorr, the palm-plain, by way of one of the mountain chains that separated the finger valleys. They would spend the day at a shelter and finally arrive at Scorv in the deepest darkness of the second night. A platform flight on a straight line from base to Scorv would arrive at dawn, and IPR could not risk startling an early rising native with the sight of a strange object in the sky. If it left early enough to arrive in darkness, it would be aloft over the mountains before dark, and nomads sometimes hunted in the mountain valleys.

As Graan had once remarked, IPR proceeded cautiously in even its smallest endeavors.

As daylight touched the highest mountain peaks the platform dipped downward, slowed its pace, and nosed along a shallow valley. Farrari thought he could hear the tinkling murmur of a leaping mountain stream. At the end of the valley they drifted against the sheer face of a high cliff, and a cave opened soundlessly before them. The opening closed after them, and lights came on as the platform settled gently to the floor. Jorrul pulled off his visor and gestured wearily at the row of bunks along one wall.

“Better get some sleep,” he said. “And enjoy it. Going into the field this is the last place, and returning it’s the first place, where a field agent can sleep with both eyes closed.”

He tossed a package of rations to Farrari and took one for himself, but before eating he went to the imposing bank of communications equipment in the corner. He first reported their safe arrival to base, and then he began to replay the reports that had accumulated. Munching his rations, Farrari reflected that this kind of officer simply did not occur in the Cultural Survey.

There was a disturbing grimness of purpose about him, as though he expected the worst of any situation and was usually right. His body was slender, his legs almost spindly, and his arms incongruously thick and muscular. It was probably small consolation to his subordinates that he would never order them to do something he would not do himself. There would be very few things that Peter Jorrul could not do himself.

Farrari had heard that he rarely smiled and never laughed.

When Farrari finally drifted off to sleep he had acquired a new respect for command responsibilities. Jorrul was still listening to reports, and his ration package was still unopened.

The cave was dark when Farrari awoke, and Jorrul was asleep. There was nothing for him to do but sleep again, which he did after lying awake for a time pondering the strange turn of events that had plucked him away from base. The next time he awoke there was a soft light in the corner where Jorrul was again poised over the communications equipment.

He looked up when Farrari swung down from his bunk. “Hungry?”

“Not especially,” Farrari said.

“Have another ration package if you want it. But you might want to save your appetite—we’ll be at my headquarters shortly after midnight, and there’ll be a hot native meal waiting.”

Farrari must have grimaced unconsciously, because Jorrul straightened up and demanded sternly, “Don’t you like native food?”

Farrari said, “Well—”

“Have you ever had any?”

“Every week,” Farrari said. “Dallum has those lunches, you know, and—”

He broke off in amazement as a legend exploded before his disbelieving eyes. Jorrul leaned forward in his chair to pound the floor with one hand while the other grasped his stomach and his body shook in a helpless convulsion of laughter. “Native food!” he gasped. “That’s laboratory stuff. No sane native would touch any of it.”

“I know that,” Farrari admitted. “But when you said ‘native food’ that was the first thing I thought of.”

Jorrul wiped his eyes, brushing aside his laughter with a final, resounding chuckle. “The rascz have a gourmet society,” he said seriously. “That’s why you rarely see my agents at base. They can’t stand the food there.”

“And the olz—do they have a gourmet society?”

“The olz starve, and so do my agents when they’re living with them. But when they leave the field for a rest they don’t go to base, they come to my headquarters where they can eat.” He spoke to the transmitter. “Farrari’s never had native food. Break him in gently. No, not the stuffed forn, but save some for me.” He canceled out and sat back wearily, his eyes fixed on Farrari.

“How’d you know the kru was dead?” he asked.

“I thought it was obvious,” Farrari said.

“How’d you know the moving picture was missing?”

“I didn’t. I still don’t. It seemed like one good reason for the tapestry to be hanging there.”

Jorrul got to his feet. “The worst thing about field work,” he announced, “is the waiting.”

After an hour Farrari agreed fervently. He returned to his bunk for the want of anything else to do and finally fell asleep again. When Jorrul shook him awake it was dark outside; when the platform cleared the last mountain and dipped down over the lilorr, it was midnight.

Farrari, gazing up at the brilliant span of starlight, asked suddenly, “Aren’t there any moons?”

After a long pause Jorrul answered curtly, “No. No moons.”

Under the bright sky the land below seemed appallingly black, a vast emptiness broken only once by the distant, half-concealed red glow of a dying fire.

Finally the platform settled slowly and came to rest. Invisible hands assisted Farrari as he climbed out. Jorrul followed him, announcing with rare enthusiasm, “Field team headquarters. Now we can eat.’’