“I commend you. And I recommend that you begin your operations elsewhere. Donov is a poorly chosen place to start a program of equality among the species, because it has so few.”
“We need advice, Excellency. We wish to start a refugee colony on Donov. We petition for your recommendations as to how to proceed and for your support. The committee will furnish all necessary funds and any required financial guarantee for the future.”
“Forever?” Korak asked politely.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Someone in the Quorum is certain to ask the question. How many refugees did you have in mind?”
“No specific number. We have no notion as to what problems we might encounter in—ah—removing them from their present worlds. Since they’re being murdered on sight, one might suppose that their governments would be pleased to see them go, but we fear that this won’t be the case. A hundred, a thousand, ten thousand—we’ll raise whatever funds are necessary to support any number available, assuming that we can find a place for them.”
“Someone in the Quorum is certain to ask if you’re prepared to offer financial guarantees to support them forever. Refugees rarely return to their original homes, even if they’re eventually permitted to do so. They’d have to be considered immigrants, and of course Donov’s immigration laws would apply.”
“We’ve investigated the immigration laws. They aren’t much help.”
“Then you should ask your friends in the Quorum to sponsor special legislation.”
“That’s even less help. Privately endorsing a humanitarian appeal is one thing. Publicly supporting such a measure in the face of so much turmoil on other worlds would be a different matter. Is there no other way?”
Korak shook his head. “I know of no world manager who owns a magic wand, and if one did he’d hesitate to use it on a problem as complex and uncertain as this one. It’s unfortunate.”
“It’s the worst tragedy in the histories of more than twenty worlds. If you should think of an alternative, Excellency, I, the committee, and humane-thinking people everywhere will thank you.”
Korak said slowly, “If I think of an alternative—and it seems to be in the best interest of the people of Donov—I’ll let you know.”
“And in the meantime those poor creatures—” Jorno broke off and bowed deeply. “Thank you. I’m sure you’ll do your best.”
As Jorno departed another light flashed on Wargen’s desk, and he strode to the private elevator. A moment later he was in the lair.
“What do you know about him?” Korak asked.
“Millionaire,” Wargen said. “Not a native of Donov.”
Korak chuckled. “Do you know any who are?”
Wargen said wonderingly, “I never thought of that. It’s true—all of our millionaires, or at least their immediate ancestors, are imports.”
“The penalty we pay for being the vacation world of the galaxy,” Korak murmured. “Continue, please.”
“Jorno inherited an enormous fortune. He shuns Metro society, but in the resort circles he frequents he’s popular. For a long time he was considered a most desirable catch on the matrimonial front, but none of the delectable baits offered were able to attract him. Some thought this reflected a fondness for bachelorhood, and others felt that since he didn’t need money he could afford to hold out for a richer heiress than those available in recent years. Speaking as a wealthy bachelor, this makes no sense to me.”
“Nor to me, speaking as an impoverished married man,” Korak said. “His occupation? Profession?”
“His profession is law. His father kept him at it until he qualified, but he never practiced it. His occupation is spending his father’s money, and all the indications are that he has a splendid talent for that.”
“Which tallies with my information precisely. The one thing that does not tally is his ‘Good Works.’ ”
“I didn’t investigate that, since I didn’t know he had any. Nor does anyone else; at least, no one talks about them. He does spend a great deal of time on other worlds, and it’s possible—but wait. He owns an estate on the southern coast. A large chunk of the coast and a string of islands. Undeveloped, all of it, except for an elaborate winter home. Jorno’s father considered it a valuable long-term investment, and it’d be excellent resort property right now if it were properly developed and promoted. It’s along the eastern edge of the Rinoly Peninsula.”
“I know the area.”
“Jorno evidently has or had an interest in agriculture. He introduced a new fiber plant there,
tarff
, persuaded farmers to try it, and even financed a marketing organization to handle it.”
“I don’t recall hearing anything about that,” Korak mused. “It’s a poor agricultural region. How’d the fiber do?”
“Very well. It thrives in that particular rocky soil. Unfortunately, there’s no market for it on Donov. Its processing requires huge amounts of cheap labor. The farmers have accepted quotas, though, and they’re growing just enough to export at times of peak demand on other worlds, and it’s resulted in small cash incomes for them, which they desperately needed. From their point of view that certainly was a Good Work. Jorno is very popular down there.”
“Interesting. What with his importing alien plants and participating in interworld organizations, he must have far-flung contacts.”
“He has his own space yacht—Donov registry.”
“It’s odd that the one group of refugees he mentioned should be from Mestil,” Korak observed. “Any new developments there?”
“No, and there won’t be any.”
“I’m very much afraid we’ll have to do something about Ronony Gynth.”
“So am I, but I keep hoping that we won’t. An elaborate spy organization is amusing to watch, not to mention educational. Of course hidden microphones are one thing and outright acts of burglary are something else. I knew about the filmstrips the day Colyff received them, and I also knew that Ronony would find out that he had them. So I posted a scan on Colyff’s home and office, and four of Ronony’s best men were caught in the act. Neither she nor the embassy dares to show any interest in them. They think we’re rather naive, but they don’t go so far as to consider us fools. As for the refugees—why not accept them on Donov?”
Korak smiled sadly. “The young really can’t appreciate man’s capacity for hatred.”
“I still have the conviction that the riots followed—are following—a plan, but I suppose hatred is as susceptible to manipulation as any other emotion.”
“The problem is difficult to comprehend on Donov, because we have no animaloids. The occasional visitor is an object of curiosity rather than animosity. Where animaloids exist in large numbers, humans come to fear them—in some instances with good reason, I might add, but that isn’t true of any of the riot worlds. Obviously fear can lead to hatred for no reason at all. The Quorum would certainly refuse to admit them. Have you anything else?”
“Perhaps. According to a news item, one of the animaloids killed in the rioting on Sornor was an artist.”
Korak leaned forward. “What artist?”
“He lived on Donov for many years and was quite well known here. He went by the name of Franff. I remember him myself—I saw him when I was a child. He handled the sprayers with his mouth. Attracted crowds wherever he went. He was a rather good artist.”
“I missed the news item,” Korak said. “Franff was more than a rather good artist—he was one of the celebrities of his day and a friend and companion of a host of immortals. He was more than that, even. He was Franff. He was unique. Several of his paintings are masterpieces. Has there been talk about this?”
“Only among the older artists. He seems to have been a popular character. Are artists more tolerant than other humans?”
“Animaloid artists are rare, and one per generation isn’t a fair test. I’ll answer that when I’ve seen their reaction to a thousand. Anything else?”
“I’ve recently attempted an investigation among artists, and I made no headway at all because I have very few contacts. This reminded me that Eritha wants to study art.”
“She merely wants to go off and live like an artist,” Korak said disgustedly. “She sees something childishly romantic about it.”
“Yes, sir. And because of certain developments I badly need some one who is childishly romantic enough to be willing to live like an artist.”
“What sort of developments?”
“Some days ago an animaloid artist was killed in the rioting on Sornor. Yesterday Harnasharn Galleries opened a special exhibit of paintings by an anonymous artist.”
“Are you suggesting that there’s a connection?” Korak demanded.
“Anonymous exhibitions are extremely rare. There hasn’t been one in Donov Metro for at least five years—probably much longer, but five years is as far back as I checked.”
“An animaloid artist is killed on Sornor,” Korak mused, “and Harnasharn opens an anonymous exhibit. Of that artist’s painting?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Did you see the exhibit?”
“Of course. I consulted the Artists’ Index both before and afterward. I’m no art expert, but it doesn’t take one to see that Franff’s registered work is totally different from the paintings in the special exhibit. He was a visualist, painted precisely what he saw. What an animaloid sees isn’t what a human sees, but in Franff’s case the differences aren’t strange, they’re merely charming. The Harnasharn paintings aren’t of this universe.”
“Indeed. What universe are they of?”
“I couldn’t say. Looking at them gives one contradictory sensations—the hauntingly familiar and the completely improbable. It’s like arriving in a fantastically strange place that you didn’t know existed and having the feeling that you’ve been there before.”
“They must be rather good, or Harnasharn wouldn’t exhibit them.”
“I’d say they’re rather good. They’re
finished
. When art falls short of perfection, I have the feeling that the artist either should have stopped sooner or continued until he accomplished whatever it was he was trying to do. A great painting is
finished
. Nothing that doesn’t belong, nothing left out. It simply is. These paintings
are
. If they have a flaw it’s because the paint is applied in a way I never saw before. They look as though they were woven, rather than painted. That may distract only because it takes a bit of getting used to. I rather liked the things.”
“I still don’t see the connection between Franff’s death and this exhibit.”
“Maybe there isn’t any. I couldn’t help wondering about it because these paintings are so different. They could represent a view of the universe never revealed to any human artist. If they were done by an animaloid, perhaps when Harnasharn heard about the death of Franff he was discreet enough to exhibit them anonymously.”
“That doesn’t sound like Harnasharn, but what if he did?”
“Wouldn’t it be wise to prepare for trouble just in case the word leaks out and the people of Donov, not to mention the artists, have more animosity than we suspect?”
“Go down to the Licensing Bureau,” Korak said. “Find out precisely when Harnasharn licensed this exhibit and how he described it. Then see if you can find the date that news about Franff’s death first reached Donov.”
Wargen did so and returned with the information that Harnasharn had posted the exhibit as that of an anonymous artist five days before Franff had been declared dead on Sornor and nine days before the news reached Donov. He said sheepishly, “I’m retiring from the field of art criticism.”
“No, you’re not,” Korak told him. “I doubt that you understand it yourself, but you have an instinctive awareness of such things. Never hesitate to pursue it. These riots have been going on for weeks, and even without the death of Franff, an art dealer on Donov might consider them ample reason for exhibiting an animaloid’s paintings anonymously. Obviously this exhibit merits our attention.”
“I’ll keep an eye on it.”
“Our attention.” Resignedly Korak pushed himself to his feet. “How shall we go?”
“As tourists,” Wargen said. “A tourist’s costume excuses anything.”
“Even a blind man attending an art exhibit?” Korak asked, chuckling. “Bring the costumes.”
Those who knew world government thought of Korak, not as Donov’s manager, but as its creator. He had taken an impoverished, mineral-poor, backward agricultural world and made it one of the leading tourist and vacation centers of the galaxy. He had accomplished this with a stroke of genius of such breath-taking magnitude that few even comprehended how he could have thought of such a thing. Donov had nothing to offer tourists—no facilities, no attractions that were not available in better quantity and quality on dozens of competing worlds, nothing whatsoever of distinction except, in certain regions of its subtropics, a dazzling splendor of light. And what could light possibly mean to a tourist?
For that matter, what could it mean to a world manager?
Few were aware of Korak’s guilty secret, that in his misspent youth he had aspired to be an artist. He had, alas, a paucity of talent, and he’d been honest enough and wise enough to recognize that fact early and turn to another profession, but he remained enough of an artist to recognize perfect light when he saw it. As a young man just out of Qwant University, he had come to Donov to he interviewed for the manager’s position, and like fifty candidates before him he had been appalled by what he found there.
But he courteously took the inspection tour that had been arranged for him, and he saw that light, the wondrous, inimitable artists’ light that flooded the Donovian seacoasts. He accepted a job that no one else wanted and remained a long lifetime.
He had no thought of tourists. He thought only of that glorious light being wasted, and out of his miserable budget and over the indignant protests of a grumbling, miserly World Quorum, he created a dozen fellowships, offering passage money and a starvation subsistence to promising young artists who would agree to work for a year on Donov. He established them in a picturesque old fishing village on the Zrilund cliffs and told them to paint, and when their first work was shipped off to agents on other worlds it created a sensation. The deluge of artists followed, tourists began to make pilgrimages to the scenes immortalized in paint, and from that point any shrewd world manager could have exploited the situation and Korak was shrewder than most. In a single generation Donov became one of the leading art centers of the galaxy and Korak had begun the extensive development of resort hotels and vacation centers—on beaches, in the mountains, even in Donov’s diminutive deserts—that would eventually give the tourist trade a foundation solid enough for it to survive even when the tourists became jaded with the glories of Donovian art.