have something for you,” he said to Farrari.
He fed a teloid cube into a projector, and Farrari found himself gazing 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 this 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 façade, 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 the disturbance was about. 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!”
The alarm buzzer emitted a thunderous rasp. At the same instant
Strunk’s voice boomed from the intercom. “Full staff—records section. Full staff—records section.”
“What’s up?” Farrari demanded.
“What’s up?” Clough echoed, beaming at him. “The kru is dead. It’ll be the first succession we’ve had an opportunity to observe. We’ve waited a long time for this—a mighty long time! Why, the study teams have been posted and briefed for years. This is quite a coup for you, young man. If you hadn’t spotted that, we might have missed our chance.”
Farrari turned to see a wave of the base’s high brass charging through the door, Coordinator Paul in the lead. He muttered, “And I’d better be right.”
A short time later he found himself sharing a dais with the teloid projection and lecturing about the drapery that he himself had first seen only twenty minutes before. His audience seemed skeptical despite Heber Clough’s angry shouting about the Vacant Throne, the Riderless Steed, and the Missing God, and peppered Farrari with questions. He kept his temper in check with difficulty. He was eager to begin his own analysis of the entire work, and instead he had to waste his time explaining the significance of what was, artistically, the least interesting picture of the group. Of all of the scenes, only the last had been produced with an absolute minimum of skill.
Then Jan Prochnow mounted the dais and peered searchingly into the projection. “I agree,” he announced. “It’s perfectly obvious. I can recall a number of similar instances. The kru will be conveyed to his eternal resting place behind whichever of the tower eyes he’s selected, his subjects will eulogize the glorious events of his reign as depicted here, and then—this is only a guess, mind you—this drapery will be replaced with a blank one signifying the coming reign of the new kru, who will of course record his own glorious deeds.”
“You have your assignments,” Coordinator Paul said. “Let’s go to work.”
Farrari claimed his teloid cube and slipped out of a side exit before a converging wave of well-intentioned staff members could overwhelm him with congratulations. He returned to his workroom and eagerly snapped the cube into his own projector.
Unhesitatingly he pronounced the tapestry a masterpiece—if tapestry it was, he could think of no better word for it. The pictures had been screened onto the finished cloth, and their outlines were fuzzy where dyes had run together. They were obviously the work of many hands, and a careful appraisal convinced Farrari that the kru’s long reign had outlasted at least three generations of artists.
The craftsmanship was excellent, the vivid colors breathtaking, the composition masterful. He puzzled long over the fact that the same culture that produced these exquisite, long-lasting dyes was so inept at paint making. The most recently retouched painting paled beside this tapestry.
He spent most of the day scrutinizing the scenes, and when finally he reached the bottom, dismissed the crudely fashioned final scene with a shrug, and sat back exhausted to switch off the projector, he realized with a sudden twitch of conscience that once again he had forgotten the people. The essential ingredient of all these brilliant pictures was the blood of the olz, who were nowhere represented. None of the three hundred and seventeen scenes portrayed a single ol.
He turned on the projector again, intending to dictate his impressions of the tapestry, but his eyes kept wandering to the triangular-leafed zrilm shrubs, or to the branch of zrilm one official— a durrl?—carried in a protective holster strapped to the flank of the gril he was riding, or to the tall hedges of zrilm that frequently appeared in the background. Were the artists satirically including the olz by proxy through the symbol of their subservience? He thought not. Zrilm was a common shrub, and the artists drew what they saw.
They drew what they saw, but they did not see the olz.
Farrari abandoned the projection. He paced his workroom briefly and then looked into the deserted corridor, realizing with a start that it had been hours since anyone had passed his doorway. Everyone else was furiously occupied. The kru’s death was probably the most significant
