The World Menders

“That’s very interesting,” he mused. “The ceremony, I mean. Is the intent to give the impression that the Holy Ancestors selected the kru’s successor? What I mean is this: Is the mechanics of this known to everyone and, therefore, just a formality, or will the identity of the new kru he revealed only when the portrait is unveiled?”

“We know the identity now,” Jorrul said. “The new kru is at the temple sitting for his portrait, as you put it. It’s one of the old kru’s younger sons —the fourteenth, I believe. There’s a fracas at base over the question of how he was selected. Prochnow thinks he was the kru’s favorite and, therefore, his heir; Heber Clough thinks he was the favorite because he was the heir and some obscure formula of succession is involved. We in the field weren’t aware that the kru had a favorite—son or anything else. I haven’t answered your question, have I?”

“No,” Farrari said. “I was wondering if the priests make the selection and use this ceremonial fa-dela to announce their decision.”

“I don’t know. It may take us centuries to unravel all the details about the succession.”

“But do the kru’s subjects believe?” Farrari persisted. “Do they really think the Holy Ancestors place the portrait of the new kru behind the tapestry, or is it a convention that they profess to accept while cynically ignoring the bulges made by the priests working there?”

“We don’t know,” Anan Borgley said. “This is the first succession we’ve observed, and thus far the average citizen—we work at being absolutely average—seems to know nothing about it, so we know nothing about it.”

“Do you have a teloid of the old kru’s relief?”

Jorrul thought he did, rummaged through an unsorted box of cubes, decided he didn’t, and finally found one. The others waited indifferently as he snapped it into the projector and the old kru’s wrinkled face formed in front of them. Farrari studied it intently, slowly shaking his head.

“I wish it were a painting,” he said finally. “A painting I think I could manage, but I never was worth a damn at sculpture.”

Jorrul sat down heavily. “What’s that about painting?”

“I was thinking what a lovely joke it would be if they dropped the tapestry and found someone else’s portrait there. An older son, or a nephew, or even a total stranger. What would happen?”

“That’s an interesting question, but, of course, we couldn’t interfere.”

“Why not? DEMOCRACY IMPOSED FROM WITHOUT doesn’t say a thing about switching portraits.”

“Other rules do. We can’t tamper with a religious ceremony.”

“We wouldn’t. We’d just alter one of the props.”

“Even if there’s no rule against it,” Jorrul said, “and there almost certainly is, and even if the coordinator were to approve it, and he almost certainly wouldn’t, the preparations would require more time than we’d have. The artists work ing on the new kru’s portrait have a long start on you, and anyway, if you’re no good at sculpture—” He dismisssd the subject with a shrug.

Farrari ignored him. His eyes were fixed admiringly on the image of the old kru. “That’s the trouble with great art,” he observed in the confident tones of a lecturer at the CS Academy. “The more realistic it is, the more it goes beyond realism. We couldn’t begin to match the expressiveness this sculptor achieved. He’s represented a cruel, self-centered old man and made him seem like a god. The dissipation in his face takes on a hallowed aspect. I wonder if the artist really believed in what he was doing, or if he was just more skilled than any artist has a right to be. We couldn’t match this expressiveness, but absolute realism may be an adequate substitute. Care to nominate anyone for kru?”

Jorrul left the room and returned with an armload of manuals. He began leafing through them, checking reference after reference. When finally he pushed them aside he seemed amused and at the same time perplexed.

“There isn’t anything in the regulations to cover it,” he admitted.

“I didn’t see how there could he,” Farrari said.

“The instructions about tampering with a religion are explicit enough: don’t. Whether or not what you’re proposing could really be called tampering is moot, but if your substitute portrait approximated the style of art they’re accustomed to, we could consider the switch a mere act of politics. I have five volumes about tampering with technology—they can be summarized with the same word, don’t—but this notion of yours doesn’t technically concern either religion or technology.”

“Of course not,” Farrari said. “It concerns technography.”

Jorrul turned again to his manuals and after a few minutes announced, “I can’t find a reference to that. How long would it take you to make a portrait?”

“A couple of hours.”

Jorrul gaped at him.

“I won’t have to do it by hand,” Farrari explained. “I’ll find a teloid of the candidate we want and have it enlarged into a three-dimensional fix and a relief casting made in plastic metal.”

“Plastic—”

“It should be possible to mix a plastic that the natives couldn’t tell from their black marble without handling it. They won’t be handling it. We’ll rig the thing with its own power supply so it’ll administer a stiff electric shock to anyone who touches it.” He grinned around a circle of blank faces. “There wouldn’t be any point in going to all this trouble if as soon as the priests notice the switch they can raise the tapestry and do a switch of their own. If the Holy Ancestors are going to speak through us, we have a solemn obligation to leave the impression that they mean what they say. I’m sure Graan could make the casting at base. Your men might even be able to do it here.”

Jorrul shook his head. “That would be tampering.”

“No, sir. Reinforcing. If there are any nonbelievers among the priests, they’ll be converted the instant they touch our portrait.”

Jorrul obviously was not convinced, but he asked, “Whose portrait would you use?”

“We can ask Heber Clough for suggestions. The royal family is his department.”

Ned Lindor, the grainery supervisor, said dryly, “Clough isn’t the only person familiar with the royal family. Where did you think he was getting his information? But there isn’t much choice, one member is as bad as the next. If there was an outstanding candidate, I’d say—don’t use him. We wouldn’t want to lose a man who might have some long-term value to us, and anyone we’d choose would have an excellent chance of being murdered.”

“Murdered?” Farrari exclaimed.

“Murdered. When you tamper with the succession to a throne, you aren’t playing a child’s game. But as I said, one is as had as the next.”

“Then we can concentrate on physiognomy,” Farrari said. “It should be someone who’ll be instantly recognized and who looks nothing like the legitimate heir.”

“There’s a relative of the old kru,” Borgley said. “We’re not sure how he’s related —maybe a cousin, maybe a younger brother. His long nose has been something of a joke all his life. He’s an old man himself, and he’s contributed more than his fair share of evil to this world. No one would mistake his profile, and if he comes to a bad end at this late date we needn’t lose any sleep over it.”

“Good idea,” Jorrul said. “It’d be a pleasure to see old Hook Nose get his.”

“You mean—we can do it?” Farrari asked incredulously.

“Certainly not. It’s an ingenious idea, and one that might be tremendously effective—at the proper time. For example, if there was a revolutionary movement flourishing, something like this could give it enough impetus to make it a success. Using it now wouldn’t accomplish a thing—old Hook Nose isn’t capable of leading a revolution and it wouldn’t change the situation in Scorvif if he did—and we’d destroy the idea’s effectiveness for later use. I wouldn’t consider using it now. It’s too good an idea to waste.”

VI