The world prospered on the lavish exchange provided by tourists and vacationers, millionaires came in droves to establish vacation homes, natives left their impoverished agricultural holdings and received fantastic salaries as servants, cooks, chauffeurs, and guides. Many saved their money and established their own resorts or devised a flood of novel attractions to please the tourists and enable them to spend their money. To the native Donovians, the only blight on all of this prosperity was the presence of the untidy, undisciplined artists whose predecessors had started it all, but as long as Donov had perfect light and Ian Korak as world manager, it would have great art colonies.
Korak’s only regrets were that the afflictions of age denied him enjoyment of the new generation of artists, and that he could no longer experience the pulse-quickening pleasure of gazing at Donov’s glowing landscapes and seascapes under a perfect artists’ light.
Wargen brought the costumes—hats with huge flopping brims and half-length cloaks, all in a melange of gaudy colors. Donovian peasants had once worn hats and cloaks vaguely like them for field work on sunny days. For reasons never fathomed, the tourists made the costume their own, with the inevitable result that the peasants indignantly discarded it. Artists had satirized and caricatured cloaked and hatted tourists mercilessly, but the first act of many tourists was to envelop themselves in this monstrous clothing. It was an excellent costume for long periods of exertion in the sun—which was, of course, the last use to which any tourist would subject it.
A successful tourist trade was not without its price, and some of the expressions once applied to artists—pollution, epidemic, seizure, and so on—were now directed at tourists.
Wargen inspected Korak, gave the wide brim of his hat a crease that concealed his face, and nodded approval. Korak took his arm for support, and they moved toward the private elevator.
The exhibit, Eight Paintings by an Anonymous Artist, had received only the routine publicity announcements and as yet no critical comment, and it was attracting a very modest attendance. Korak found this disappointing. The eight widely spaced paintings held no interest at all for him—he saw them only as blurs in bright ovals of illumination. He wanted to study the reactions of those viewing them.
“Nine,” Wargen whispered, looking about the room. “Hualt, the art critic, and his wife. I don’t recognize any of the others.”
It was a solemn, introspective group of art viewers whom they passed, one or two at a time, as they circled the room. The critic completed his own circuit and started another. Passing him, Korak remarked in subdued tremolo, “It’s something, but surely they don’t call it art!” Hualt paid no attention. They continued to circle the room, spectators came and went, and except for a newly arrived woman in tourist costume who asked her companion what possible value a painting could have if it had no people in it, Korak perceived no reaction that he could get a grip on.
“Harnasharn just looked in,” Wargen whispered. “He recognized us—he winked at me.”
“Let’s go see him,” Korak said.
Harnasharn had disappeared, but Wargen solemnly informed the receptionist that they wanted to arrange for an appraisal of an early work of Zornillo’s, and a moment later the art dealer strode quickly into the room. He stopped short when he saw them, and said, a note of disappointment in his voice, “Come this way, please.”
A genuine art dealer, Korak reflected. The owner of a Zornillo was more welcome in his galleries than a world manager.
He led them to his private office, placed a chair for Korak, and proffered another to Wargen, who shook his head and remained standing.
“This is an unexpected honor, Excellency,” Harnasharn said.
Korak said wryly, “You mean that the blind don’t often come to look at paintings. Neither did I. I came to listen to reactions to paintings, and there don’t seem to be any.”
“Few of our viewers know what to make of them,” Harnasharn said. “Even the critics are bewildered. Hualt has been here four times, and he just left shaking his head. I wouldn’t have thought, though, that any kind of public reaction to an art exhibit would be momentous enough to occasion a visit from the World Manager.”
“I sincerely hope that you’re right. Lester, are those paintings by any chance the work of an animaloid?”
“Do you ask out of curiosity, or is this in some way a matter of governmental concern?”
“It could be a matter of governmental concern.”
“I have a solemn pledge to honor, but I’m confident that I can transfer it to the two of you. In strict confidence—yes, the artist of those paintings is animaloid.”
“Did you consider that exhibiting them at this time might be risky?”
“Risky!” Harnasharn exclaimed, obviously astonished. “Why would it be risky?”
Korak leaned forward. “Is it conceivable that you aren’t aware of the unfortunate events on some of our neighboring worlds?”
“I never gave it a thought! Nothing like that has ever happened here.”
“Violence on that scale has never happened anywhere, but it’s happening now. What I’d like to know is how you happened to stage this exhibit at this particular time.”
“The paintings became available. They’re great paintings. Why should I withhold them?”
“I see.”
“Do you really think this exhibit could cause trouble?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do you want me to close it?”
“No. Thus far there hasn’t been any talk or—Wargen?—even a hint of a rumor.”
“None at all,” Wargen said.
“If you closed it there might be. There is, or was, a woman there who made the remark that no painting was valuable if it didn’t have people in it. Under the circumstances that’s suggestive.”
“Will you point her out to me?” Harnasharn asked Wargen. Wargen did so, and Harnasharn spoke with the attendant and then told Korak, “She entered on a second-division student card from the Institute, meaning that she’s studying art history or criticism. The Institute has hundreds of such students, and I doubt that anyone takes their opinions seriously. At least, I hope not. Do you want me to find out who she is?”
“No.” Korak pushed himself to his feet. “Carry on, keep your mouth shut, and if anything develops or seems to be developing, notify Wargen at once. How much longer does the exhibit have to run?”
“It’s posted for a month. Then I’d planned to move the paintings into our permanent exhibit.”
“Have you announced that? Don’t, then.”
“You don’t want me to move them—”
“I don’t want you to announce it. Plenty of time for that when the exhibit closes.”
Harnasharn bowed them out.
“Strange,” the World Manager said softly. “Your reasoning was entirely wrong, and yet you arrived at a correct conclusion.”
“As I said before, I’m retiring from the business of art criticism.”
“Your business is people, and you’re as much an expert there as Harnasharn is with art. The question that worries me is whether anyone else is likely to incorrectly reason his way to the same correct conclusion.” He paused. “I think it would be an excellent idea if Eritha were to study art. You decide where you want her to go.”
In Donov Metro, capital city of a celebrated world of art, artists in full regalia were paradoxically an uncommon sight. Gof Milfro, face bristling with black whiskers too short to be braided and too long to be curled, untidy turban on his head, a corner of his ragged cloak touching the floor, created a sensation as he marched through the customs office. Waiting claimants scrambled out of his way, clerks and crate handlers gaped, and conveyors suddenly left running without loads clanked and rattled high-pitched protests.
Milfro fixed the nearest clerk in an intense but guileless gaze. “Look, friend. I have a crate of art supplies on that Sornor liner. I have fifty artists waiting for them, and I have a hired transport waiting for me. Every minute of delay wastes fifty minutes of artists’ time and costs me money. Would you kindly effect delivery before the paints coagulate?”
The clerk sniffed haughtily. Viewed closeup Milfro was threadbare and distinctly untidy, if not actually dirty, and whatever his status as an artist, it was certain that his contribution to the Central Tax Office was minuscule. The answer came in tones of measured coldness. “My good man, I’m sure that your shipment is being handled as efficiently as possible.” The clerk turned away.
Milfro leaned across the narrow counter and gripped his arm. With his other hand he removed his turban. His shaven head, in juxtaposition with his thickly foliaged face, gave him an unexpectedly fierce appearance. The clerk shrank visibly.
“On this world,” Milfro proclaimed oracularly, “the word ‘efficiently’ is used in many contexts, but in none of them does it actually mean ‘efficiently.’ Someone in this office had better understand the word the way I do, or I’m going to remove a clerk’s ears and ask them why not.” He released the clerk and pointed a finger. “Donov has always represented itself as being hospitable to artists. Are you authoring a change in world policy?”
“Why, no, but—”
Milfro leaned forward. “My shipment.
Now!
”
The clerk gulped, took the shipment order, and departed.
Milfro turned, briefly contemplated the vast silence that filled the lobby behind him, and then picked his way through the stunned and motionless claimants and workers. He entered the supervisor’s office, marched past the startled receptionist before he could voice a protest, marched past two blankly staring assistant supervisors, and pointed a finger impalingly at the occupant of the large desk at the rear of the room.
“How long,” he bellowed, “must an outraged public suffer these crass insults?”
The supervisor, a mild-looking, elderly man, timidly edged his chair backward, his eyes bulging with astonishment.
“I have transport waiting,” Milfro continued thunderously. “Hired transport. And I must pay rent while these oafs you call customs clerks pare their nails and discuss each other’s sordid domestic entanglements. Bah! Would it please your World Quorum if we artists decided to take our persons, our purchasing power—it isn’t much for any one of us, but the aggregate must amount to a sizable sum for a slum world such as this one—the marketing of our paintings, and the tourist trade that depends on us, to some world capable of a grudging appreciation? Do you want to see Donov crumble in economic ruin because your subordinates refuse to do their work and you spend your days napping behind this desk?”
The supervisor said stiffly, “If you have a complaint—”
“Complaints!” Milfro roared. “Not just one. Complaints. Your clerks are guilty of stupidity, negligence, and fraud. Not to mention ignorance, incompetence, and discourtesy. Do I get my shipment while I still have enough money to pay for the transport, or don’t I?”
The supervisor got to his feet. Milfro strode away quickly, making the man trot to keep up with him. They arrived at the clerk’s station just as that unfortunate individual rode up with the crate. He shuttled it neatly onto the dock and hopped off the carrier, and Milfro said sarcastically, “My apologies. I thought it arrived on the Sornor liner. I didn’t know you’d have to go to Sornor after it.”
The supervisor protested, “But the Sornor liner only arrived—”
“I came for my shipment, not a debate.” Milfro slammed down the invoice. “Tear it apart and do your dirty work. But I’m warning you—if you ding one capsule of paint or tear one piece of fabric or knock one sprayer out of adjustment—”
The clerk circled the huge crate, broke the seal with trembling fingers, and carefully pried open the inspection panel. Milfro bent over his shoulder breathing disdainful snorts. The supervisor hovered nearby, uncertain as to why he was there and equally uncertain as to whether he should leave. His presence did not soothe the clerk’s nervousness.
The shipment consisted of an enormous bale of art fabric with small cases of art supplies packed at one end. The clerk performed the most perfunctory of examinations and snapped the inspection panel into place.
He stamped the invoice. “Your fee—”
“Fee!” Milfro screamed. “The Metro Artists are a registered nonprofit association—you can’t imagine how non-profit they are!” He turned on the supervisor. “Don’t
any
of your clerks know the regulations? Don’t
you
know the regulations? For your information, article seven, paragraph four, under the heading, ‘Special Exemptions,’ explicitly states—”
The supervisor himself, with hands trembling as violently as those of the clerk, stamped FEE WAIVED on Milfro’s invoice and handed it to him. “Sorry to have inconvenienced you,” he muttered. The panic-stricken clerk somehow managed to shuttle the crate onto a conveyor. When he finished the supervisor was waiting for him. Milfro calmly turned his back on them and violated a clearly posted regulation by riding the conveyor with his crate.
At the call dock he intimidated a lift operator into depositing the crate gently—
very
gently—into his waiting transport. He climbed in beside the driver, who nodded his red beard approvingly and grinned at him. The driver touched a button, the motor hummed, and they lifted six inches and floated away.
“How’d it go?” Arnen Brance asked.
“Easy. A touch of luck all the way, no mislaid papers, they didn’t even have trouble finding the thing, and the clerk gave us a big assist by trying to collect a fee. The supervisor was preparing to dissect him as I left. If he’ll just stay out of his office long enough to—what are you dawdling for?”
“This is Donov Metro,” Brance announced dryly. “A city. All traffic is patroled, and if one does not observe certain categorical and arbitrary regulations and follow traffic lanes, a referee swoops down from up yonder and asks why not.”
“I see. Slowest is quickest.”
“Something like that.”
“Either way I don’t like it. The moment that pup from the Sornorian embassy decides to admit that he’s been had, it becomes a question of simple addition and not enough time. I don’t suppose the referees pay much attention to those categorical and arbitrary regulations when they pursue customs violators. Do we dare to open it?”