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

universe, every citizen, every world, needed something of permanence. Donov had Ian Korak.
    An invaluable adjunct to Korak’s failing sight and mobility was the brilliant young chief of his Secret Police. Neal Wargen went everywhere, and he had a gift for observation, a positive instinct for being in places where there was something to observe, and an encyclopedic memory. Much of the information he passed to Korak had little to do with police work. He also had a philosophic turn of mind that Korak found stimulating. While Korak probed Wargen’s knowledge, the younger man tested his wisdom.
    The private entrance to Korak’s lair was by way of an elevator from Wargen’s office on the underground level, and through elaborate electronic arrangements the two were in constant communication when Wargen was at the Cirque. It was therefore commonplace for a certain light on Wargen’s desk to flash, and for him to respond at once when he was alone.
    Korak’s dry voice said, “Last week you dictated a memo on the interesting behavior of one Jaward Jorno.”
    “Yes,” Wargen said. “Did I include the information that he left Donov Metro the day after I saw him?”
    “You did. Now he’s back, and he just handed in a petition endorsed by twenty-five members of the Quorum requesting an interview. Would you like to look on?”
    “Certainly.”
    Wargen activated the screen on the wall opposite his desk, and a moment later he saw Jorno enter the lair. Jorno wore the casual, colorful dress some of the artists affected when they came to the Metro, and he probably was unaware that both his costume and the broad smile he flashed as he bowed were wasted on the World Manager’s weak eyesight.
    Korak pronounced the name. “Jaward Jorno?”
    Jorno bowed again. “I’ve never liked it, but it’s the only name I have.”
    “One is all an honest man needs,” Korak observed.
    “At least I have no siblings with blighted reputations to curse my Good Works. Are you interested in Good Works, Excellency?”
    Korak smiled. “My own, or other people’s?”
    “In this case, mine. I’m one of the idle rich, so I dedicate myself to Good Works. You won’t know if you’ve never had the actual experience, but there is something about Good Works, something—”
    “There is indeed,” Korak conceded. “Which of your Good Works brings you here?”
    “I caught a news item about three hundred animaloids who escaped from Mestil in a battered old ship and somehow managed to coax it across space to Tymoff, where they were refused permission to land. They’re still in orbit there. Tymoff replenished their air and food—once—and there is talk of giving them a refueling so they can go away. No one on Tymoff has bothered to find a world that will accept them. That’s just one ship, Excellency. There may be ten or a hundred carrying other innocent, terrified animaloids in flight from human-inflicted horrors. Has there been no discussion of this problem on a world level?”
    Korak shook his head slowly. “I’ve attempted to discuss those horrors and their causes with the ambassadors of every world concerned. All of them have informed me—quite properly—that these are internal matters not concerning my world and therefore none of my business. As for the terrified refugees, what would there be to discuss? Each world has its own admission requirements. If the Mestil refugees had met those of Tymoff they would have been permitted to land. Obviously they did not, so they’ll have to try elsewhere—or return to Mestil.”
    Jorno said earnestly, “Are you aware, Excellency, of the intelligence, the talent, the capabilities of some of these animaloids? They would be a tremendous asset to any world. On that one ship are a philosopher whose works are in every university library in a dozen sectors, one of the greatest mathematicians in the galaxy, and an inventor whose patents have made a thousand humans wealthy and enriched the lives of uncounted