The World Menders

ineptly; long before the froth neared the top another crock would be ready for his attention with the apprentice who measured out the ingredients standing by.

The massive fire chambers were deep, rectangular openings, each with its own chimney. The ovens, which looked like elongated flour crocks lying on their sides, were set in the openings on stone supports. The fires of oily quarm wood bathed the cylindrical ovens with heat, and into them were placed the enormous loaves for baking. The dough was arranged on long strips of perforated metal that slid into grooves in the ovens. When the baked loaves were removed they were three meters long and more than a fourth of a meter in diameter.

From the oven the loaves were taken to a long cutting table where each was carefully aligned with marks indicating a Rasczian unit of measurement, sliced into sections for marketing, and packed into woven baskets. The end pieces were tossed into a bin near the door, and at intervals during the night wagons arrived from various military garrisons situated near Scory and the accumulated loaf ends were weighed out and paid for. Gayne’s bread slicing attained the level of an art: with one graceful stroke he drew the long, heavy knife through the loaf, exerting downward pressure and a slicing motion simultaneously. The apprentices, when they took over the job temporarily, produced clean and accurate cuts, but they had to use a sawing motion to do it.

Farrari contemplated a career as an IPR baker’s apprentice with horror. These people had time for little more than fulfilling their native roles. They’d joined the exotic IPR Bureau, invested years of their lives in the most exacting training the Bureau could devise, achieved agent status, and their reward was unending drudgery.

He wondered aloud why IPR hadn’t devised labor-saving machinery for them as it had for the mill: a mixer, for example, to beat the scum into a froth; a bread slicer; a power oven that wouldn’t require constant stoking with quarm wood.

Gayne shook his head. “We’ve tried it. A beater produces a beautiful froth in an instant—and the bread won’t rise. A mechanical slicer is too perfect—no two slices made by hand are identical, they look different, so we decided not to take the risk. Quarm wood is a royal monopoly, and if we suddenly stopped using it, or began to use less, some high official of the kru would become curious. And a power oven would take just as long to bake the bread. If it didn’t, the bread would be different. No, there isn’t any other way. Besides, there’s a long-standing custom that wagoners calling for bread have to come into the bakery after it and load it themselves. We can’t change the custom, and what they see while they’re in here has got to look like a Rasczian bakery.”

Farrari flexed an aching arm, set his teeth, and attacked another crock of scum.

Finally Inez Prolynn came for him, led him to a storage room at the remote corner of the house, through two concealed doors, and into an underground communications room. On the screen were two faces: an imperturbable Coordinator Paul and a scowling Peter Jorrul.

“Here’s your interview,” Inez said. “If you’d like it to be private—” She turned away.

“Stay if you like,” Farrari said. “I don’t deal in secrets, I just keep the authorities busy turning down my suggestions.”

Jorrul’s scowl deepened: the coordinator grinned and said, Well, Farrari, what do you have for me to turn down now?”

Farrari seated himself in front of the screen. “This morning—or maybe it was yesterday morning—I had an idea about that relief carving on the Life Temple.”

“Peter told me about it,” the coordinator said. “A very interesting idea it was. Unfortunately—”

“Now I have another idea. What would happen if we substituted a carving of some olz for the new kru’s portrait?”

“It wouldn’t work,” Jorrul said. “No one would know which ol the Holy Ancestors were choosing. Even the rascz who work with them can’t tell one ol from another. We can’t, either, except for a few of our agents who live with them.”

Farrari said patiently, “Not one ol. A group of them. Olz in the abstract. A reminder to the rascz, a permanent reminder, that the olz are still with them. I understand that the general population is only vaguely aware of that—that very few of the rascz have ever seen an ol. It’s time that the Holy Ancestors brought the olz to their attention.”

Jorrul was staring at him; the coordinator stroked his chin thoughtfully.

“It’s another interesting idea,” Jorrul said. “Unfortunately—”

“You suggested that we enlarge a three-dimensional fix and cast it in plastic metal,” the coordinator said. “Graan thinks it could be done, but he has no idea of how long it would take, or how many castings he might have to make before he gets a satisfactory one. I’ll tell him to select a teloid of some olz and have a try at it.”

“Tell him to use a teloid from a remote village,” Farrari said, “and to touch it up so there’ll be no possibility of identification. Maybe the rascz can’t tell one ol from another, but once an ol gets his portrait on the Life Temple his features will become memorable.”

“If we were to do this now, we’d spoil the impact the switch might have at a later date when it might be really useful,” Jorrul objected.

“We’ll consider that,” the coor dinator said. “At the moment we have Farrari’s idea and a couple of critically important if’s: if an acceptable casting can be made, and—since time is running out on us—if it can be made in time, then we have the option of whether or not to use it. Frankly, I have some doubt about the value this notion will have later on. Imaginative as Farrari undoubtedly is, he’s certainly not unique, and we have to remember that there are now several hundred Cultural Survey officers and trainees at work at IPR bases. Sooner or later one of them will come up with an idea similar to this, there’ll be a full review of the situation, and when a review takes place a new rule is never far behind. There wouldn’t be any point in saving Farrari’s idea for a more favorable occasion if by that time we’ll be forbidden to use it.”

“How can you use it without having it reviewed first?” Farrari asked.

“We can’t, except when time is a critical factor—as very fortunately it is. The procedure is always the same: I have to file a statement of intent with the sector supervisor, and if he doesn’t reject it out of hand it moves up the chain of command until someone disapproves. In the meantime, since the opportunity would be lost if we didn’t act at once, I can use my own judgment until I receive specific orders. With luck we could have your phony carving on display before we were told that we mustn’t do it.”

Jorrul said sourly, “The only reason there isn’t a regulation about technography is because no one has thought of using it.”

“I wouldn’t consider it now if it were merely a question of substituting another aristrocrat’s portrait,” the coordinator said. “At best that could only forment dissension among the aristocracy and the winner might be sufficiently angry, or frightened, to destroy the little progress that’s been made. But a portrait of the olz—” He paused. “Now that has potentialities. I don’t know what they are, but I’ll put all the teams to work looking for them, and I’ll get Graan started on that casting. Then we’ll see. Anything else, Farrari?”

“No, sir.”

“Peter?”

Jorrul looked at Farrari for a moment, started to speak, and then shrugged and shook his head.

“All right, Farrari. I’ll let you know how we make nut.”

The screen went blank. Farrari thanked Inez and returned to his crock of scum.

“Does this go on all night?” he asked Gayne.

“It’ll seem that way,” Gayne said grimly.

“Isn’t there another job that I can do?”

“No.”

Farrari renewed his assault on the scum and at the same time began to examine critically the tasks the