Jorrul muttered something.
“So the first gift was bread. Through some obscure tradition or maybe a whim—remember, it’s our first succession—it was decided that the humble young donor should have the honor of wielding the sword of prediction first, on his own bread. That was done. Only it wasn’t bread and you cut the thing completely in two, which is impossible. Not even a skilled baker could bisect a loaf endwise with a sharp knife.” He paused and then said resentfully, “You still don’t understand what you did? Listen, you young idiot—by slicing that loaf neatly from top to bottom you guaranteed the new kru a reign of unending glorious achievement—and eternal life! No wonder they canceled the performance by the other candidates and immediately made you kru’s priest! Who could have improved upon that?”
“I could have botched it,” Farrari said regretfully. “But I sort of had to guess what they wanted, and since I hadn’t any previous experience I was just as surprised as they were.”
“Never mind. The final miracle was your disappearance, which set them thinking, and one of the things they thought was that all the time you were there you didn’t utter a sound. Now they’ve concluded that you yourself were the divine omen. They may trace you to Borgley, in which case he’ll have a lovely story ready, but I think they’ll be well satisfied with what they have and therefore won’t want to look too deeply into this miracle. Of course you had to escape—you couldn’t possibly have survived as the kru’s priest. A mysterious omen who promptly disappears can remain mute, but an ordinary mortal priest, even if the kru’s, has to master large quantities of dogma and incantations. You did well. But come with me I want to show you something.”
He led him to the roof of the mill and raised a tarpaulin. His handlight traced out the synthetic bas-relief that Isa Graan had made. The olz, twice as large as life-size, peered forlornly out of the slab of plastic. Five men, leaning on the sticks with which they scratched the soil, conveyed an impression of apprehension, as though momentarily expecting a durrl’s whip to terminate their stolen leisure. Three crouching women were sorting tubers; a fourth stood at one side, her arms outstretched to an ol child who seemed dubious that this uncouth creature was his mother.
“Magnificent!” Farrari exclaimed.
“Isa liked it,” the coordinator said. “So much so that he made a smaller one for his office, and now everyone at base is culling favorite teloids to pick out something that would make a good relief casting.”
“We couldn’t have used it anyway,” Farrari said. “You knew that?”
“Yes. We’d have to make the substitution before the ceremony begins, rather than at the proper place, and that would be tampering with a religious ceremony. It’s an ingenious idea, though. I marked my statement of intent for maxiinum circulation, and there may be other worlds where it can be used immediately. It’s in good hands; it won’t be wasted.”
They returned to the basement room. Rani Holt intercepted Farrari and asked, “What did you do with the robes they gave you?”
“Left them there,” Farrari said. “I thought I’d be much less conspicuous going out the window in this clothing, and if I’d walked through the streets as a priest someone might have asked me for a blessing, or something.”
“Too bad you didn’t bring them,” she said. “It’s difficult to duplicate a garment when you don’t have a model, and someday we might want to dress an agent as the kru’s priest.”
“The next time they make me a priest, I’ll bring the robes,” Farrari promised.
The following night they returned to base in a special highspeed passenger platform, and the coordinator found a message waiting for him: he was flatly forbidden to substitute a synthetic relief for one intended for a religious ceremony.
Accompanying the order was a new regulation that forbade tampering with technography.
IX
Farrari did not fully comprehend his blunder until after he returned to base. An IPR agent as the kru’s priest! Such a glittering opportunity should have clipped a few centuries from that two-thousand-year prognostication, and it had slipped away only because Cultural Survey AT/ 1 Cedd Farrari had not bothered to learn the Rasczian language.
He immediately commenced the complete Rasczian series and so immersed himself in the language that when he encountered Ganoff Strunk in the corridor one day the records chief stared at him and exclaimed, “I thought you were still in Scorv!”
Farrari said absently, “No…”
“I have copies for you of the teloids of the interior of the Life Temple. If I’d known you were here, I’d have sent them over.”
“I’ve already seen the place,” Farrari said.
“You’ve seen—” Strunk grinned. “I forgot. Of course—you were inside, you saw it first hand.”
“I saw it,” Farrari said slowly, “but I didn’t look at it. Strange, isn’t it? From the moment I first saw a teloid of the exterior of that temple I’ve wondered what it was like inside. Then when I unexpectedly found myself inside I never thought to look around.”
“I don’t blame you,” Strunk said. “If the priests suddenly hauled me in there with me not knowing what they were up to, I wouldn’t have had much interest in studying art. But it doesn’t matter—our krolc got some excellent shots, including a couple of your performance. Everyone has been admiring your bow. Stop by and pick them up.”
“I will,” Farrari promised.
But he did not feel like working. Impatiently he paced the cluttered confines of his workroom, disregarding tasks left untouched since his Scory adventure, and when he tired of that he went to one of the remote conference rooms and sat looking out at the dazzling sweep of mountain scenery. Liano Kurne found him there. Strunk had sent her to deliver the Life Temple teloids that Farrari had failed to call for; probably he had said, “Give these to Farrari,” and anyone else would have left them in his workroom. She searched the entire base for him so she could place them in his hand.
Farrari thanked her and said he’d look at them when he found time.
“They’re very interesting,” she said.
“I’m sure they are,” Farrari murmured politely. “It’s a very interesting place.”
He turned again to gaze glumly at the mountain scenery. He had unaccountably lost all interest in Branoff IV culture, and it was just occurring to him that for the first time since his arrival he was facing up to the job he was supposed to do.
He had been functioning routinely as a Cultural Survey officer, which was not his assignment. His assignment was to study IPR problems from the Cultural Survey point-of-view. He still didn’t understand what that meant, but he hoped that an awareness of what he was not supposed to do was a step in the right direction.
When finally he turned away he was startled to find Liano waiting, her dark eyes fixed on him expectantly. She held out a small drinking goblet, a lovely thing of gold with an engraved figure on one side, a warrior in his most terrible aspect mounted upon a leaping gril, a bundle of short spears held aloft with one hand while the other poised a spear for throwing.
“That’s marvelous!” Farrari exclaimed.