The Light That Never Was by Jr. Lloyd Biggle Read Free Book Online Page A

is the person who neglects his talents while trying to exercise talents he does not have. It’s a double waste.” He dropped his voice. “You have undeniable talent as a minx. Why don’t you exercise it and find out what Jaward Jorno is doing in Donov Metro?”
    Instantly she turned aside, but—talented minx that she was—she did not head for Jorno but moved in the opposite direction. Wargen turned his attention to the other guests, smiling, touching wrists, pausing now and then for a brief conversation, but even while murmuring social inanities he managed to listen attentively to the conversations around him. When he heard a woman’s voice remark, “Gerald Gwyll—that’s Harnasharn’s assistant—was in Zrilund last week,” he turned abruptly. The vision of a representative of the most famous art gallery in the galaxy among what easily could have been the worst artists in the universe gave pause. Wargen was instantly curious as to what Gwyll had been doing in Zrilund.
    He recognized the speaker, a portly matron whose enthusiasm for art was exceeded only by her abysmally had bad taste. His sudden attention momentarily flustered her, but he favored her with his most disarming smile and asked politely, “How are things in Zrilund?”
    “Gerry says the place is falling apart, but the fountain is beautiful as ever. I don’t know if I should go back for one last look at the old scenes or if I might find the experience crushing. It used to be so charming.”
    “The saddest words of tongue or pen,” Wargen murmured. “It used to be or it might have been.” The woman tittered. “I understand there’s still quite an art colony there. Even falling apart, Zrilund has the best light on Donov—which is saying a great deal.”
    “Art colony, hell!” the matron exploded. “It’s just a tourist trap. There hasn’t been a decent artist working there for years.”
    “It’s really not fair to say that,” Wargen observed thoughtfully. The fact that Gwyll had talked about his trip to Zrilund without mentioning any artists made the situation preposterous. Harnasharn wouldn’t send an employee all the way to Zrilund without an extremely good reason, and if a particular Zrilund artist were involved, Gwyll would have been promoting him at every opportunity. “The younger artists travel about a great deal,” Wargen went on, “and probably all of them want one shot at Zrilund if only because of the light and all that hoary tradition. And as you say, the fountain is as beautiful as ever.”
    The bystanders were listening respectfully. “Maybe that’s where Harnasharn got the paintings for this anonymous exhibit that he’s scheduled,” a man suggested.
    “No!” The matron tittered again, and the man flushed. “No Zrilund artist would consent to being exhibited anonymously. You’re sure about that? Anonymous exhibit? Well, really!”
    Wargen excused himself with a polite smile and moved on, filing a mental reminder to have a look at the exhibit. Eyes followed him, conversation faltered as he approached and welled up behind him, and revelers maneuvered to place themselves where he might notice them. The Count Neal Wargen was a prize for any hostess’s guest list. His presence assured the eager attendance of prominent families with marriageable daughters, of businessmen and politicians who wanted a favor from the World Manager or thought that in the future they might want one, and of a large group of people who merely liked Wargen and enjoyed his company. Wargen knew all of this and bore his burden cheerfully.
    A friend intercepted him—Emrys Colyff, who stood with a small group of men talking in conspiratorial undertones. He spoke introductions, and Wargen touched wrists politely while memorizing names and faces.
    “Has the W.M. been giving any thought to the effect these riots might have on Donov?” Colyff asked.
    “I haven’t heard him mention it,” Wargen said, “but I’d be surprised if he’s been