The World Menders

V

The faint, persistent vibration could have been Farrari’s imagination, but the incessant rumble in the background was real. Jorrul ate his stuffed Porn slowly, with obvious relish, and listened to reports. Farrari ate a rich stew much more slowly—he didn’t like it—and tried to follow the conversation.

Agent 93 reported a squad of the kru’s cavalry headed up the narru, one of the finger valleys, and this fact was discussed and pondered with a seriousness that Farrari would have accorded only to a full army on the march.

Agent 176 reported a village of sick olz on the south edge of the nlorr. Jorrul sat up alertly, pushed his food aside, and wanted to know what action had been taken. When informed that the report had just been received, he hurried away to talk with base.

Enis Holt, their portly host, who had introduced himself to Farrari as 101 and added his name as an afterthought, met Farrari’s puzzlement with a smile. “The olz are in such poor health that even a mild epidemic could decimate the population,” he explained.

“The olz would be better off dead,” Farrari said firmly.

Holt’s smile broadened. “Is that the Cultural Survey point-of-view?”

“The humanitarian point-of-view.”

“No.” Holt shook his head emphatically. “The humanitarian would improve their lives, not end them. That’s also the IPR viewpoint. IPR has to consider the welfare of a civilization, too, as opposed to that of any of its components. This is the only stable civilization on the planet, and, therefore, it’s our only hope for the long-term improvement of the lives of the planet’s people. And this civilization couldn’t survive without the olz.”

“Are the rascz aware of that?” Farrari asked politely.

“No. One of our critical problems is to find a way to make them aware of it before they inadvertently extermine the olz.”

Jorrul returned, skewered another slice of the forn, and munched thoughtfully. “Next,” he said.

Holt consulted his notes. “The water level at the demc is a meter below normal. If we don’t get some rain soon, there’ll be dry wells all over the lilorr and a lot of thirsty olz. Agent 213 reports nine new durrlz assigned to the hilngol, which we more or less expected after last year’s production drop. And Agent 148 fell off his grit and sprained an ankle, the clod. Fortunately no one saw him. Then 124…”

Holt’s wife Rani, who had served their food, was hovering about the table watchfully. Farrari touched her arm and whispered, “What’s the noise?”

“Noise?” she repeated blankly. “Noise? Oh, you mean—” She chuckled. “I haven’t heard it for years. It’s with us all the time, you see. This is a mill. Would you like to see it?”

Farrari nodded. He followed her from the room. Jorrul, intent on the implications of 124’s report, took no notice of them. They descended one of the strange Rasczian stairways—the rascz were blessed with natural cement of an excellent quality but evidently had never thought to mold it into steps; their stairs were ramps with carefully-selected stones set at random. Farrari considered the stones more of a nuisance than an assistance.

The stairs ended at a balcony overlooking the mill’s cavernous interior. A single light flickered below, a burning chunk of wood floated in a stone trough filled with quarm oil. Across the huge room were two rows of double grinding stones, the upper circular with single protruding beam. Only three were in operation; narmpfz, ugly, placid creatures with enormous, powerful bodies, very little neck, and large, toothless mouths surrounded by superficial heads, plodded in patient circles straining against the beams. The stones turned on a central hub with an incessant, rasping racket.

They descended a longer stairway to the ground level. As Farrari was examining a pair of idle grindstones two young men wearing stripped apprentice aprons entered through a door at the end of the room. They nodded at Rani Holt and eyed Farrari curiously as they passed. They halted one of the narmpfz with a slap on its flank, set a wedge, and raised the upper stone with blows of a huge mallet. After they swept the coarse flour onto a cloth they scooped measures of grain from a large crock and scattered them between the stones. The narinpf waited patiently until another slap on its flank set it in motion again. They repeated the operation at the other stones, poured their meager accumulation of flour into a crock, and made their exit.

Rani Holt spoke into Farrari’s ear. “It would be so easy to introduce technological improvements. But, of course, we can’t.”

“Technology imposed from without…” Farrari muttered. He shouted at her, “It must require a lot of mills to feed the population.”

They turned down a final stairway that led to a narrow, subterranean chamber where long rows of crocks stood. She pressed against the rough stone wall; it swung inward, and they stepped through into a smaller storage room. The wall swung shut after them, reducing the noises of the mill to a dull vibration. On the far side she opened another concealed door and led him into a large, brilliantly-lighted underground room. In one corner a communications technician manned his instruments; in another a machinist shaped a piece of metal. A man and a woman were drinking from tall mugs in a small lounge near the entrance.

“Field team headquarters,” Rani explained. “Supply base, workshops, communications center. What was it you asked me upstairs?”

“I said it must take a lot of mills to feed the population.”

She nodded. “We could do it by oursleves, you know. We have a power mill here, and we do most of our grinding on it. We have to have the output expected of a mill of this size, and if we did all the grinding with those primitive grindstones it would require more manpower than we can spare. Because, you understand, everyone connected with this place has to be IPR. We operate continuously, but only enough stones to make it sound as if we’re furiously busy.”

“Power mill?” Farrari repeated. “But I thought—”

“We aren’t giving it to the rascz,” she explained. “We’re just using it ourselves. It required quite a lot of adjustment to make it produce flour as coarsely ground as that of the mill. We’re very well situated here. Millers are among the most substantial citizens, and this is one of the most important mills in Scorvif. Enis is highly thought of. Even the court dignitaries stop to exchange mugs with him when they pass this way. A mill is a center for all kinds of traffic, which lets our agents come and go freely. We can send our supposed journeymen anywhere buying grain, or delivering flour, or prospecting for a new millstone. The noise of the mill is very useful when the workshop is operating. Yes, we’re very well situated.”

“How does an IPR agent get to be a substantial citizen like a miller?” Farrari asked.

She smiled. “With patience. And unlimited time. And even then it required luck. It took two generations of agents working as apprentices and journeymen before a miller died childless and we were able to purchase his mill.”

She led him to the clothing bins and picked out a worn, short-sleeved shirt, ragged trousers of coarse cloth, mud-spattered boots with wood soles and high cloth tops, and a skull cap. “We’ll start you out as an apprentice’s helper,” she said. “That door leads to the sleeping room. Sleep as long as you like, and put these on when you wake up. Someone will show you what an apprentice’s helper does, just in case visitors catch you upstairs, or outside, and you have to look busy. Can you speak Rasczian?”

“Only a little,” he admitted.

“Don’t try to speak it to a native. This country doesn’t have foreigners, and a person who can’t speak Rasczian flawlessly is unheard of. We should do something about your hair, no rase has long curly hair, but perhaps you can get by if you wear the cap. Anything else you’d like to know?”

“Yes,” Farrari said. “Why was I brought here?”

“Day before yesterday,” she said seriously, “base informed us that the kru was dead. We don’t often receive information from base. We are the ones who tell base what is happening in Scorvif. None of our agents had an inkling that the kru was in anything but the best of health, but, if base thought otherwise, we had to investigate. So we did, with considerable trouble and risk, and we learned that the kru was dead. That startled all of us. In the meantime Peter had returned to base to take care of accumulated business and pick up supplies, and he passed the word that the moving picture had been removed from the Life Temple. So we floated a platform up to the temple—this planet having no moon is sometimes very useful—and had a peek behind that precious drapery, and sure enough, the moving picture had been removed. Naturally Peter—all of us—wanted to know how base was finding out these things, and when it turned out that the Cultural Survey trainee was responsible, Peter decided to bring him here to find out what else he could do.” She smiled. “So that’s why you’re here. Better get some sleep. You’ll have an audience tomorrow—every agent who can get away is likely to want to see a Cultural Survey trainee in action.”

Farrari found himself in action as soon as he awoke, and he enjoyed none of it. He cleaned out a narnpf stall, learning to handle a heavy, wood-bladed shovel while not breathing through his nose. He helped to unload a grain wagon and then to load a flour wagon, mastering after a fashion the technique of balancing the heavy crocks on edge and maneuvering them. The young IPR agents performed such heavy manual labor stoically. Natives did it; they were natives, so they did it. Farrari’s muttered complaints first amused and then annoyed them. They sternly ordered him to mutter in silence until he’d learned to complain in Rasczian, and as punishment they left him to line up the grain crocks by himself. He managed to do it, upsetting only three of them on the process. Fortunately the seals held and there was no audience.

Rani Holt finally rescued him, leading him off to a meal of regulation IPR rations. He thanked her sincerely; she smiled and remarked that the native food took some getting used to, and those who had been eating it for years tended to forget that. Since Farrari had developed no compelling fondness for manipulating grain crocks, he ate slowly and relaxed his aching muscles. Not until he had finished did she inform him that he’d been ordered to attend a staff meeting that had already started.

He attempted to slip into the room unobserved, but conversation halted when he appeared. Enis Holt motioned him to the table, Jorrul indicated a vacant chair, and the four strange faces regarded him with frank curiosity.

Jorrul performed introductions: Anan Borgley, 112, baker in Scorv. Ned Lindor, 89, grainery supervisor. Bion Brilett, 130, stonecutter. Karl Mdan, 193, potter. Farrari acknowledged the introductions gravely, feeling increasingly impressed and puzzled. These men, in the work dress of their occupations, could visit a miller as often as they chose without causing comment. The baker could he buying flour; the grainery supervisor selling grain; the stonecutter shaping new millstones; the potter delivering grain crocks. IPR had achieved a fiendish efficiency on this planet. Why, then, did it accomplish so little?

“We have a mystery on our hands,” Jorrul said. “The kru is dead but there has been no public announcement except for the drapery on the Life Temple and no explanation of that. And there seems to be no public reaction. We were wondering if perhaps it’s been so long since a kru died that neither the officials nor the citizens quite know what’s to be done, or how they should act.”

“The kru was considered a god,” Farrari said. “Surely there’d be a religious tradition concerning his death, and for anything that important there’d be a voluminous written record. What does Jan Prochnow have to say about it?”

The six pairs of eyes remained fixed on Farrari. Jorrul said lightly, “We’d like to know what Cultural Survey has to say about it.”

Farrari experienced neither anger nor resentment. They had a new toy to play with, a Cultural Survey toy, and whether he joined in their game or not, the result had been predetermined by them. Two thousand years.

“Do the citizens know the meaning of the tapestry?” he asked.

“A guard was posted at the entrance to the temple square before the drapery was hung,” Borgley answered. “The square has been closed off ever since, at considerable inconvenience to the population—the city’s main thoroughfare passes through it. So they must know that something has happened or is about to happen, but no one talks about it.”

“You knew the kru was dead as soon as you saw the tapestry,” Jorrul said. “The citizens of Scorvif ought to be as perceptive as a Cultural Survey trainee concerning their own kru, but there’s been no reaction. Why?”

“Has any kind of tapestry or cloth been hung there before?” Farrari asked.

Borgley shook his head.

“I knew the kru was dead because the final picture said so. Is it possible to make out the details of the tapestry from outside the square?”

“No. It’s an extremely large square. The details wouldn’t be visible without binoculars, and the rascz don’t have any.”

“If a tapestry is hung only when the kru dies, the citizens wouldn’t have to see the details to get the message. Do you have a teloid of it?”

Jorrul wheeled in a projector and snapped the cube into it. Farrari studied the projection meditatively. “In my report I noted that the final scene—the one without the kru—was crudely done. I was wrong. It was hastily done.” The six pairs of eyes were now frowning into the projection. “A religious tradition,” Farrari went on. “The kru is dead. The kru’s portrait is on the facade of the Life Temple. The portrait of a dead kru on the Life Temple is sacrilege. So, in a frenzy of haste, slap the final scene onto the tapestry so it can be hung over the facade and the portrait removed.”

“Interesting,” Jorrul remarked politely. “But why no public announcement?”

“You’re asking the wrong question,” Farrari said. “Either the mere hanging of the tapestry is announcement enough, or it’s considered none of the public’s business. The question is—what are they waiting for? The kru is dead. If they were giving him a state funeral, they would have announced his death and at least started preparations. They haven’t, so they probably won’t. So why don’t they invest, or crown, or elevate, or whatever it is they do to the new kru, and carry on?” He thought for a moment. “Prochnow has the idea that the dead kru selects the eye through which he will watch over his subjects for all eternity, and when he dies he’s buried behind it. If true, the kru’s death means only that he’ll be watching over his people from a different residence. The really significant thing would be the elevating of the new kru. And the new kru—” He paused. “Of course. They can’t crown the new kru until his portrait is on the Life Temple. The Kemple of the kru without a portarit of a live kru to adorn it is likewise sacrilege. Right now the new kru should he sitting for his portrait, and because it’s a portrait of the kru, they won’t dare to do it hastily.”

The others exchanged solemn glances that suddenly twisted into grins. Jorrul said, “One of our agents—that’s 178—is a krolc, a priest’s lay servant, which is the closest we’ve ever been able to place anyone to the priesthood. His master was ordered to Scorv for the ceremonies of enshrinement and coronation—canonization might be a better word, the new kru is invested as a god. Anyway, 178 got to come along. It’s the first time we’ve had an agent inside the Life Temple—legally, that is.”

“Will he be able to take some teloids?” Farrari asked.

“How’s that?”

“Teloids. Of the interior of the Life Temple. I don’t have interiors of a single temple or palace.”

Jorrul said irritably, “Of course. He’s already taken some. Anyway, he reports that every prominent artist in Scorvif is at work on reliefs of the new kru. When one of them comes up with something the kru likes—or maybe something the priests like—the ceremonies can commence. They’ll take down the old kru’s tapestry, hang a blank one, perform the necessary in cantations, and when they remove that the new kru’s portrait will be in place. The Holy Ancestors will have spoken. Prochnow thinks they’ll make a production of it and drag the ceremony out for days.”

“When can I have them?” Farrari asked.

“Have what?”

“The teloids of the temple’s interior?”

Jorrul shrugged. “When they’re processed, I suppose.”

Farrari wrenched his mind back to the business at hand. His anger, when it finally came, was not less fierce because he’d been slow to react. They had set a trap for him, and the fact that he’d made a lucky hit did not distract him from the realization that he could just as easily have made a fool of himself. Testing, he thought, looking about the table with cold contempt, was a game two could play. They’d had their fun with their Cultural Survey toy; he was entitled to a share of amusement in return. He would hand them a problem that no IPR manual could cope with and watch them squirm.

“That’s very interesting,” he mused. “The ceremony, I mean. Is the intent to give the impression that the Holy Ancestors selected the kru’s successor? What I mean is this: Is the mechanics of this known to everyone and, therefore, just a formality, or will the identity of the new kru he revealed only when the portrait is unveiled?”

“We know the identity now,” Jorrul said. “The new kru is at the temple sitting for his portrait, as you put it. It’s one of the old kru’s younger sons—the fourteenth, I believe. There’s a fracas at base over the question of how he was selected. Prochnow thinks he was the kru’s favorite and, therefore, his heir; Heber Clough thinks he was the favorite because he was the heir and some obscure formula of succession is involved. We in the field weren’t aware that the kru had a favorite—son or anything else. I haven’t answered your question, have I?”

“No,” Farrari said. “I was wondering if the priests make the selection and use this ceremonial fa-dela to announce their decision.”

“I don’t know. It may take us centuries to unravel all the details about the succession.”

“But do the kru’s subjects believe?” Farrari persisted. “Do they really think the Holy Ancestors place the portrait of the new kru behind the tapestry, or is it a convention that they profess to accept while cynically ignoring the bulges made by the priests working there?”

“We don’t know,” Anan Borgley said. “This is the first succession we’ve observed, and thus far the average citizen—we work at being absolutely average—seems to know nothing about it, so we know nothing about it.”

“Do you have a teloid of the old kru’s relief?”

Jorrul thought he did, rummaged through an unsorted box of cubes, decided he didn’t, and finally found one. The others waited indifferently as he snapped it into the projector and the old kru’s wrinkled face formed in front of them. Farrari studied it intently, slowly shaking his head.

“I wish it were a painting,” he said finally. “A painting I think I could manage, but I never was worth a damn at sculpture.”

Jorrul sat down heavily. “What’s that about painting?”

“I was thinking what a lovely joke it would be if they dropped the tapestry and found someone else’s portrait there. An older son, or a nephew, or even a total stranger. What would happen?”

“That’s an interesting question, but, of course, we couldn’t interfere.”

“Why not? DEMOCRACY IMPOSED FROM WITHOUT doesn’t say a thing about switching portraits.”

“Other rules do. We can’t tamper with a religious ceremony.”

“We wouldn’t. We’d just alter one of the props.”

“Even if there’s no rule against it,” Jorrul said, “and there almost certainly is, and even if the coordinator were to approve it, and he almost certainly wouldn’t, the preparations would require more time than we’d have. The artists work ing on the new kru’s portrait have a long start on you, and anyway, if you’re no good at sculpture—” He dismisssd the subject with a shrug.

Farrari ignored him. His eyes were fixed admiringly on the image of the old kru. “That’s the trouble with great art,” he observed in the confident tones of a lecturer at the CS Academy. “The more realistic it is, the more it goes beyond realism. We couldn’t begin to match the expressiveness this sculptor achieved. He’s represented a cruel, self-centered old man and made him seem like a god. The dissipation in his face takes on a hallowed aspect. I wonder if the artist really believed in what he was doing, or if he was just more skilled than any artist has a right to be. We couldn’t match this expressiveness, but absolute realism may be an adequate substitute. Care to nominate anyone for kru?”

Jorrul left the room and returned with an armload of manuals. He began leafing through them, checking reference after reference. When finally he pushed them aside he seemed amused and at the same time perplexed.

“There isn’t anything in the regulations to cover it,” he admitted.

“I didn’t see how there could he,” Farrari said.

“The instructions about tampering with a religion are explicit enough: don’t. Whether or not what you’re proposing could really be called tampering is moot, but if your substitute portrait approximated the style of art they’re accustomed to, we could consider the switch a mere act of politics. I have five volumes about tampering with technology—they can be summarized with the same word, don’t—but this notion of yours doesn’t technically concern either religion or technology.”

“Of course not,” Farrari said. “It concerns technography.”

Jorrul turned again to his manuals and after a few minutes announced, “I can’t find a reference to that. How long would it take you to make a portrait?”

“A couple of hours.”

Jorrul gaped at him.

“I won’t have to do it by hand,” Farrari explained. “I’ll find a teloid of the candidate we want and have it enlarged into a three-dimensional fix and a relief casting made in plastic metal.”

“Plastic—”

“It should be possible to mix a plastic that the natives couldn’t tell from their black marble without handling it. They won’t be handling it. We’ll rig the thing with its own power supply so it’ll administer a stiff electric shock to anyone who touches it.” He grinned around a circle of blank faces. “There wouldn’t be any point in going to all this trouble if as soon as the priests notice the switch they can raise the tapestry and do a switch of their own. If the Holy Ancestors are going to speak through us, we have a solemn obligation to leave the impression that they mean what they say. I’m sure Graan could make the casting at base. Your men might even be able to do it here.”

Jorrul shook his head. “That would be tampering.”

“No, sir. Reinforcing. If there are any nonbelievers among the priests, they’ll be converted the instant they touch our portrait.”

Jorrul obviously was not convinced, but he asked, “Whose portrait would you use?”

“We can ask Heber Clough for suggestions. The royal family is his department.”

Ned Lindor, the grainery supervisor, said dryly, “Clough isn’t the only person familiar with the royal family. Where did you think he was getting his information? But there isn’t much choice, one member is as bad as the next. If there was an outstanding candidate, I’d say—don’t use him. We wouldn’t want to lose a man who might have some long-term value to us, and anyone we’d choose would have an excellent chance of being murdered.”

“Murdered?” Farrari exclaimed.

“Murdered. When you tamper with the succession to a throne, you aren’t playing a child’s game. But as I said, one is as had as the next.”

“Then we can concentrate on physiognomy,” Farrari said. “It should be someone who’ll be instantly recognized and who looks nothing like the legitimate heir.”

“There’s a relative of the old kru,” Borgley said. “We’re not sure how he’s related—maybe a cousin, maybe a younger brother. His long nose has been something of a joke all his life. He’s an old man himself, and he’s contributed more than his fair share of evil to this world. No one would mistake his profile, and if he comes to a bad end at this late date we needn’t lose any sleep over it.”

“Good idea,” Jorrul said. “It’d be a pleasure to see old Hook Nose get his.”

“You mean—we can do it?” Farrari asked incredulously.

“Certainly not. It’s an ingenious idea, and one that might be tremendously effective—at the proper time. For example, if there was a revolutionary movement flourishing, something like this could give it enough impetus to make it a success. Using it now wouldn’t accomplish a thing—old Hook Nose isn’t capable of leading a revolution and it wouldn’t change the situation in Scorvif if he did—and we’d destroy the idea’s effectiveness for later use. I wouldn’t consider using it now. It’s too good an idea to waste.”