The Light That Never Was

by Lloyd Biggle, Jr.

  Not even Wargen’s mother knew that.

  3

  Lights wreathed the fabulous hilltop mansion, and Ronony Gynth’s guests, brilliantly cloaked, immaculately garmented, glitteringly adorned, filed into the enormous, gold-festooned rev room, where the steward announced them with the mellifluous tones of a trained melodist.

  The guest of honor, the newly arrived ambassador from Mestil, His Emissary the Grandee Halu Norrt, sat on Ronony’s private balcony with his wife and staff and studied the clustering and drifting and eddying throng with intense interest. Ronony sat nearby, artfully concealed by shadows. Rumor had it that she was an invalid, that she suffered a disfiguring disease, that she was grotesquely fat and disgustingly lazy. Whatever the cause, none of her guests had ever met her. She never accepted invitations, and she attended her own revs only as a secluded spectator.

  She pushed her earpiece aside and touched the ambassador’s arm. “The young man near the entrance—that’s Neal Wargen, the World Manager’s First Secretary.”

  “Ah! The Count Wargen! And the lady?”

  “The countess, his mother. He’s a full citizen of Donov, as was his father, and the fact that he’s Korak’s First Secretary is vastly more important here than his being a registered and certified count somewhere else. All the best people call him ‘Count,’ though. See the girl who’s watching him? That’s Eritha Korak, the World Manager’s granddaughter. She has a mad crush on him, much to his mother’s disgust. The Koraks have always been commoners, wherever they’ve been, and they have no status at all.”

  “But on this world, where there is no official nobility, isn’t the World Manager rather beyond status?”

  Ronony snorted. “World managers are merely civil servants with exaggerated responsibilities. On Donov—oh, all right, beyond status, but that doesn’t make the right people want to have anything to do with him socially. Or with her.”

  “He serves the people of Donov, not you carpetbagging interlopers and vacationers from other worlds,” the ambassador said lightly. “How many citizens of Donov do you number among those ‘right people?’ ”

  Ronony did not answer. A few late-comers swept through the entrance, and her portly steward stepped forward to greet them. She picked up her earpiece and turned a dial on the console at her elbow.

  The steward announced the new guests and turned them adrift, and a gathering wave of servants pounced on them to offer food and beverages.

  Again Ronony pushed the earpiece aside. “There are complaints because there’s no reception line. People had counted on meeting you.”

  “I’m tired of answering questions about those poor animals,” the ambassador growled. “And how would I know what’s causing the riots? I haven’t been home for nine years. Don’t they realize that an assignment to a vacation world is supposed to mean a well-earned vacation?”

  Ronony said soberly, “I do hope the rioting is finished. Fortunately the onus is spread somewhat because so many worlds are involved, but even so—couldn’t there have been controls on the news media to stop this daily agitation?”

  “The situation developed so rapidly that it took everyone by surprise, at which point it was already too late to impose control. The Lord Censor probably felt that the resultant rumors would be more harmful than the facts.”

  “What is causing the riots?”

  “If I knew, or if I had any notion of a remedy, I’d be on Mestil instead of here. It’s a nasty dilemma, and I can’t begin to understand it. Everyone knows that our animaloids are invaluable, and still our subjects riot against them. I’m only grateful that I don’t have the responsibility for solving the problem.” He leaned forward and changed the subject. “Very pretty. A splendid party. But—no music? No dancing?”

  Ronony smiled. “Music has an unfortunate tendency to cover up conversation.”

  “Ah! And you do this every month, and yet your guests have never seen you. Amazing!”

  “I could have twice this attendance, but by limiting the invitations I make them that much more prized.”

  “And you actually obtain all that vital intelligence at these revs?”

  “Occasionally I obtain vital information here, but I always overhear a great deal of careless conversation that can lead to important information if used properly. My organization uses it properly.”

  “Remarkable! Donov is such an insignificant world.”

  “A silly world. It has no army, only the one space cruiser its membership in the Federation requires, and not even an effective police force. It doesn’t threaten anyone and it has nothing that anyone would want. I have fat dossiers on at least a dozen high Donovian officials and politicians, I could blackmail them easily, but why bother? No, our operation is valuable for precisely that reason. Donov is unimportant, everyone relaxes here, and people who relax tend to become careless—and that applies to the diplomatic staffs as well as to important government officials and the prominent people who vacation here.”

  “I’ll take every precaution to keep my staff from becoming relaxed,” the ambassador promised. “And—no one even suspects?”

  “Of course not. I have to use unpowered pickups—there are people who carry detectors as a matter of course, even on Donov, and one beep would shatter everything I’ve accomplished. That means I can’t cover the center of the room unless I contrive some kind of low-hanging decorations, but most of the confidential talk takes place along walls or in corners.”

  “But you only listen in on a small part of it.”

  “All of it is recorded and studied later. Occasionally I’m able to monitor something vital that requires immediate action. For example—did you know that someone on Mestil has been smuggling out filmstrips of the rioting?”

  “What?”

  “A Donovian importer named Colyff has somehow obtained copies. I’ve been listening to his conversation as much as possible. He’s inviting his friends to see them.”

  The ambassador scrambled to his feet. “I must let the First Lord know at once. Do you realize—”

  “Fully. I’ve already sent a message, and I’m taking steps to obtain the filmstrips. Please sit down, you’re attracting attention.” She leaned forward. “There’s someone I don’t know. Did you catch the name, Carlon?”

  “No, ma’am.” The servant, who had been hovering discreetly behind her chair, hurried away. A short time later he returned. “His name is Jaward Jorno, ma’am. He is escorting the Dame Lilya Vaan.”

  “Strange. I’ve never heard of him.”

  “I understood that he has not been in Donov Metro for many years.”

  “See what you can find out about him.” She turned to the ambassador. “Watch the little Korak girl. She’s still trying to summon courage to speak with Count Wargen. Sometimes I regret that I have to collect information. It would be so amusing just to be able to watch.”

  The Countess Wargen had the rare gift of being at her regally impressive best in a crowd. She swept forward on her son’s arm, and the milling revelers magically parted before them. They moved so easily that Lilya Vaan, attempting to intercept them, was left far behind. Wargen whispered to his mother, and they turned and waited.

  Lilya pushed through to them and breathlessly introduced her escort. “Jaward Jorno, the Countess Wargen and her son, the count.”

  Jorno cocked his head alertly as his wrist touched Wargen’s. “Wargen? Wargen? Say, aren’t you—”

  “The World Manager’s First Secretary,” Lilya purred. She knew better than to keep the countess standing in the center of a room, so she drew Jorno back they exchanged pleasantries, and the Wargens swept away. As Wargen continued to make polite responses to those he met, he searched his memory. To his certain knowledge Jaward Jorno had not been in Donov Metro for years, not officially and publicly. Wargen wondered what he was up to.

  He seated his mother in the terraced conservatory off the main rev room and stepped back as a line of servants formed. One rolled up a serving tray, the others de
ftly filled it as they moved past, and with a disapproving scowl the countess found herself contemplating one of Ronony Gynth’s sumptuous dinners. She loved to eat, but she despised the lozenges that inevitably followed overindulgence. She asked, “Aren’t you hungry, Pet?”

  “I’ll have something later,” Wargen said. He excused himself and left his mother pondering her tray of food amidst the lavish conservatory greenery.

  As he returned to the rev room a hand plucked at his sleeve. “You’re a liar!”

  “You’re a fiend,” Wargen answered calmly.

  Eritha Korak met his eyes sternly and pouted. She was small, attractive without being pretty, and possessed of an inner radiance and a mind and spirit wholly alien to the self-indulgent society of these expatriate or visiting millionaires and noblemen. At the age of ten she had debated foreign policy with full fledged ambassadors, and at the age of fifteen her private tutors confessed that she had completed all the university courses they were qualified to teach. She had found no new worlds to conquer since then. Society did not know what to make of her. As the World Manager’s granddaughter she was entitled to certain social concessions, but she had very little wealth and seemed uninterested in men despite the fact that men of all ages found her fascinating. The young women of her acquaintance hated her thoroughly.

  “You promised to speak with Grandpapa,” she said accusingly.

  “And I did speak with him,” Wargen assured her. “I did and I do. I speak with him almost every day.”

  “About me?”

  “I never promised to speak with him about you. I merely promised to speak with him.”

  “You—you fraud you!”

  “However, I did chance to mention this strange passion of yours for a career in art. He was opposed to it.”

  “Was and is,” she said bitterly. “He says I have no talent. His eyes are so bad that he can’t make out shapes at all, and yet he says—”

  “Have you?”

  “Talent? No.”

  “Then why do you want to study art?”

  “Because I like it. Because I want to know something about it, and the only way to really understand a painting is to take one’s own hand and—” She looked back. “Your mother is glaring at me.”

  “That’s because she thinks you’re a minx.”

  They walked away side by side. “I am a minx,” Eritha said. “I’m also a very bad artist. I’ve flunked the entrance exams to every accredited art school on Donov, and the non-accredited ones don’t want me either. They’re afraid I’ll exhibit my work as evidence of their inept teaching, but I wouldn’t. So I’ll have to go to one of the colonies and learn by doing, and Grandpapa says if I do he’ll cut off my allowance. Do you think he really would?”

  “I’ll guarantee it.”

  “That’s what I thought. Why is it that if I stay at home and fritter away my, time I’m considered respectable if not actually meritorious, and if I try to learn something that will enrich my outlook on life I’m a wanton?”

  “The problem,” Wargen said, “is that most of the non-artists on Donov hate art, and all of them hate artists. You can’t associate with artists without having some of that rub off on you.”

  “But—Grandpapa?”

  “He’s responsible for Donov being an art center, and there must be moments when his conscience is restless about that. In your case, though, he just objects to anyone wasting his time. Did you know he once was an art student himself?”

  “No!”

  Wargen nodded gravely. “He discovered that he had no talent, so he dropped it—just like that—and studied government.” He touched her arm, and they moved toward the center of the room. “To him, the most pathetic figure in modern society is the person who neglects his talents while trying to exercise talents he does not have. It’s a double waste.” He dropped his voice. “You have undeniable talent as a minx. Why don’t you exercise it and find out what Jaward Jorno is doing in Donov Metro?”

  Instantly she turned aside, but—talented minx that she was—she did not head for Jorno but moved in the opposite direction. Wargen turned his attention to the other guests, smiling, touching wrists, pausing now and then for a brief conversation, but even while murmuring social inanities he managed to listen attentively to the conversations around him. When he heard a woman’s voice remark, “Gerald Gwyll—that’s Harnasharn’s assistant—was in Zrilund last week,” he turned abruptly. The vision of a representative of the most famous art gallery in the galaxy among what easily could have been the worst artists in the universe gave pause. Wargen was instantly curious as to what Gwyll had been doing in Zrilund.

  He recognized the speaker, a portly matron whose enthusiasm for art was exceeded only by her abysmally had bad taste. His sudden attention momentarily flustered her, but he favored her with his most disarming smile and asked politely, “How are things in Zrilund?”

  “Gerry says the place is falling apart, but the fountain is beautiful as ever. I don’t know if I should go back for one last look at the old scenes or if I might find the experience crushing. It used to be so charming.”

  “The saddest words of tongue or pen,” Wargen murmured. “It used to be or it might have been.” The woman tittered. “I understand there’s still quite an art colony there. Even falling apart, Zrilund has the best light on Donov—which is saying a great deal.”

  “Art colony, hell!” the matron exploded. “It’s just a tourist trap. There hasn’t been a decent artist working there for years.”

  “It’s really not fair to say that,” Wargen observed thoughtfully. The fact that Gwyll had talked about his trip to Zrilund without mentioning any artists made the situation preposterous. Harnasharn wouldn’t send an employee all the way to Zrilund without an extremely good reason, and if a particular Zrilund artist were involved, Gwyll would have been promoting him at every opportunity. “The younger artists travel about a great deal,” Wargen went on, “and probably all of them want one shot at Zrilund if only because of the light and all that hoary tradition. And as you say, the fountain is as beautiful as ever.”

  The bystanders were listening respectfully. “Maybe that’s where Harnasharn got the paintings for this anonymous exhibit that he’s scheduled,” a man suggested.

  “No!” The matron tittered again, and the man flushed. “No Zrilund artist would consent to being exhibited anonymously. You’re sure about that? Anonymous exhibit? Well, really!”

  Wargen excused himself with a polite smile and moved on, filing a mental reminder to have a look at the exhibit. Eyes followed him, conversation faltered as he approached and welled up behind him, and revelers maneuvered to place themselves where he might notice them. The Count Neal Wargen was a prize for any hostess’s guest list. His presence assured the eager attendance of prominent families with marriageable daughters, of businessmen and politicians who wanted a favor from the World Manager or thought that in the future they might want one, and of a large group of people who merely liked Wargen and enjoyed his company. Wargen knew all of this and bore his burden cheerfully.

  A friend intercepted him—Emrys Colyff, who stood with a small group of men talking in conspiratorial undertones. He spoke introductions, and Wargen touched wrists politely while memorizing names and faces.

  “Has the W.M. been giving any thought to the effect these riots might have on Donov?” Colyff asked.

  “I haven’t heard him mention it,” Wargen said, “but I’d be surprised if he’s been thinking about anything else.”

  “I’ve got ahold of some filmstrips of the Mestil riots—never mind how. Can the W.M. see well enough to make use of them?”

  Wargen shook his head. “He’d ask someone to look and then tell him about them.”

  “He can hear, can’t he?” one of the men asked. “Just hearing those things would be the most shattering experience of his lifetime. Hearing and seeing—”

  Colyff nodded soberly. “If I get them to you, will you see that the W.M. hears them and has someon
e describe them to him?”

  “Certainly. If possible I’ll do it myself.”

  “I’m worried,” Colyff said. “This is going to be bad for business—in times of trouble people tend to stay home and look after their own interests—but there’s more than that at stake. I’m worried that this madness might spread here. I know we haven’t any animaloids for anyone to blow his top about, but I can’t help thinking—madness finds its own object, doesn’t it? We have a lovely world here. I’d like to keep it that way.”

  “Send me the strips,” Wargen said. “I’ll do what I can.”

  As he turned away someone firmly barred his path: Jaward Jorno, slender, superbly conditioned, outstandingly elegant even in that vast room of elegance, handsome, so youthful in appearance that Wargen, who knew his age, found himself doubting it.

  Jorno murmured, “Count Wargen? I’d like to ask you a favor.”

  “Please do,” Wargen said with a smile. It happened a minimum dozen times at every rev.

  “Do you have any influence with your boss?”

  “I can—sometimes—influence the order in which his mail is read to him.”

  “I need to see him. Tomorrow. It’s urgent. That’s why I came to the Metro. I spent the whole dratted afternoon at the Cirque and couldn’t get past the first receptionist.”

  “What did you want to see him about?”

  “A private matter.”

  “Is that what you told the receptionist?”

  Jorno nodded.

  “Then you’ll never see him. He thinks of himself as a public official, and he’s pleased to discuss public business with almost anyone, at almost any time. He considers private business none of his business.”

  “I see.”

  “I’d suggest that you draw up a memo demonstrating how your private business touches the public interest.”

  “If I gave you such a memo, would you see that it reaches him?”

  “Certainly. That’s my job.”