The World Menders. Lloyd Biggle jr.
the few mountain passes are easily defended and the nomads have learned not to approach too closely. Whenever they do they’re beaten soundly. And this is the only stable civilization, the only capable military power, on this planet.”
“Couldn’t we arrange for a durrl to drop dead whenever he starts to whip an ol?”
The coordinator winced. “Certainly not! You should see the report forms I have to fill out when we so much as accidentally cause the death or injury of a native!”
“Two thousand years,” Farrari muttered. Forced labor, starvation, and torment. Probably the woman was better off dead.
“Do have a look at that next cube,” Paul said, getting to his feet. “Have a look at all of them. And Farrari—”
Farrari looked up expectantly.
“Don’t feel badly because we can’t do anything about it. One of the first things an IPR man has to learn is that a drastic change requires extensive preparation. The greater the change, the more preparation is needed. And the more time.”
He left, and Farrari returned the tube of teloid cubes to its box and meekly carried the box back to Ganoff Strunk. Then he fed his projector a tube of innocuous cultural cubes and began to dictate an analysis of the friezes on one of the kru’s summer palaces.
He paused frequently, because each click of the projector made him wince, even though it did not remotely resemble the whup of a zrilm whip striking human flesh.
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 Now she worked patiently at simple tasks whenever she was able, withdrawn, strange in her moods, given to long periods of irrational, staring silence, and everyone was very kind to her.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