Lloyd Biggle Jr. - The World Menders

Coordinator Paul’s booming voice cut through the screams. “Fine way to spend an afternoon.” he remarked.

He moved a pile of books from a chair and sat down, and Farrari stirred himself and turned off the projector.

“The whip is a common denominator among slave worlds,” the coordinator said, speaking as if the viewing of such horrors was a tiresome duty. “Sometimes it seems as if the ruling classes squander their native energy on whips. They’re always limited by the materials at hand, but they never overlook anything capable of inflicting torment. I remember an instance where the wool of a native animal had a toxic effect. One lash of a whip made of that wool would send a slave into shock, and he was a long, painful time coming out of it—if he did come out of it. The whip you just saw is as fiendish as any I’ve encountered. It’s a branch of a common shrub, called the zrilm you’ve heard of it? Of course. It’s leaves have barblike protuberances that not only tear the flesh, but also secrete a poison that’s more than mildly caustic. It’s sheer torment merely to brush against a zrilm bush. A beating like the one you saw—well, you don’t need a doctor to tell you that the woman didn’t recover. Try the next cube and see what happened to the newborn baby.”

“I’d rather not.”

“The other olz got a Branoff IV dozen of lashes apiece—which is fifteen—just for being there. Including the child. She didn’t recover, either. The whole affair was such a commonplace incident that if the durrl had to make out a daily report chances are he wouldn’t have mentioned it. Life is cheap, there are more olz than can be fed anyway, and one or two less is a mark on the credit side of the ledger. How are you going to fit this into your cultural studies?”

Farrari shook his head. “Can’t anything be done about it?”

“Not now. In a couple of thousand years—perhaps. The olz don’t even seem to be aware of how badly off they are. Once they find out, it’ll still be centuries before it occurs to them that something can be done about it. An invasion by the nomadic tribes might speed things up, but the few mountain passes are easily defended and the nomads have learned not to approach too closely. Whenever they do they’re beaten soundly. And this is the only stable civilization, the only capable military power, on this planet.”

“Couldn’t we arrange for a durrl to drop dead whenever he starts to whip an of?”

The coordinator winced. “Certainly not! You should see the report forms I have to fill out when we so much as accidentally cause the death, or injury, of a native!”

“Two thousand years,” Farrari muttered. Forced labor, starvation, and torment.”

“Do have a look at that next cube,” Paul said, getting to his feet. “Have a look at all of them. And Farrari—”

Farrari looked up expectantly.

“Don’t feel badly because we can’t do anything about it. One of the first things an IPR man has to learn is that a drastic change requires extensive preparation. The greater the change, the more preparation is needed. And the more time.”

He left, and Farrari returned the tube of teloid cubes to its box and meekly carried the box back to Ganoff Strunk. Then he fed his projector a tube of innocuous cultural cubes and began to dictate an analysis of the friezes on one of the kru’s summer palaces.

He paused frequently, because each click of the projector made him wince, even though it did not remotely resemble the whum of a zrkm whip striking human flesh.

Occasionally Liano Kurne could be found performing routine tasks in the records section. The morning after Farrari’s shattering experience with the teloid cubes she was methodically snapping his dictation capsules into the transcriber, and each time she leaned over the machine her face and arms passed through its guide light. A complex network of scars flashed into view and just as abruptly disappeared.

Farrari caught his breath and involuntarily took a step backward. He thought instantly of the durrl’s whistling scourge and the ribbons of flesh torn the helpless slave. Had Liano Kurne endured that ?

Her husband had been killed; she had perhaps received a Branoff IV dozen of lashes just for being present. Now she worked patiently at simple tasks whenever she was able, withdrawn, strange in her moods, given to long periods of irrational, staring silence, and everyone was very kind to her.

Farrari shuddered.

Llano saw the movement and straightened up to regard him curiously. His mind was fumbling for a response to her unspoken question when Strunk’s sudden entry diverted her attention.

I have something for you,” he said to Farrari.

He fed a teloid cube into a projector, and Farrari found himself looking at the Life Temple of the kru, with the massive Tower-of-a-Thousand-Eyes rising above it. He had studied the building from every angle and knew its exterior better than that of any other edifice in the land of Scorvif. The temple’s walls were so covered with relief carvings that it was virtually a picture book of art and history.

Now it stood transformed with a white drapery overhanging its entire facade, and on the drapery were painted an amazing complex of scenes: battles, hunts, ceremonials, all dominated by the larger-than-life figure of the kru.

Farrari took a second look and corrected himself sternly. Not painted—screened. “It’s wonderful!” he breathed. “But—what is it?”

“Our people in Scorv think some kind of special ceremony is in the offing, Strunk said.

“But they don’t really know?”

Strunk shook his head. “Probably our most acute problem here is that we know so little about the doings of the aristocracy.”

“It’s a pictorial biography!” Farrari exclaimed. “The execution is magnificent. You can actually see the kru getting older. Here’s his celebrated victory over the outlanders.”

Strunk snorted. “His army chased a few ragged nomads from the south pass. Outnumbered them thirty to one and the kru was at one of the summer palaces when it happened.”

“It was the kru’s victory, though. This scene must represent an unusually bountiful harvest. They credit the kru with that, too, but I suppose they blame the years of famine on the olz. Would you make me a copy of this?”

“I already have. Take it with you.” Strunk reached for the projector’s switch.

“Wait!” Farrari exclaimed. “Look at the last picture—the one in the bottom row!”

“What about it?”

“The sequence breaks off in mid-row, and the final scene doesn’t have the kru in it!”

“So it doesn’t.” Strunk shrugged. “So?”

Farrari leaped for the doorway. “Heber!” he shouted.

Continuing to shout, he ran toward Clough’s workroom. By the time Clough heard him and came shuffling to meet him, it seemed that half the base staff had gathered in doorways to see what was the disturbance. Farrari ignored the questions called to him and urged Clough into a stumbling trot.

“What is it?” Clough panted, as the two of them hurried into the records section.

Farrari took a deep breath. “The kru is dead!”

“Dead?” Clough raised his hands bewilderedly. “How do you know?”

Farrari pointed. Clough stared uncomprehendingly for a moment, and then his head bobbed excitedly. “Of course. It’s a common symbolism. The Vacant Throne, the Riderless Steed—in this case, the Missing God. The priests are at worship, but the God’s living presence has been taken from them. Cedd, we can stop guessing about the succession. We’ll soon know!”