Free The Light That Never Was by Jr. Lloyd Biggle Page B

blind don’t often come to look at paintings. Neither did I. I came to listen to reactions to paintings, and there don’t seem to be any.”
    “Few of our viewers know what to make of them,” Harnasharn said. “Even the critics are bewildered. Hualt has been here four times, and he just left shaking his head. I wouldn’t have thought, though, that any kind of public reaction to an art exhibit would be momentous enough to occasion a visit from the World Manager.”
    “I sincerely hope that you’re right. Lester, are those paintings by any chance the work of an animaloid?”
    “Do you ask out of curiosity, or is this in some way a matter of governmental concern?”
    “It could be a matter of governmental concern.”
    “I have a solemn pledge to honor, but I’m confident that I can transfer it to the two of you. In strict confidence—yes, the artist of those paintings is animaloid.”
    “Did you consider that exhibiting them at this time might be risky?”
    “Risky!” Harnasharn exclaimed, obviously astonished. “Why would it be risky?”
    Korak leaned forward. “Is it conceivable that you aren’t aware of the unfortunate events on some of our neighboring worlds?”
    “I never gave it a thought! Nothing like that has ever happened here.”
    “Violence on that scale has never happened anywhere, but it’s happening now. What I’d like to know is how you happened to stage this exhibit at this particular time.”
    “The paintings became available. They’re great paintings. Why should I withhold them?”
    “I see.”
    “Do you really think this exhibit could cause trouble?”
    “I don’t know.”
    “Do you want me to close it?”
    “No. Thus far there hasn’t been any talk or—Wargen?—even a hint of a rumor.”
    “None at all,” Wargen said.
    “If you closed it there might be. There is, or was, a woman there who made the remark that no painting was valuable if it didn’t have people in it. Under the circumstances that’s suggestive.”
    “Will you point her out to me?” Harnasharn asked Wargen. Wargen did so, and Harnasharn spoke with the attendant and then told Korak, “She entered on a second-division student card from the Institute, meaning that she’s studying art history or criticism. The Institute has hundreds of such students, and I doubt that anyone takes their opinions seriously. At least, I hope not. Do you want me to find out who she is?”
    “No.” Korak pushed himself to his feet. “Carry on, keep your mouth shut, and if anything develops or seems to be developing, notify Wargen at once. How much longer does the exhibit have to run?”
    “It’s posted for a month. Then I’d planned to move the paintings into our permanent exhibit.”
    “Have you announced that? Don’t, then.”
    “You don’t want me to move them—”
    “I don’t want you to announce it. Plenty of time for that when the exhibit closes.”
    Harnasharn bowed them out.
    “Strange,” the World Manager said softly. “Your reasoning was entirely wrong, and yet you arrived at a correct conclusion.”
    “As I said before, I’m retiring from the business of art criticism.”
    “Your business is people, and you’re as much an expert there as Harnasharn is with art. The question that worries me is whether anyone else is likely to incorrectly reason his way to the same correct conclusion.” He paused. “I think it would be an excellent idea if Eritha were to study art. You decide where you want her to go.”

5
    In Donov Metro, capital city of a celebrated world of art, artists in full regalia were paradoxically an uncommon sight. Gof Milfro, face bristling with black whiskers too short to be braided and too long to be curled, untidy turban on his head, a corner of his ragged cloak touching the floor, created a sensation as he marched through the customs office. Waiting claimants scrambled out of his way, clerks and crate handlers gaped, and conveyors suddenly left running without loads clanked and