Oric looked really interested for the first time. "You might be right. Mmmm-yes." He fitted the tips of his fingers carefully together. "You boys go ahead with this. Get the statues made. Let me worry about the arrangements for apportation." He started to leave, a preoccupied look on his face.
"Just a minute," Robar called out, "we'll need some money to oil up old Kondor."
Oric paused. "Oh, yes, yes. How stupid of me." He pulled out three silver pieces arid handed them to Robar. "Cash, and no records, eh?" He winked.
"While you're about it, sir," added Clevum, "how about my salary? My landlady's getting awful temperamental."
Oric seemed surprised. "Oh, haven't I paid you yet?" He fumbled at his robes. "You've been very patient; most patriotic. You know how it is-so many details on my mind, and some of our sponsors haven't been prompt about meeting their pledges." He handed Clevum one piece of silver. "See me the first of the week, my boy. Don't let me forget it." He hurried out.
THE three picked their way down the narrow crowded street, teeming with vendors, sailors, children, animals, while expertly dodging refuse of one kind or another, which was unceremoniously tossed from balconies. The Whirling Whale tavern was apparent by its ripe, gamey odor some little distance before one came to it. They found Kondor draped over the bar, trying as usual to cadge a drink from the seafaring patrons.
He accepted their invitation to drink with them with alacrity. Robar allowed several measures of beer to mellow the old man before he brought the conversation around to the subject. Kondor drew himself up with drunken dignity in answer to a direct question.
"Can I integrate simulacra? My son you are looking at the man who created the Sphinx." He hiccoughed politely.
"But can you still do it, here and now?" Robar pressed him, and added, "For a fee, of course."
Kondor glanced cautiously around. "Careful, my son. Some one might be listening...Do you want original integration, or simply re-integration?"
"What's the difference?"
Kondor rolled his eyes up, and inquired of the ceilimr, "What do they teach in these modern schools? Full integration requires much power, for one must disturb the very heart of the aether itself; re-integration is simply a re-arrangement of the atoms in a predetermined pattern. If you want stone statues, any waste stone will do."
"Re-integration, I guess. Now here's the proposition -- "
"THAT will be enough for the first run. Have the porters desist." Kondor turned away and buried his nose in a crumbling roll of parchment, his rheumy eyes scanning faded hieroglyphs. They were assembled in an abandoned gravel pit on the rear of a plantation belonging to Dolph's uncle. They had obtained the use of the pit without argument, for, as Robar had reasonably pointed out, if the old gentleman did not know that his land was being used for illicit purposes, he could not possibly have any objection.
Their numbers had been augmented by six red-skinned porters from the Land of the Inca-porters who were not only strong and untiring but possessed the desirable virtue of speaking no Murian. The porters had filled the curious ventless hopper with grey gravel and waited impassively for more toil to do. Kondor put the parchment away somewhere in the folds of his disreputable robe, and removed from the same mysterious recesses a tiny instrument of polished silver.
"Your pattern, son."
Dolph produced a small waxen image, modeled from his cartoon of Bat Ears. Kondor placed it in front of him, and stared through the silver instrument at it. He was apparently satisfied with what he saw, for he commenced humming to himself in a tuneless monotone, his bald head weaving back and forth in time.
Some fifty lengths away, on a stone pedestal, a wraith took shape. First was an image carved of smoke. The smoke solidified, became translucent. It thickened, curdled. Kondor ceased his humming and surveyed his work. Thrice as high as a man stood an image of Bat Ears -- good honest stone throughout. "Clevum, my son," he said, as he examined the statue, "will you be so good as to hand me that jug?" The gravel hopper was empty.
ORIC called on them two days before the election. Robar was disconcerted to find that he had brought with him a stranger who was led around through the dozens of rows of giant statues. Robar drew Oric to one side before he left, and asked in a whisper, "Who is this chap?"
Oric smiled reassuringly. "Oh, he's all right. Just one of the boys-a friend of mine."
"But can he be trusted? I don't remember seeing him around campaign headquarters."
"Oh, sure! By the way, you boys are to be congratulated on the job of work you've done here. Well, I must be running on -- I'll drop in on you again."
"Just a minute, Oric. Are you all set on the apportation?"
"Oh, yes. Yes indeed. They'll all be distributed around to the polling places in plenty of time-every statue."
"When are you going to do it?"
"Why don't you let me worry about those details, Robar?"
"Well...you are the boss, but I still think I ought to know when to be ready for the apportation."
"Oh, well, if you feel that way, shall we say, ah, midnight before election day?"
"That's fine. We'll be ready."
ROBAR watched the approach of the midnight before election with a feeling of relief. Kondor's work was all complete, the ludicrous statues were lined up, row on row, two for every polling place in the province of Lac, and Kondor himself was busy getting reacquainted with the wine jug. He had almost sobered up during the sustained effort of creating the statues.
Robar gazed with satisfaction at the images. "I wish I could see the Governor's face when he first catches sight of one of these babies. Nobody could possibly mistake who they werfe. Dolph, you're a genius; I never saw anything sillier looking in my life."