Before the first plans were drawn, land values had inflated beyond Korak’s most sanguine expectations and almost beyond his belief. Millionaires from neighboring worlds were delighted with the astonishing diversity the site provided and pleased at the prospect of a vacation estate on the doorstep, as it were, of a glittering new world capital. They bid fantastic prices for the hills and valleys across the river, or for choice seashore estates. Korak judiciously sold other parcels only when necessary, taking full advantage of the rampantly inflating values, and he presented the Quorum with a complex of governmental buildings already paid for and retired Donov’s longstanding indebtedness as well.
There was a native style of architecture, appropriate to an impoverished world of farmers and ranchers: sturdy, frugal, and uncomplicated; and the first millionaires found it charming and managed to incorporate it into vast mansions. Their followers allowed pride in the worlds of their origins to expand beyond rational limits, and they gathered together into neighborhoods where their new homes flaunted the more objectionable features of the dwellings of their native worlds.
Millionaires from Wrytho, a world of vast, shallow seas and lush, flat islands, settled on the bay, laced their little community with a network of canals, and built their homes on ornate stilts to guard against the floods that had never occurred in all of Donov’s recorded history. Those from the mountainous worlds of Skuron and Qwant took to the steep hills with glad cries of recognition and built homes in their native tradition, which seemed to insist that a building with fewer than five steeply ascending levels was best reserved as a stable for servants. Along the seashore the natives of Adjus, a world of raging oceans, ornamented their homes with complicated launching ramps capable of putting a ship safely afloat in the wildest seas, and they actually used these to launch pleasure craft in Donov’s quiet waters. Those from the desert world of Minoff claimed Donov Metro’s diminutive desert as their own, built stubby towers of cast silicons, imported varieties of desert blooms and killed them off with the lavish amounts of water available from the surrounding hills, and sometimes actually constructed and used their own recycling systems to convert wastes to fresh water.
The millionaires occupied an inordinate amount of space and not Infrequently behaved as though their investments in Donovian real estate also gave them a controlling interest in the government, but no one resented them. The lavish homes gave employment to thousands.
The remainder of Donov Metro was a complex of cities separated by belts and chains of parks and throughways: Government City, at the center, was surrounded by Commercial City, with its stores and offices and vast blocks of hostels for visitors and tourists. Old City was made up of buildings Korak had insisted on preserving from the original provincial town on that site, and they contributed a priceless flavor and heritage of the past. Port City included Donov Metro’s seaports and spaceports, along with a sprawling complex of service facilities, customs warehouses, and homes for vast numbers of its employees, The seaport was another project Korak brought into being over the protests of the politicians—he thought it silly for an impoverished world to be indulging in the more expensive forms of transportation when money was so much more important than time. There was New City, a regimented arrangement of dwellings where the lower-paid government workers lived, and other cities for other classes, from the moderately well-off to those nabobs who were too snobbish to associate with their fellow millionaires, whom they claimed were snobbish.
This was Donov Metro, which would be Korak Metro the moment Ian Korak was no longer in office to prevent it. Visitors invariably thought it the most unusual city they had ever seen, but it was also t he most memorable, with its wild vistas and sea views, its strangely structured mansions perched atop steep hills, its magnificent government buildings in pastel-tinted Donovian marble, its stunning sea cruises and languid river-boat rides, its unequaled art collections. Few who saw it were satisfied to see it only once.
Neal Wargen knew Donov Metro as he knew the top of his own desk—in a sense it was his desk top—and he loved all of it and nil of the world of Donov. He considered himself the most fortunate or mortals, because he had youth, health, and wealth, and his work permitted him to do the things he most enjoyed, in the places he most loved.
But he did not entirely escape frustrations. M’Don had supplied reports on the rioting and all the supplementary information Wargen requested. Whenever one of his agents returned from a riot world, M’Don sent him to Wargen to deliver an eyewitness report. Wargen posted a large star chart upon one wall of his office, and on this he traced the course of the riots with a color scheme of his own devising, and what emerged was a sinister, coiling star monster that seemed to be positioning itself to strangle the world of Donov.
It was as though a freakish spacial wind had spiraled through that sector of the galaxy, tossing the bitter flame of hatred from world to world. The wind had died down; the rioting was continuing sporadically but was no longer spreading. The pattern that Wargen discerned was the path of the wind, but he was utterly unable to say why, or whence, or how.
In the meantime he had a job to perform, and therein lay his frustration. Instead of pondering cosmic causes and effects, he was forced to devote his full attention to a developing scandal concerning the Sornorian embassy and two obscure and apparently inconsequential artists.
For some days members of the embassy staff had been scanning the artists’ activities. An embassy clerk in a small staff van with diplomatic markings followed the artists: a large rented transport crammed with embassy guards followed the clerk. The operation was about as subtle as a tidal wave and flagrantly violated both law and ethics of interplanetary diplomacy.
Wargen never willingly credited anyone with stupidity. He had to assume that the two virtually anonymous artists had somehow achieved, on the peaceful world of Donov, an involvement of such crucial concern to the interests of another world that they had to be interfered with even at the risk of a colossal diplomatic scandal.
Both artists had long-established reputations for impecuniosity, but recently they’d been spending money with reckless indulgence. They traveled, they rented vehicles, they stayed at one of the Metro’s more expensive hostels, they sent substantial sums to Sornor to a person who proved to be, on discreet inquiry, nonexistent, and they ordered large quantities of art supplies.
The purchase of art supplies by artists seemed unremarkable until Wargen reflected that the shipment came from Sornor, a most unlikely source. Further, the artists took shipment of the supplies at Port Ornal and immediately transshipped them to Donov Metro, where they were picked up by local artists and taken to a communal artists’ dwelling in Old City. Considerable of both time and money could have been saved in buying from a different source and having the supplies shipped directly to Donov Metro.
The shipment had passed customs properly, and the invoice showed nothing remotely suspicious. It was possible that the pair had devised a new smuggling technique, but the world of Sornor would not prod its embassy into frenzied activity because of smuggling on Donov. If it were a question of merchandise leaving Sornor illegally, Sornor could have placed a hold through proper channels and requested legal arbitration. It had not done so.
As a final fillip to Wargen’s frustration, the artists affected an unsuspecting naivete that defied comprehension. They seemed to extend themselves to avoid causing the van driver strain or inconvenience. At the same time the thugs in the transport went to ludicrous lengths to simulate an innocent crowd of tourists enjoying the thrilling view or various inconsequential byways through which the artists led them. Wargen’s men followed the transport, the transport followed the van, the van followed the artists, and the artists seemed to be enjoying themselves immensely. If Wargen had been less perplexed about the situation he could have found it hilarious.
That changed in an instant. The artists and their rented transport vanished, having set the van driver up for it so beautifully that he continued straigh
t ahead for a full mile before he realized that he was scanning an empty street. The Sornorians had a dozen vehicles on the scene almost at once, and all of them performed reckless gyrations through an entire quadrant of Donov Metro in search of the artists.
Finally they admitted failure, and a short time later there came an electrifying report from General Police Headquarters. The Sornorian embassy had furnished information on a smuggling conspiracy and provided a detailed description of the artists and their transport. Customs immediately affirmed that one of the described men had claimed a crate of art supplies a short time before, a traffic referee identified the artists’ transport on a Metro throughway, and the chase was on.
Wargen requested a copy of the invoice on the art supplies, and while he monitored the pursuit he compared it with the invoice on the previous shipment. The two were identical. He was still pondering this when he received word that all of the Sornorians were headed for Old City at somewhat faster speeds than the law permitted. This meant that the Sornorian embassy was also monitoring the pursuit, which was not illegal but immensely interesting.
By the time the referee had completed the protested inventory of the artists’ shipment and flashed a negative report, Wargen had added up his meager accumulation of facts and was grimly contemplating the result. He still had no notion of what Sornor thought the artists were doing, but at least he understood how they had done it.
A short time later Wargen had a visitor—Bran Demron, the portly, graying superintendent of Donov’s police. The two men were immensely fond of each other, and because Wargen was generous with the information at his disposal and gave advice only when asked, they got along well. The fiasco Demron’s traffic referee had blundered into could have humiliating consequences, and he was asking for advice.
“Referees don’t often have to function as police,” he said, “but they know the law, and they were told to locate the suspected vehicle and report. One of them thought he’d be a hero, and now I’ll have to support him. The fool!”
“It’s a problem in depth,” Wargen said.
“Ah!” Demron pulled up a chair and waited expectantly.
Wargen described the week-long behavior of the Sornorians. “They expected the artists to lead them to whatever it is they want, and they intended to take it from them by force. When the artists gave them the slip, they filed the smuggling complaint and let your referees find them again.”
“Then why didn’t my man find whatever it is the Sornorians are after?” Demron demanded.
“Because these particular artists could give lessons to your man and the Sornorians. In fact, they just have.” He told him about the duplicate shipments.
“So which one contained the contraband?” Demron asked.
“The second. Obviously. If it’d been the first, they’d have it thoroughly hidden by now, and this farce they’ve just enacted wouldn’t have been necessary. The second shipment contained the contraband, and they had just enough time to whisk it out of the way and transfer the labels and seals to the first crate—which they’d never opened before your referee landed.”
“We’ll go back and look again. I still have a writ of search.”
Wargen shook his head. “The arbiter has voided it because of the artists’ complaint of a prior illegal search.”
Demron groaned. “I should have posted a watch. By this time the contraband is scattered all over Donov Metro.”
“I doubt it. All of the artists are still there. The street outside is rather crowded, though—in addition to my men, there are two dozen Sornorians on watch. Obviously they’re convinced that the artists still have what they want. Can you have fifty uniformed men there before dark? My men will show them where to go.”
“What’s the plan?”
“After dark the Sornorians will storm the place and try to take whatever it is they’re after.”
“I’ll have them picked up now,” Demron said.
“Since your man couldn’t find the contraband, let’s let the Sornorians try.”
“No.” Demron shook his head emphatically. “They’d claim diplomatic immunity, and we wouldn’t even be able to search them unless we caught them committing a felony.”
“But you will. You’ll catch them breaking into a private residence and also taking part in the brawl that’s certain to follow. The last I heard there were twenty-five artists living in that dwelling, and they always have a crowd of visitors. A number of them are the kind of people I’d rather have on my side in any kind of a fracas. The Sornorians are badly underestimating what’s required to take something away from a houseful of artists.”
Demron said indignantly, “What do you want me to do? Just stand there and watch them fight?”
“Only until one side is obviously getting the better of it,” Wargen said, grinning.
“So what does that accomplish?”
“Surely your police don’t need a writ to enter a dwelling where an outrageous violation of the peace is occurring.”
“Ah!”
“And once they’ve entered, they’ll have the right and the duty to search the premises thoroughly for violators and weapons. Naturally your men won’t take sides—they’ll arrest everyone in sight and let the arbiter sort things out in the morning. After a night in confinement the artists may decide to cancel their complaint about today’s illegal search in return for a dismissal of charges about disturbing the peace, but that’s merely a deserved windfall for your hard-working police.”
For a moment Demron stared at him. Then he leaned back and wheezed and gasped for breath as his huge body shook with laughter.
Demron and Wargen watched from across the street while cameras recorded the stealthy approach of the Sornorian thugs. A short time later a dozen shoulders hit the gate leading into the artists’ courtyard, and battle was joined.
The artists hadn’t imagined such an open flaunting of the law. The Sornorians were inside the building before they could react, which satisfied Wargen—the police would have had difficulty in justifying a search of the house had the fighting taken place in the street. When the artists did react it was with an awesome ferocity. One after another the Sornorians were tossed back into the street. When the fifth landed there, Wargen signaled the police into action.
The fracas was under control before neighboring Donovians had sufficiently aroused themselves from their postrepastal lethargy to wonder what was happening. Police treated both the artists’ complaints and the Sornorians’ bleated claims of diplomatic immunity with splendid impartiality and told both sides to tell it to the arbiter in the morning. Demron’s detective squad went to work, and a few minutes later Demron summoned Wargen. “Want to see something?” he demanded, his eyes shining with excitement.
“Did you find it?”
“Everyone who occupies one of these dwellings,” Demron said, “thinks that the concealed room is his own personal secret. The fact is that every dwelling in Old City has one, in exactly the same place. Look here!”
Wargen stared. Several highly dejected artists were being led out, and with them came one of the galaxy’s most beautiful creations, a nonor, of gleaming fur, graceful proportions, long neck, and high, noble forehead above a long, tapering snout. Some scientists claimed that it was also one of the galaxy’s most intelligent creations.
“No wonder the Sornorians were in a stew!” Wargen exclaimed. “But wait—surely they wouldn’t make all that fuss over just any nonor. It must be one of the leaders.”
“It’s more than that,” Demron said. “It’s Franff.”
“Franff is dead!” Wargen protested.
“Maybe that’s why the Sornorians were in such a stew.”
7
The next morning Wargen visited the Hall of Justice disguised as a tourist. Only the charges against Franff and the artists Brance and Milfro were filed for arbitration. The other artists had been released in exchange for a withdrawal of the illegal search and trespassing complaints. The diplomatic immunity of t
he Sornorians had been conceded, but orders had been issued expelling the ambassador and the entire embassy staff. Sornor’s application for Franff’s extradition would be heard along with the police charges—illegal entry against Franff, and conspiracy against the two artists for their role in smuggling Franff onto Donov.
Wargen seated himself at the rear of the arbitration room, arranged himself with the flopping tourist’s hat covering his face, aimed its pointed brim at the artists and Franff—who sat together in the conference area talking in low voices—and pretended to take a nap. A directional detector picked up their words clearly. Thus far they had no attorney to confer with, and the government’s protagonist had tired of waiting and left, placing himself on call.
“We shouldn’t have brought Franff to Donov Metro,” Milfro said.
Brance said tiredly, “The way the Sornorians were snooping around, this would have happened anywhere we took him. What we should have done was get an attorney before we started.”
“They won’t participate in illegal activities.”
“Of course they will. All they ask is some advance notice so they can figure out ways of doing illegal things legally.”
“None of that is any help to us now. Let’s start thinking about what we’re going to do.”
Franff’s whispering voice reached Wargen faintly. “If you’ll get me out of here, I’ll go to Zrilund and disguise myself as a wrranel. A talking wrranel ought to be a splendid tourist attraction, and I’d like to see Zrilund again. I’d also like to see Anna.”
Brance reached over and caressed the long, silken neck. “Even if they send you back, old fellow, we’ll somehow manage to bring Anna to see you before you leave. As for Zrilund, you might not like it. It’s showing its age, and the tourists have ruined it. You wouldn’t believe the paintings on sale there.”
The Light That Never Was Page 8
