The World Menders

XVIII

Farrari watched his army’s progress with tortuous uncertainty. At some moment before it reached Scorv, this swelling crowd of passive, plodding slaves had to become one of two things: a genuine army with weapons, or an enraged mob that could carry all before it with the sheer weight of its fury and numbers. He would hide in the zrilm and watch the olz shuffle past, desperately searching each face. He needed a spark, or the magic word that would produce a spark. “How do you make a man hate?” he mused.

They slouched along the highway with the same awkward, shuffling walk they had used for more generations than any IPR historian had been able to count, and they could not be hurried. They held the long grain bags clumsily in front of them. Once Farrari halted the column and took the trouble to place each ol’s bag over his shoulder, and the following day the bags again were carried in front of them.

The march was taking them farther from home than they had ever been. If they thought of this, if they speculated at all as to why they were marching, their faces revealed none of it—nor anything else. They had been told to march; they marched.

Farrari needed a spark.

He began to collect all the weapons he could find, but he wrapped them in cloth, making untidy, unrecognizable bundles of them, before he gave them to the olz to carry. A rasc seeing a spear bearing of wouldn’t wait to find out whether or not the ol could throw it—and the olz could not or would not throw spears.

They did not need to become skilled. A thousand olz throwing blindly from behind a zrilm hedge could decimate a squadron of a hundred rascz trapped in a lane. But though the olz would hold a spear, carry a spear, or drop a spear on command, they would not throw it.

Even a distant rumor of marching olz continued to put the durrlz to flight, so they met no traffic and Farrari never saw a rasc. While his olz marched obediently behind their appointed leaders, he ranged far on either side of the highway, scouting out abandoned durrl headquarters to raid for supplies, and selecting recruits from olz at work in the fields they passed. His olz paid no attention to him at all, because none of them dared look at an assistant durrl, and so it was that when he found an ol not only looking at him, but even following him about, he was instantly aware of it. Amused, he circled behind the ol and asked, “Are you lost?”

“Yes,” Peter Jorrul muttered. “Completely lost. I can’t begin to figure out what’s going on.”

“You’re the most unlikely ol I’ve ever seen,” Farrari told him. “All your muscles are in the wrong places.”

“I had to see this for myself. Liano told us you were dead, and then—” “Liano? Where is she?”

“At base. She came to my headquarters and asked to be sent back.”

“You mean she said I was dead?” Jorrul nodded.

“How is she?”

“Well. Normal.”

“What do you mean by ‘normal’?”

“Normal means normal,” Jorrul said dryly. “She seems to have lost her clairvoyancy. Know anything about that?”

“I know she lost it just in time. Is she—happy?”

A smile touched Jorrul’s lips. “She may be when she hears that you’re alive.” He paused and then said sternly, “Just what are you trying to do?”

“Free the olz,” Farrari said. “Haven’t you noticed?”

“I told base that if you really were involved in this we’d find a new record for regulations broken in one operation, with maybe our mission completely ruined and the planet blown as a bonus. Thus far I haven’t seen a single false step. The olz seem to be doing this all by themselves. I haven’t heard you give a single order, and yet the olz are marching on Scorv. How did you manage it?”

“You heard what Liano said. I died.”

“Listen, Farrari. This is a serious matter. We have to know—” He broke off as Farrari opened his cloak, exposing the puncture scars.

“I died,” Farrari said. “Not only that, but I just missed being thrown to the Holy Ancestors, which would have killed me a second time. I’m the only ol on Branoff IV with the distinction of having returned from the dead, and I thought I could make something of that, but it didn’t work out. I don’t manage things, I just blunder into them.”

“You’ve managed the impossible,” Jorrul said firmly. “You’ve not only done it with skill, but as far as I can tell you haven’t done a thing that will get any of us demoted. What are you trying to accomplish with it?”

“Free the olz,” Farrari said again. Awake a slumbering giant and make of it a raging instrument of revenge. Extract payment in kind for the horrors mercilessly inflicted upon a defenseless, subservient race. If he could find a spark, the olz would be masters of Scorvif by the end of summer.

“The olz around here seem free enough right now,” Jorrul said. “What about that fuss in the lower hilngol? Who managed that?”

“I did.”

Jorrul looked at him doubtfully. “Who’s managing the disturbance, across the river?”

“The olz,” Farrari said. “I started it, but they’re managing it by themselves if it’s still going on. Is it?”

“We haven’t been able to find out what’s going on there. The olz seem to have vanished, and the kru’s army is churning up the eastern lilorr in a major campaign against nothing. What happens after you’ve freed the olz?”

Farrari did not answer.

“Do you know what you’re doing and where this thing is headed?”

“Of course!” Farrari said angrily.

“I hope so. A revolution is like the water in a reservoir. Before you smash whatever is holding it there, it’s wise to perform the necessary engineering to find out where it will go. Because if you later discover that you’ve made a mistake, you can’t put the water hack. And once one really gets started, you can’t, ever, put a revolution back. I have to report to base. It’ll take me a couple of days because we’re that far from where I left my corn equipment. Being an ol agent has certain disadvantages—there’s a limit to what one can conceal in a loincloth. Want me to ask base for anything?”

“Would base give it to me?”

“I’m going to recommend that you be appointed field team commander,” Jorrul said soberly. “You started this revolution yourself, and you’re the only one who understands it and knows where it’s going and what the potential is. You should have full authority over all IPR personnel and every available resource. Any orders?”

“How many agents did you bring with you?”

“Every agent we could pry loose has been assigned to the three areas of ol disturbances.”

“Then you aren’t the only strange-looking ol in my army. Get them out of here—recall all of them. The olz are doing this by themselves. I also want you to recall your rasc agents. I’ve seen a lot of dead olz. I expect to see some dead rascz.”

“Our agents will take the risk. That’s their job.”

“Then the responsibility is yours. I don’t want to command the field team. I just want it to stay out of my way.”

“Do you mean you don’t even want a liaison?”

“You thought I’d blown the planet,” Farrari said bitterly. “Let me tell you something. This planet was blown the day IPR landed. The olz are wise. They neither know nor care what an IPR agent really is, but they know he’s no ol. So get your agents out of here. Stay yourself and be my liaison if you want to, but not as an ol. You’ll be more useful as an assistant durrl.”

Jorrul nodded enthusiastically. “No walking. And I can carry my corn equipment with me.”

“Do that,” Farrari said. “And ask base to maintain a continuous surveillance on the kru’s army.”

“We do that anyway as well as we’re able. Agents report everything they see, but agents aren’t always in the right places. When there’s unusual activity we order night flights, but there’s a limit to what one can see from the air at night. Right now we know that large forces are still puttering around the lower hilngol and the southeastern lilorr. Maybe you know what they’re looking for.”

“I know they won’t find it. Those actions were diversions, to tie up as much of the kru’s army as possible so there wouldn’t be anything left to defend Scorv.”

Peter Jorrul murmured: “I see.”

“My own notion of military tactics,” Farrari said lightly. “The best way to defeat a superior foe is to attack when he isn’t there.”

Jorrul looked at him sharply. “That’s a fine idea, but it needs a preliminary reconnaissance and a thorough understanding of the opponent. The kru’s generals aren’t about to rush their central reserve across the river until they’re certain that there’s no threat elsewhere. It’s the local garrisons that are dealing with your diversions. You didn’t pull a single soldier away from Scorv.”

Farrari shrugged. “So I’m no military tactician.”

“I hope you are,” Jorrul said, “because most of the central reserve is headed south right now. The generals are taking their time about it, and they’re sending reconnaissance missions all over the western lilorr, but they’re coming. At the rate both of you are traveling, you’ll have five or six days to get ready for them.”

Jorrul returned outfitted as an assistant durri, and Farrari found his own labor cut in half. Jorrul ranged one side of the road and he the other, scouting and recruiting. To expand his army quickly, Farrari began taking every male ol. He had made the interesting discovery that his olz actually improved in health. Their plodding pace prohibited strenuous marches, and they were eating better on the stolen durri stores than they ever had in their lives while doing very little work. He possessed increasing amounts of time in which to worry. By way of Jorrul’s corn equipment he arranged a private conference with Liano. “What motivates the olz?” he asked her. “What would make them angry?”

He pleaded, but she did not answer.

Jorrul saw the huge army of patiently plodding olz as an irresistible force and feared that it might escape Farrari’s control. He was not aware that this revolution could be turned off, put back, merely by telling the olz to go home. On the other hand, an ignited and aroused olz might be very dangerous indeed, but Farrari had to find his spark quickly and damn the consequences.

He asked Jorrul, “What’s happening in Scorv?”

“Nothing much. Lots of refugees have been checking in with relatives there, every rase in this country has at least one family of relatives in Scorv. But there’s no alarm, or shortage of supplies, or anything like that.”

“How much food does the city keep on hand?”

“No idea.”

“I was wondering how long it could hold out under a siege.”

“I don’t know,” Jorrul said. “Most of its food reserves are in depots a long way from the city or on the hoof being driven there. On the other hand, the length of time a city holds out under siege depends as much on the character and determination of the people as on their supplies. The rascz make fine soldiers, but as far as I know the people have never been tested. You’re thinking of laying siege to Scorv?”

Farrari smiled wistfully. His olz had never been tested, either. “Any new word on the rasc army?”

Jorrul shook his head. “As of right now, we haven’t a single agent between here and Scory who’s in position to observe. Our agents have to behave normally, and when the rascz headed for Scory they went with them. Base has platforms out every night, but they literally aren’t catching a glimmer—which means that the army is moving at night or doing without fires. All we know for certain is that it hasn’t returned to Scorv, so it’s either advancing or waiting for you. Don’t you think you ought to start getting ready for it?”

It was the moment when Farrari should have sent the olz home. A trained army was sweeping toward them, they were utterly defenseless, and this time their blood would be on his hands. But he had come so far, he had accomplished half of a genuine miracle, and he could not bring himself to turn back—not when he could accomplish the whole miracle as soon as he found a spark.

And the kru’s army did not come. Each morning Jorrul checked with base, each morning base had nothing to report, and day after day Farrari and Jorrul recruited more olz and moved ever closer to Scorv, until one morning Farrari scouted far ahead of the olz and found himself standing at the edge of the wasteland. No intoxicant had ever exhilarated him as did the bleak view he drank in that bright morning from a low hill south of Scorv: The city lay just beyond the horizon, and there was no sign of a rasc army to bar the way.

He hurried back to tell Jorrul what he had seen. Jorrul said slowly, “I suppose it’s possible that the army took one look at the olz and ran. That doesn’t make sense to me, especially since the army doesn’t seem to have run anywhere, but it also doesn’t make sense to me that the durrlz would take one look at the olz and run. How much about this revolution does make sense?”

“We’ll be starting across the wasteland day after tomorrow,” Farrari said. “The olz will have to take all the food they can carry. And quarm.”

“You’re still farther from Scory than you realize,” Jorrul said. “The wasteland is wider here than in the north. Fortunately there’s a food storage depot halfway across it, and the depot is an IPR base with a communications room. Two of our agents are still there. I’ll ask them what they have on hand.”

They had huge stores of grain, ample quarm, and very few tubers, so Farrari and Jorrul separated to search out durri headquarters with large stocks of tubers. It was nearly dusk when Farrari returned to the highway. A short distance to the south he saw the endless mass of olz moving toward him, and he decided to dismiss them for the night when they reached him. He dismounted and led his gril to the side of the road to wait. The olz plodded forward as they had on every other day, stolid, indifferent to the loom of history just beyond their grasp, sparkless.

Farrari needed a spark.

Suddenly color flashed as a pair of cavalrymen burst from a lane—and another pair, and another, a full troop mounted on spirited grilz, spears poised for throwing. They bore down on the column of olz, and the olz halted, pressed to one side to make room for them, and stood with eyes lowered.

Farrari leaped to his feet and watched helplessly. The cavalrymen thundered alongside the olz, turned abruptly, and disappeared into another lane. The olz calmly resumed their march. A moment later another troop crossed the highway at top speed, brushing olz aside and sending them sprawling.

Farrari mounted his gril, urged it forward a few steps, and then halted uncertainly. He could no more protect his olz from the kru’s army than he could keep the sun from setting. They were doomed, and having led them to their death, the least he could do was to die with them.

As he started forward again, a shout rang out behind him. A third column of cavalry was crossing the highway, and one of the riders had seen Farrari. The troop swerved and raced toward him. Farrari hesitated; he was only an assistant durrl fleeing from the rapacious olz, and there was no reason for his fellow rascz to molest him.

A spear thrown at long range clunked onto the paving just behind him, and a second spear whistled past him as he snapped the halter and sent his gril sprinting into a lane. He jerked it aside at the first cross-lane, slipped to the ground, and rolled toward the zrilm, leaving the gril to scamper on without him. He barely had time to conceal himself before the troopers sped past. As soon as they disappeared he stripped off his rasc clothing and stepped forth clad only in an ol loincloth. He would die with the olz, but as an ol. He hurried back to the highway.

The column of olz still plodded toward him, stolid, indifferent, unaware of the threat of death that had flashed briefly and then turned aside. “They want to die,” Farrari’ muttered. It was a piece of the puzzle that he had somehow mislaid. It seemed that he could not take up a new idea without losing track of an old one. What was this most recent thing he had been looking for? A spark?

He watched the olz disbelievingly until they reached him, and then he stepped forward, waved an arm in the manner of an ol sent as messenger, and sounded the dismissal word.

The olz scattered; they would faithfully return to the highway at dawn.

Farrari walked back along the dispersing column, suddenly very worried about Jorrul. The warm summer darkness of Branoff IV came upon him quickly; the rascz seemed to have disappeared, so at the first ol village he collected olz with torches and began a search. Halfway through the night and an eternity later they found Jorrul’s dead gril. Jorrul lay pinned under it, a spear through his side, a leg and an arm broken, delirious, unable to move, but alive.

Farrari administered rudimentary first aid and then dismissed the olz so he could use Jorrul’s com equipment. A short time later a platform arrived from field team headquarters at Enis Holt’s mill, and Jorrul was gently lifted aboard.

Just as the platform was taking off he opened his eyes and asked weakly, “How are the olz?”

“All right,” Farrari said.

“You mean—they won?”

“A tremendous victory,” Farrari said gravely.

“That’s wonderful! How many casualties?”

“One,” Farrari said. “You.”

The platform drifted into the night. Farrari wrapped the corn equipment in rags and carried it with him. He rested for an hour, and then he visited ol villages as a messenger to send his army to loot the tuber stocks of nearby durrl’s headquarters. At dawn, when the olz again as sembled on the highway, Farrari stood like a coward watching them march off toward Scorv.

At the same time, he wondered: since there had been no attack, perhaps the olz had won a victory.

The cavalry returned. Throughout the day the march was halted repeatedly while mounted troops crossed the highway or rode beside the column of olz. Farrari marched as an ol near the head of the column, and each time the rascz appeared he braced himself for an onslaught. Nothing happened except that he ended the day in a state of prostration. He dismissed the olz as usual and climbed under a zrilm bush for a badly needed sleep. Toward morning he awoke and contacted base; Jorrul had arrived there and would recover, and he’d asked that Farrari be thanked for taking the trouble to find him. Farrari swore bitterly and cut off.

The following day the olz headed out across the wasteland. Farrari scanned the horizon nervously, for this could have been the moment the cavalry waited for, when the olz did not have a vast complex of zrilm hedges as potential cover, but on this day the soldiers did not appear at all. It worried him much less that the olz might not have enough food to last until they reached the depot, for what were a day or two without food to an ol? Not until nightfall did he remember that they had no cooking utensils and were now far from the cooking pots of the nearest of villages. While he was wondering what to do, the olz moved to low ground near the river, dug large holes in the sticky clay, and filled them with water. Then they pushed heated stones into the holes, and the water boiled.

On the third day they reached the storage depot. Again Farrari appeared in the guise of his own messenger, and the olz spilled over the wasted landscape and settled themselves to wait for further orders. Farrari went to investigate a clamorous wailing that eminated from an outbuilding, and there he found two narmpfz left without food or water. He watered and fed them, and then he found his way to the underground communications room, where he spoke harshly to the two young agents there about allowing the unfortunate narmpfz to starve.

They shrugged; their superiors, the granary supervisor and his wife, had fled to Scory with the rascz when word came of the approaching olz. Naturally they had to do the normal thing, and if it were also normal that the animals the rascz left behind them starved, then the granary supervisor’s would have to starve, too, or people might be suspicious.

“Show me the granary,” Farrari said disgustedly.

They climbed a series of ramps to the roof, and Farrari’s first concern was not the blur on the northern horizon that was Scorv, but the opposite direction, where the kru’s army might be following closely. He saw no rascz, but that relieved his worries not at all. Whenever the soldiers tired of playing whatever game they were playing, a company or two could liquidate all of the olz in a single afternoon. The olz would stand with bowed heads allowing themselves to be slaughtered.

He said to the IPR agents, “How do you make a soldier out of someone who wants to die?”

“He should make the best kind of soldier,” one of the agents said. Farrari muttered, “Wanted: one spark.”

The agents were staring down at Farrari’s army as though realizing for the first time how many olz there were in Scorvif. “Going to storm the city?” one of them asked.

Farrari did not answer. If he led the olz to the foot of Scory and handed each a tuber—which was as effective a weapon as any in the hands of an ol—and told them, “Come!” they would follow him to the center of the city and pile their tubers at the door of the Life Temple if no one stopped them, but they wouldn’t make a threatening gesture at any rasc they met along the way.

“Going to try to starve out the city before the army returns?”

Again Farrari did not answer. For all he knew the army was less than a day away, and even if it were not the sparkless olz were incapable of keeping even one wagonload of food from reaching Scorv.

“Jorrul sent a message for you,” one of the agents said. Farrari nodded.

“He said to remind you that a revolution isn’t a plaything. He thinks maybe you’re having such a good time with this one you’ve forgotten your objective. He says to tell you that the rascz can’t survive without the olz—they wouldn’t know how to begin to raise a crop. The olz can survive without the rascz, but only as an unorganized, barbarian society of peasants, and that only until another strong nomadic race enslaves them again. If either is destroyed, you’ll doom civilization on this planet.”

“The olz,” Farrari said angrily, “had a high civilization before the rascz came here. They built the old city of Scorv—those massive old buildings and also the Tower-of-a-Thousand-Eyes. This civilization didn’t originate with the rascz, and it won’t end with them.”

The agents stared at him. “The olz… built… can you prove that?”

“Certainly.”

“Wow! Why doesn’t anyone else know about it?”

Suddenly Farrari wondered if it mattered. It had been a long time since the olz built anything more complicated than huts. How much could they remember, and how long would it take them to relearn skills their race hadn’t used for uncounted generations? And if they could remember, could relearn—would they want to?

He kept forgetting something he’d learned so long ago: the olz wanted to die.

He stepped to the north parapet and looked toward Scorv, where a serious, decent, creative, hard-working people calmly harbored their refugees and waited—for Cultural Survey AT/1 Cedd Farrari to find the spark that would destroy them? “I’ve been out of my mind, or I would have turned back,” he said softly. “I caught Bran’s disease. I wanted to annihilate the rascz because they killed me, even if I had to annihilate the olz to do it.”

An agent said bewilderedly, “How’s that?”

“They aren’t monsters,” Farrari murmured.

“The rascz? Of course not! Whoever said they were?”

Farrari turned and slowly descended the ramps to the underground communications room. “Get me the coordinator,” he said.

A few minutes later he faced Coordinator Paul’s familiar grin. “Well, Farrari? It’s been a long time.”

“We’d better have a meeting,” Farrari said. “All the specialists who know anything that touches on this revolution of mine. Can you get me back to base tonight?”

“Of course.”

“What it amounts to,” Coordinator Paul said kindly, “is that you’ve worked a miracle to no purpose. You’ve created a revolution without a cause.”

Farrari wrenched his gaze away from Liano. “Half a miracle,” he said. “And I didn’t realize what an evil half miracle it was until I stood there on the depot roof and looked at Scorv. As someone pointed out to me a long time ago, the average rasc has never seen an ol. Even if I could somehow transform the olz into a real army, they’d gain their freedom only by destroying a good and creative race of people. So now I don’t know what to do.”

“Revolution without a cause,” the coordinator said again, savoring the phrase. “Except that it’s not really a revolution. You hand your ol something to carry and say, “March!” and when you have enough olz marching you have the illusion of an army—until the moment comes when it has to fight.”

Farrari nodded glumly. “As far as I can figure out, the olz want to do only two things: worship the rascz, and die.”

“It would seem so,” the coordinator mused, “and yet—when the olz march as a group, durrlz flee from them and soldiers ride past them fearing to arouse them with a threatening gesture. Strange. The olz who built the old city of Scory must have been mighty warriors to have their utterly servile descendants inspire such fear. Your revolution may be a failure, Farrari, but you’ve given this staff enough study material to last it for years if it can survive the shock of an ol revolt.”

“All I want to do now is get the olz out of this safely,” Farrari said. “If they simply turn around and head for home, what will the rascz do?”

The coordinator looked about the table, inviting comment, and each specialist seemed interested only in deciphering his notes. Liano was finding the far wall fascinating, and she continued to avoid Farrari’s eyes. Peter Jorrul, sitting in a motor chair at the side of the room, looked at Farrari.

“Until they get home, I don’t know,” the coordinator said. “After they get home, it will depend on the individual durrl. Some may treat their olz better; others, when they get over being frightened, are likely to be extremely angry. I’m afraid there’s nothing that can be done about it.”

“The problem,” Farrari said, “is that IPR has no one in a position to influence Rasczian thinking.”

“That’s one of the problems,” the coordinator said, smiling wistfully “It’s been noticed before. In fact, my predecessor left me a memo about it.”

Jorrul leaned forward and thumped the side of his chair with his uninjured arm. “If Farrari had stayed there as kru’s priest—”

“No,” the coordinator interrupted firmly. “In that case there would have been no illusory uprising about which Rasczian thinking would need to be influenced.”

“But he can go back now!” Joni said excitedly. “Have Dr. Garnt store his pretty face, dress him in the proper robes, and put him down at the city gate. Everyone will recognize him—his portrait is on display at the temple and in the palace and in half a dozen public places. And because he was a miracle, they never appointed a successor. They’ll think his reappearance is due to the ol crisis, and he speaks enough Rasczian now to walk right in and take over the country.”

“Impossible,” the coordinator said. “That would amount to a permanent assignment. After Farrari’s disappearance, headquarters issued a regulation. No permanent assignments to CS men, temporary assignments only in the direct furtherance of their cultural studies. It saves you from a dubious honor, Farrari. On the kru’s death—and His Present Dissipated Majesty won’t last much longer—his priest becomes a Custodian of the Eyes and dedicates the remainder of his life to the care of the tomb of his lamented master. It amounts to imprisonment.”

“I’ll risk it gladly,” Farrari said, “if there’s a chance of bringing about permanent changes in the condition of the olz.”

The coordinator shook his head. “Permanence is a highly elusive thing.”

“What could I do that would have a shock effect that the rascz will never forget?”

“You couldn’t find a spark for your olz,” Jorrul grumbled. “Now you’re trying to find a shock for the rascz. I don’t believe in shocks and sparks.”

“I’d like to see those carvings of the kru’s priest,” Farrari said. “Do you have teloids?”

The coordinator sent for the teloids, and Jorrul rode away to confer with Isa Graan about reproducing the robes of a kru’s priest. Farrari snapped the cubes into a projector and studied the projections: a full-faced carving showing him standing meditatively behind the kru’s throne; two side views; and a dramatic representation of the moment when he had deftly bisected the alleged loaf of bread. He called for a mirror, and while the others looked on perplexedly he compared his ol countenance with the faces in the carvings.

Jorrul returned, saw what he was doing, and said sarcastically, “You’re lucky. When the doctor restores your face, he’ll have a first-rate portrait to copy—and the rasc artists aren’t quite the realists I’d thought. They improved your looks considerably.”

“I think I can make it do,” Farrari said finally. “In the proper setting the resemblance should be obvious.”

“What are you talking about?” Jorrul demanded.

“Impact,” Farrari said. “Influencing Rasczian thinking. The shock and the spark.”

“Graan thinks he can duplicate the robes externally, but you’ll have to be careful who’s around when you Ike them off. There’s no possible way of finding out what they’re lined with. I told him to get started.”

“Tell him to get unstarted. I don’t want his robes.”

Jorrul thought for a moment. “You may have a point. No one knows what happened to the robes you left there. They probably enshrined them. It might be more effective if you wore the same apprentice costume you wore before and let them furnish the robes.”

“No.”

“We can discuss it later. The important thing now is to get Garnt started on your face.”

“I like my face the way it is.” “What are you going to do?”

“Just what you suggested. Present myself at the city gate and save the rascz from a catastrophe they don’t know they have.”

“As an ol?”

“Right.”

“You’re insane!”

The coordinator was watching Farrari. “Will you need anything?”

“Some ol agents to help with my army. The timing is going to be delicate.”

“I meant—will you need anything in the way of special equipment?”

“It isn’t exactly special equipment,” Farrari said, “but I’d like to have a loaf of bread.”