The Light That Never Was (24 page)

“That isn’t the feeling around Zrilund this morning.”

“What
is
the feeling?”

“That Jorno’s gone too far this time. There wasn’t any proof about what he did to the sea and the boats, people were angry, and they could speculate, but they didn’t know. Now the fountain has been attacked, and that’s the heart of Zrilund, it’s irreplaceable, and a mesz left footprints. Now the people know, and they’re no longer angry. They’re enraged.”

“There may be another attempt,” Wargen said. “I’ll ask Demron to station men there.”

“They aren’t needed. Volunteers are putting up lights right now, and every square inch of Zrilund Town will be under observation tonight.”

“Anything else happening?”

“There was a mass meeting this morning. Townspeople and artists. Didn’t do much except ask for volunteers to work on the lights and perform guard duty. There’s an artists’ meeting this afternoon. I don’t know what for.”

“Call me back when it’s over,” Wargen said.

Brance thanked the fat com agent on his way out and went to the Swamp Hut for lunch. He regretted having to pass up Hylat’s food, but in order to find out what the artists were talking about he had to go where they were.

Wes Alof joined him. “We’ve called off the meeting,” he said. “I’m talking with the artists individually. We’re all going to Rinoly.”

Brance stared at him.

“We’ve been studying the map,” Alof went on. “There aren’t any towns big enough to accommodate all of us, but I understand that every village has abandoned buildings that we could rent for virtually nothing. We’ll manage our own accommodations. I’ve already sent messages, I’m sure some artists from the other colonies will want to join us. Inside of a week we should have a minimum three hundred artists in Rinoly.” He grinned. “Three hundred artists are a match for three thousand meszs any time.”

“What’ll we do in Rinoly?” Brance demanded.

“Paint. We’re all licensed artists, we can go to any public place and pursue our calling, the regulations say so. The important thing is to get everyone down there. Then we can study the place and make plans to put an end to the mesz menace. Living expenses will be less there than here. I’ve raised money to help artists who need it with their transportation and other expenses, and I expect a lot of them will. What about you?”

“I can manage,” Brance said. “I’ll need time to make arrangements, though. I own a house, you know, and—”

“Just let me know as soon as possible. There may be a few artists who’ll have to stay here for one reason or another, and that’s all right—we don’t want the people of Zrilund thinking we’re walking out on them in time of need. They ought to understand, though, that very few of us can earn money without tourists, and there’s no point in our sitting here while our paints dry up waiting for Jorno to blow all of us into the ocean.”

Brance resignedly returned to the com center and placed a call to Wargen. He explained what had happened, and Wargen said, “The question is whether you’d accomplish more with the townspeople or with the artists. I think with the artists—I can ask Hylat to keep me informed about Zrilund Town. Did Alof give any hint at all of what he plans to do when he gets you to Rinoly?”

“None. I’ll go if you want me to, but I’ll have to make a few arrangements. You see, I have a pet swamp slug, and—”

Wargen was regarding him strangely. “Swamp slug?”

“Yes. I’ve had it for years.”

“A
Zrilund
swamp slug?”

“That’s the only kind Zrilund has.”

“You must introduce me sometime. What about it?”

“I’ll have to arrange for someone to look after it.”

“Work it out, then, and be sure to let me know where you’re going and when. Ask Hylat to call me.”

Hylat was sitting at the back of his empty dining room, his mournful face radiating gloom and catastrophe. “I hear the artists are leaving,” he said. “That’ll finish Zrilund.”

Brance seated himself and grinned at him. “For years I’ve been hearing the people of Zrilund complain about the artists, and for years I’ve been hearing the artists complain that no one person on this whole decaying island properly appreciates them. A temporary separation ought to be marvelously dissatisfying to all concerned. Both the artists and the townspeople will have to find someone else to complain about.”

“But will they come back?” Hylat demanded.

“They’ll come back. Even if for some strange reason Rinoly welcomes them, which it won’t, they’ll come back. Like me, a lot of those idiots love this place.”

The Zrilund artists vanished into rural Rinoly. For all the news Wargen had, that impoverished land could have blotted them up. He waited for a report from Brance—waited a week, two weeks, three weeks, first in irritation and then in anger and finally with acute alarm. Had Alof discovered that Brance was a spy?

When he could wait no longer, he sent for Eritha Korak, “How’d you like to go to Virrab?” he asked her.

“I couldn’t,” she said. “Even the lodge for visiting artists has a huge waiting list.”

“I’m sending you there as a guest. Intelligence out of Jorno’s resort is extremely hard to come by—we get only bits and snatches picked up by eavesdropping on returning tourists. I need a comprehensive evaluation of what’s going on there. I also need to find out what the Zrilund artists are doing in Rinoly. I have a man with them, Arnen Brance. Know him?”

Eritha shook her head. “He wasn’t at Zrilund when I was there.”

“He was, but he wasn’t associating with artists. He went to Rinoly with the Zrilund group, and he hasn’t reported since. I’m worried something may have happened to him. Most of the artists are harmless fools, but the people trying to manipulate them aren’t.”

“You want me to go to Virrab as a tourist, give Jorno’s resort a careful scanning, and check on the Zrilund artists?”

“That’s right.”

“Better send someone Jorno hasn’t met. Normally tourists enjoy basking in the warm glow of the proprietor’s personal hospitality. If one of them turned her back whenever he approached—”

“I’ve thought of that. Listen. As far as I’m able to determine, business at Jorno’s resort is exceeding his expectations with a single exception. He built a couple of superluxury rotundas, and they haven’t had a single customer. The kind of people who could afford them already have their favorite resorts, usually places catering exclusively to millionaires, and they aren’t likely to visit a catch-all resort like Virrab unless it’s ecstatically recommended to them. Jorno can’t get an endorsement for his luxury accommodations until someone patronizes them, and without it no one will patronize them. So I suggested to Lilya Vaan that she have herself a vacation at Virrab and take you as her companion. She thought a few days of slumming it at Jorno’s resort might be mildly amusing. Then she happened to mention it to Mother, and now the countess insists on going with you.”

“The countess—with Lilya and me?”

“Yes. Jorno will be elated. Watch!”

He placed a call to Jaward Jorno. “My mother, the countess,” he told him, “would like to visit your resort with two companions. Do you have suitable accommodations for the countess and her guests?”

They could hear Jorno’s sudden intake of breath. “Of course. Highly suitable accommodations. Would they prefer the mainland or Virrab?”

“The mainland. They’ve never visited Rinoly, so—after they’ve experienced all the charms of Virrab, of course—they’d like to travel about.”

“I’m afraid they’ll find little of interest in Rinoly apart from my resort, but I’ll make every effort to enable them to see whatever they like. I’m sure that once they have visited Virrab they’ll find it endlessly fascinating.”

“Would you place a limousine and chauffeur on call for them?”

“Of course.”

“There’s one more thing. They’ll dress as ordinary tourists, and they’d prefer to keep their identities confidential. Can you accommodate them in that?”

“But certainly. You said the countess and two guests?”

“The Countess Wargen, the Dame Lilya Vaan, whom I think you know, and Miss Eritha Korak, the World Manager’s granddaughter.”

Jorno took another deep breath. “When shall I expect them?”

“I’ll notify you as soon as the arrangements are completed.”

Wargen broke the connection. “It must be galling to build magnificent accommodations for millionaire guests and have them unused. He’ll keep your identities secret as long as you’re there, but the moment you leave it’ll be known all over Donov and several other worlds that the Countess Wargen, the Dame Vaan, and a member of the World Manager’s immediate family vacationed at Virrab.”

“Is Jorno a snob?”

“That’s irrelevant. He’s a practical businessman, and socially prominent people are good for his business.”

“I thought he was a brilliant man of galactic vision. Now it turns out he has the soul of a village usurer. The real mystery is why the countess didn’t cancel out when she heard I’d be along.”

“She wants to know you better.”

“I don’t believe it!”

“It’s true,” Wargen said gravely. “She wants to be familiar with all of your defects.”

“That’s more like it. And forever after, when you two are having a quiet conversation, she’ll drop in flattering remarks about me. ‘By the way, Pet, did you know that the little Korak minx mixes adde and wrranel milk for breakfast?’ ”

Wargen regarded her with horror. “You do?”

“Of course not. But once she’s taken a cozy excursion with me she’ll be in a position to know all sorts of things, whether they’re true or not. Just you wait—she’ll draw up a catalogue of my bad habits, and she’ll read it to you every evening at dinner.”

“It won’t do a bit of good,” Wargen told her. “I already know all about them.”

The rotunda was screened from the public park by a magnificent grove of trees, and even such a massive building as this one was rendered charming by its mesz architecture. Their suite, which occupied an entire floor and had its own staff of servants, represented the absolute ultimate in plush resort accommodations. They strolled through private gardens laid out in strange and fascinating patterns by the meszs, they swam at their private beach, and they enjoyed a seaside promenade on their private pier. Later they dined in their own dining room on fare as luxurious, varied, and delicious as anything Lilya had ever served at a rev.

All three of them were relaxed and mellowed when Jorno’s steward arrived with an invitation to join him for a tour of his estate—even the countess had found nothing to complain about for as long as twenty minutes at a time. The two older women accepted at once. Eritha, who had been instructed to scan Jorno’s resort but not his private property, pleaded fatigue. Instead of receiving this excuse with the skepticism that it deserved, the countess seemed to find it flattering.

As soon as the countess and Lilya had been ceremoniously escorted away by the steward, Eritha donned her tourist’s cloak and went for a stroll on the public promenade. Then she examined the park that the meszs had created—it hadn’t been completed on her previous visit. To her amazement she found a fountain spouting colored, phosphorescent water, and as darkness fell its spray became quite spectacular.

“But it’ll never take the place of the Zrilund fountain,” Eritha heard a cool voice murmur. She turned and found another tourist smiling at her—Mora Seerl, the art critic on sabbatical. “Good evening, Miss Korak. We met at Garffi—ah, you remember me. It’s a pleasure to see you again. On this world one doesn’t often meet an artist in disguise.”

“Or an art critic,” Eritha said.

Mora laughed merrily. “But isn’t this as appropriate a costume for a critic as any other?”

“At least it’s a costume that excuses anything, which is why I wear it. I take it that you’ve been to Zrilund.”

“Months ago. It was the first colony I visited, and I’ve known its great paintings for so long that it was like going home—to a sadly deteriorated home, to be sure, but none the less home.”

“How do you like Virrab?”

“It’s wonderfully scenic, and I suppose there’ll be a Virrab vogue for a time, but to me the place is dead simply because it’ll never come alive.”

“I rather liked it,” Eritha said.

“An artist would. It’s new and different, and therefore exciting, and it presents the challenge of capturing all that newness in paint. The critic or tourist doesn’t look at it that way. Virrab has the only untamed nature I’ve ever seen that is utterly sterilized. Keep to the path. No stopping except at official lookouts. No standing between the yellow lines or you’ll spoil the view for the working artists. I miss Zrilund and the other resorts where you can look over the artists’ shoulders. To a critic, just wandering about in those places is a priceless education. You can study a scene and then instantly see it through the eyes of a dozen artists and then look again and think what you might do with it yourself if only you could. On Virrab the artist is behind a bush, and if he’s aware of you at all he’s waiting for you to go away. In time you resent that, or at least I do.”

“I hadn’t thought of it that way,” Eritha admitted. “Of course the Virrab artists are among the best on Donov, and the best artists feel very little obligation to entertain tourists. The artists at Zrilund invite interruptions from tourists, which may have something to do with their being the worst on Donov.”

“I doubt that they are. It’s just that those poor souls have got themselves into a frightful rut, painting and repainting scenes that were exhausted years ago. All they need is a rousing collision with reality, but the only reality on Zrilund is already petrified. In a sense, all Donovian art needs a collision with reality. All of it is dying. Virrab is just a glitteringly artificial attempt to resuscitate something better left to perish in peace.”

Eritha said indignantly, “You can’t believe that!”

“Name the great artists working on Donov,” Mora Seerl said. “You can’t. There are lots of first-rate craftsmen—there are even some at Zrilund—but the greatness is gone forever. Donov has nothing left but tradition, and the tradition is one of subject matter only. Even the most casual student of Donovian art notices that at once—the Zrilund fountain treated in a bewildering variety of styles, for example. Once that subject matter is exhausted, and it’s already been exploited to death, those artists had better take their styles elsewhere. Eventually they will.”