The World Menders

olz have to express or communicate? I’d like to find out. At present the only link between the olz and their masters seems to be the zrilm whip, which is a rather one-way form of communication.”

“That may be truer than you realize. Did you know that there is no similarity whatsoever between their languages? That is, if you can call what remains of the ol speech a language, it seems to be atrophying out of existence. We think the olz were the original inhabitants of these valleys, and that the first strong nomadic tribe to find its way through the mountain passes enslaved them. Except for the farm and forest overseers and the mine supervisors, who are a special bilingual class, no one communicates with an ol or has any reason to. If any ol has ever learned as much as one word of Rasczian, it’s never come to our attention. This is a problem that could be close to the basis of all our problems, and we haven’t begun to cope with it because we have no idea of how to begin. Would culture provide any kind of a solution?”

Farrari shook his head. “I can’t see the rascz developing any interest in ol culture, and the culture of the rascz must be unthinkably remote to the olz. No, what I was wondering about was the extent to which the olz communicate with each other. Even the most primitive peoples develop diverse forms of art, and not infrequently the art is not only good, but surprisingly unprimitive. If the olz were once the masters of this land, they should have achieved some kind of minimal culture. What happened to it?”

“It must have atrophied along with their language. They have nothing very complicated to say to each other, and always the same people to say it to, and I suppose it’d be surprising if their means of communication, art or language, didn’t deterioriate. Linguistically they have now reached a point where they can get along with a few grunts and gestures. These are extremely expressive and complicated grunts and gestures, mind you. They aren’t the beginning of a language, but the end of one. The nuances are subtle and frightfully difficult to master. All of our agents have trouble learning ol.”

“How long would it take for an idea to spread from one end of the country to another?”

“Years,” the coordinator said bluntly. “There’s little contact even between neighboring communities unless the inhabitants happen to work the same fields.”

Farrari said thoughtfully, “Just for a beginning, this is what I’d like to know: Would the olz communicate if they had the means, the culture, or would they already have found the means if they had anything to communicate? I could best find that out by going among them and conducting experiments. For example, a very simple drawing—”

The coordinator was shaking his head emphatically. “We have twenty agents among the olz, risking their lives every moment of every day just by being olz. You can learn more from their reports in a week of study than you could with years of field work. A new agent among the olz, Farrari, has less than a fifty percent chance of survival.”

“All right,” Farrari said resignedly. “I’ll study the reports.”

The coordinator nodded and got to his feet.

“I could go with him,” Liano said timidly.

The coordinator whirled to face her, tense with incredulity, and for an instant he lost his poise—but only for an instant. He asked quietly, “You mean—the same role you had before?”

She nodded. “There wouldn’t be much for him to learn.”

“No,” the coordinator mused. “There wouldn’t be. You’d take charge of his indoctrination?”

Liano nodded excitedly.

“All right. Pick an unused room and draw what you need from supply.”

She hurried away, and it was Farrari’s turn to gape incredulously.

“What do you know about her?” the coordinator asked.

“I know her husband was killed.”

“That was only part of it. She was brutally mistreated. An ol lives in terror, Farrari, and too often that terror is justified. I hope you’ll never have to find that out from personal experience. I could order you to undergo this training, but I’d rather you did it as a favor to me. I’ll warn you—it may not be a pleasant experience. Liano hasn’t been fully rational since the tragedy happened, and she’s given to very strange moods and periods of partial, or even complete, catatonia. This is the first spark of interest she’s shown in anyone or anything. She’s a very special person, Farrari. I wonder if you have any idea how special.”

“I know she’s clairvoyant. When I first arrived—”

“I remember the incident. Will you help us? What I’m asking you to do is forget your theories, forget Cultural Survey, and work like the devil to acquire knowledge and skills that you’ll never have the slightest use for. To help Liano. Will you do it?”

Farrari nodded.

The coordinator gripped his arm and smiled at him. “You’re about to learn everything IPR has discovered about a kewl, who is the servant—slave, really—of a yilesc. It’ll be much more than you’ll probably want to know. The knowledge won’t do you any harm, and in some roundabout way it might even be useful to you. You’ll have to do your damndest, and work as though your life depended on it, because anything less than that might do Liano more harm than good. She’s had tragedy enough in her young life. Don’t let her down.”

“Do you mean that I can’t go into the field even if I do a good job?”

“That’s exactly what I mean. You aren’t training for the field. You’re helping a gifted girl regain her sanity. Your superior won’t be Jorrul, or anyone connected with the field team. It’ll be Dr. Garnt.” He paused. “Liano is a very special person. I wonder how she happened to become interested in you.” Farrari blushed, but the coordinator was soberly contemplating the far wall. “It might even be worth the risk if it would help Liano,” he said. He turned to Farrari again.

“First we’ll see how the indoctrination goes. And then—if Dr. Garnt feels that going into the field with you would help Liano—”

“And if Peter Jorrul approves,” Farrari added.

“If the doctor says it would help Liano, Jorrul isn’t going to stop you. He’ll ask you to do it. And when Jorrul asks someone to do something, it’s an order.”

X

It was the year of the half crop, the year of hunger.

And the spring of starvation.

The disklike hooves of the great narmpf made explosive smacks as they were wrenched from the sticky green clay. The slanting rain struck the ground with a mysterious, drumming sound. Farrari, floundering along beside the cart, head bent, naked shoulders hunched against the cutting wind, could not remember the last time he’d been warm.

Liano sat crosslegged in the bed of the cart, gazing hypnotically at fluttering fingers that wove the rain into soundless incantations. Her tattered, yellowing robes bore the faded red smudges of occult symbols and oily traces of the heavy, penetrating smoke of night fires. The rain had washed the smear of quarm ash from her face and plastered the looping mass of her hair tightly against her head. Each morning the chill, drenching rains performed this miracle of rebirth and transformed her into a girl-woman not remotely unlike the Liano Kurne whom Farrari had known at base; yet this Liano was more of a stranger to him than the distant, ash- smeared seeress to whom he slavishly ministered around the nightfires.

Her eyes were bright and searching, her color exquisite, her manner calm and confident. He could not resist sending a long, admiring glance in her direction, for she was lovely.