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+*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78693 ***
+
+
+
+
+                            An Artist’s Life
+
+                             by Felix Boyd
+                     [Pseudonym of Harry Harrison]
+
+                         Illustrated by Berwin
+
+
+
+
+  Dalgreen came back from the Moon to die, and there was only the art
+  he knew worth living for. But then he found Di Costa, who painted as
+  no human could ... and whose secret was too great for any man to know.
+
+
+
+
+_A busman’s holiday. A real busman’s holiday. I stay on the moon
+for a year, I paint pictures there for three hundred and sixty-five
+days--then the first thing I do back on Earth is go to the Metropolitan
+Museum of Art to look at more paintings._ Brent smiled to himself. _It
+had better be worthwhile._
+
+He looked up the immense stretch of granite steps. They shimmered
+slightly in the intense August sun. He took a deep breath and shifted
+the cane to his right hand. Slowly he dragged himself up the steps ...
+they seemed to stretch away into the oven like infinity.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+He was almost there ... a few more steps would do it. The cane caught
+between two of the steps, shifting his balance, and he was suddenly
+falling.
+
+The woman standing in the shade at the top of the steps screamed. She
+had watched since he first climbed out of the cab. Brent Dalgreen,
+the _famous_ painter, everyone recognized the tanned young face under
+bristly hair burned silver white by the raw radiation of space. The
+papers had told how his stay on the moon had weakened his muscles from
+low gravity. He had climbed painfully up the steps and now he was
+rolling hopelessly down them. She screamed again and again.
+
+They carried him into the first aid room. “Gravity weakness,” he told
+the nurse. “I’ll be all right.”
+
+She tested him for broken bones and frowned when her hand touched his
+skin. She took his temperature, her eyes widened and she glanced at him
+with a frightened look.
+
+“I know,” he said. “It’s much higher than normal. Don’t let it worry
+you though, the fever isn’t due to the fall; in fact, it’s probably the
+other way around.”
+
+“I’ll have to enter it in my report, just in case there’s any trouble.”
+
+“I wish you wouldn’t. I don’t want the fact to leak out that I’m not
+as well as I should be. If you’ll call Dr. Grayber in the Medical Arts
+Building you’ll find that this condition is not new. The museum will
+have no worry about their responsibility as to my health.”
+
+It would make wonderful copy for the scandal sheets. “MOON PAINTER
+DYING ... GIVES LIFE FOR ART.” It wasn’t at all like that. He had known
+there was danger from radiation sickness; in the beginning he had been
+very careful to be out in his spacesuit only the prescribed length of
+time. That was before he ran into the trouble.
+
+There had been a feeling about the moon that he just couldn’t capture.
+He had almost succeeded in one painting--then lost it again forever.
+It was the feeling of the haunted empty places, the stark extremes of
+the plains and boulders. It was an alien sensation that had killed him
+before he could imprison it in oil.
+
+The critics had thought his paintings were unique, wonderful, just
+what they had always thought the moon would be like. That was exactly
+his trouble. The airless satellite wasn’t at all like that. It was
+_different_--so different that he could never capture the difference.
+Now he was going to die, a failure in the only thing he had really
+wanted to do.
+
+The radiation fever was in him, eating away at his blood and bones. In
+a few months it would destroy him. He had been too reckless those last
+months, fighting against time. He had tried and failed ... it was as
+simple as that.
+
+The nurse put the phone down, frowning.
+
+“I’ve checked and what you say is true, Mr. Dalgreen. I won’t put it in
+my report if that’s what you want.” She helped him up.
+
+The moon was out of his thoughts later as one canvas after another swam
+into his vision. He bathed his senses in the collected art of the ages.
+This was his life, and he was enjoying it to the utmost, trying to make
+up for his year’s absence from the world. The Greek marbles soothed his
+mind and the Rembrandt portraits wakened his interest once again. He
+marvelled at the fact that after all the years he could still wander
+through these halls and have his interest recaptured. But he also
+wanted to see what the moderns were doing. The elevator took him to the
+Contemporary Wing.
+
+Almost at once, his quiet enjoyment was broken by _the_ painting. It
+was an autumn landscape, a representative example of the Classic-modern
+school that had been so popular for the last few years. However it had
+something else, an undefinable strangeness about it.
+
+His legs were beginning to tremble again; he knew that he had better
+rest for a few minutes.
+
+Brent sat on the wide lounge on the main staircase, cracking his
+knuckles, his mind whirling in circles as he rapidly introspected
+himself into a headache. There was no one thing in that painting
+that he could put his mental finger on, but it had upset him. It was
+disturbing him emotionally; something about the picture didn’t quite
+ring true. He knew there was a logical evaluation of a painting, just
+as there was a logical evaluation of any material object, but that
+wasn’t the trouble, he was sure. Equally, there was an emotional
+evaluation--more of a sensation or feeling; and this was where the
+trouble lay. Everyone has felt pleasure or interest at one time or
+another when looking at any form of visual art. A magazine photo,
+drawing or even a well-designed building could generate an emotional
+pattern. Brent was attempting to analyze such a sensation now, a next
+to impossible job. The only coherent thought he could muster on the
+subject was: “There is something subtly _wrong_ with that picture.”
+
+Suddenly he had the answer. It came in a second, as if revealed by some
+hidden source of insight. Perhaps his recent stay on the moon helped
+the idea to form; it had a relationship to things he had experienced
+there. It brought to mind the cinder plains that had never felt the
+foot of man. The sensation could be expressed by one word--_alienness_.
+
+In the eternal lifelessness of the silent lunar wastes this sensation
+had a place. But how did it get into the polite autumn landscape? What
+twist in the mind of the painter enabled him to capture this strange
+feeling on canvas? Brent cursed himself softly. This wasn’t a painting
+of an alien landscape. It was an Autumn in the Woods landscape painted
+by a man who didn’t understand his topic. A man with an odd way of
+looking at things. A painter who could look at the bustling life of a
+fall day and capture the eternal death of a lifeless satellite.
+
+Brent leaned forward on his cane, his heart beating in tempo with his
+swirling thoughts. He had to find this artist. He would talk to him,
+reason with him--beat him if necessary ... he must find out the man’s
+secret. The thought of his coming death sat like a cold black weight
+in his body. To die without knowing how to capture that sensation on
+canvas!
+
+He had killed himself searching for it--to no avail. Yet all the time
+here on Earth was the man who had the knowledge he sought. The bitter
+irony of it swirled his head with madness.
+
+The insane thoughts seeped away slowly. He sat on the couch until he
+was rested enough to trust himself on his feet. He had to find the man.
+
+Down in the right hand corner of the picture in the shadow of a rock
+was the signature, Arthur Di Costa, printed with wide, sweeping
+strokes. Brent had never heard the name before but this fact was not
+unusual in itself. Real artists were a retiring crew. They labored in
+back rooms and old garages, filling canvas after canvas for their own
+satisfaction. Their work might never be shown until long after they
+were dead--dead.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+That word kept intruding in his thoughts. He turned angrily and walked
+towards the guard who leaned casually on a sworl of abstractionist
+sculpture.
+
+“Shore, mister,” the guard answered. “You’ll find the curator in his
+office--the door there behind them old hangings.”
+
+“Thanks,” Brent muttered, and followed the course indicated by a
+meaty finger. He found an alcove partially concealed by the luxurious
+draperies. It contained a photo-electric water fountain and a neomarble
+door bearing the legend, _G. Andrew Kinnent--Curator, Contemporary
+Wing._ He pushed open the door and stepped into the receptionist’s
+office. She looked up from her typewriter.
+
+“My name is Brent Dalgreen; I would like to see Mr. Kinnent.”
+
+“Not _the_ Mr. Dalgreen! Why I ...” The girl broke off, flustered. She
+leaned hard on the intercom button.
+
+“Go right in, Mr. Dalgreen. Mr. Kinnent will be very happy to see you.”
+But the lovely smile that accompanied the statement was wasted on him;
+his thoughts were elsewhere, today.
+
+After thirty minutes of shop talk Brent drew the conversation around to
+the present exhibit--and one painter in particular.
+
+“Mr. Di Costa is one of our most brilliant young painters, yes,
+indeed,” the curator said smugly, as if he had personally taught Costa
+every painting trick he knew. “He has only lived in New York a short
+while, but the boy has made quite a name for himself already. Here, let
+me give you his address, I’m sure you would enjoy meeting him. Common
+interests, you know.”
+
+Brent was easily talked into accepting the information he had come
+for in the first place. He kept his real thoughts secret from the
+vociferous Kinnent. They would seem more than foolish--unsupported as
+they were by a single shred of real evidence. He couldn’t let this
+deter him. The sands of his life were trickling out, but there was
+something he had to do first.
+
+The building was one of a hundred identical greenstone structures
+that had lined the streets in the fashionable Thirties. The site of
+the former garment center was now one of the most favored residential
+districts in the city. Brent stood across the street from number
+31, ostensibly studying the headlines on the newsvend machine. The
+windowless exterior gave the obvious fact that the owner was fairly
+well off financially. Any information he sought would be inside--not
+outside. He crossed the street and stepped into the chrome entranceway.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+The inductance of his body actuated the automatic butler and the soft
+mechanical voice spoke from over the door.
+
+“The Di Costa residence. May I serve you?”
+
+“Mr. Brent Dalgreen to see Mr. Di Costa.”
+
+“I’m sorry, but I have no information regarding you, sir; if you care
+to leave a mess--” The robot tones stopped with a sharp click, to be
+replaced by a man’s voice.
+
+“I am very happy to greet you, Mr. Dalgreen. Won’t you please step in?”
+
+The door swung quietly open to reveal a small wood-panelled vestibule.
+It wasn’t until the door closed again that Brent recognized it as an
+elevator. There was a feeling of motion and the end wall slid back to
+reveal a book-lined sitting room. The occupant turned from his desk and
+stepped forward.
+
+Brent took the proffered hand--at the same time trying to penetrate
+the man’s smile. Di Costa was taller than Brent with a thinness that
+seemed to contradict his graceful movements. They shook hands, and
+his hand had the same qualities; thin, long and strong. At this point
+Brent realized he was staring; he hastened to respond to his host’s
+hospitality.
+
+“I hope you will excuse my just dropping in like this, Mr. Di Costa. I
+have seen some work of yours at the Metropolitan, and found it, well,
+very interesting.”
+
+Brent stopped, aware of how weak his reasons seemed when brought out in
+conversation. He was more than pleased when Di Costa interrupted him.
+
+“I understand perfectly, Mr. Dalgreen. I have had the same experience
+many times when looking at your paintings and those of _some_ of our
+fellow artists.” He smiled, “Not all of them, I assure you. I have
+looked at these works and said to myself, I would like to meet the
+man who did that. This very rarely happens, a fact which I deplore.
+That you feel the same way towards my work is both flattering and most
+enjoyable.”
+
+Di Costa’s friendliness broke the ice; they were soon on the best of
+terms. Brent sat in the comfortable leather chair while Di Costa mixed
+drinks at the built-in bar. This gave him a chance to look around the
+room. A brown study, it fitted the word. The decorations were all
+subdued to the room as a whole, the sort of things a man would buy for
+himself. The only clashing note was the rotary book rack in the corner.
+
+He suddenly realized that it was revolving slowly, had been doing so
+since he first entered the room. Something else ... yes, there on
+the desk, the bronze ashtray was also revolving with the same steady
+motion. They created an unusual effect, yet an oddly pleasing one. It
+fitted the room and the owner’s personality.
+
+“And here are the drinks. A toast first--always a good idea. Long life
+and good painting, to both of us.”
+
+Brent frowned to himself as he sipped the drink. There is a fascination
+about shop talk that carpenters and bank executives indulge in with
+equal pleasure. Brent found himself easily drawn into conversation on
+the merits of alizarin crimson and the influence of Byzantine art on
+Renaissance Italy. Yet all the time he talked a small portion of his
+mind was weighing the other’s words, testing and observing. But his
+host was everything he seemed to be--a gentleman of private means with
+an active interest in painting.
+
+A half hour had passed, entertaining but unenlightening, when a light
+rap sounded on the study door. It opened to reveal an attractive woman,
+tastefully dressed in a gray and silver robe of classic Greek design,
+the latest fashion.
+
+She hesitated in the doorway. “I don’t mean to disturb you, Arthur, but
+there is ... oh, excuse me, I had no idea you had a guest.”
+
+Di Costa took her gently by the arm. “I’m very glad you did, my dear.
+Let me introduce the famous Brent Dalgreen.” He passed his arm around
+her waist. “My wife, Marie.”
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Brent took her hand and smiled into her large brown eyes. She returned
+his greeting warmly--with exactly the right amount of pressure on his
+hand. A loving wife, a pleasant home--Arthur Di Costa was a model of
+the modern gentleman. The painting in the museum seemed unimportant in
+the face of all this normality.
+
+For a fraction of an instant as he held her hand, his eyes were drawn
+to a portrait that hung next to the door.
+
+It was only by the strongest effort of will that he prevented
+himself from crushing her hand. Marie was there in the portrait, her
+portrait....
+
+The same subtle transformation as the painting in the museum. Something
+about a twist of the mouth--the haunting look in her eyes as she stared
+out of the picture. He tore his gaze from the painting but not before
+Di Costa had noticed his attention.
+
+“It must be a strange sensation,” Di Costa laughed, “to meet both my
+beautiful Marie and her portrait at the same instant. But here, let me
+show you.” He touched the frame and a soft light bathed the painting.
+Brent mumbled something polite and stepped nearer, as if mere proximity
+would answer his questions.
+
+Di Costa seemed flattered by his famous guest’s interest. They
+discussed the many problems of a painting and their happy or unhappy
+solution. Blushing slightly, Marie was coaxed into standing under her
+portrait. She pretended not to notice the dissecting artistic analysis
+that could be so embarrassing to the outsider. “That blue hollow in
+the neck helps the form ...” “... the effect of the gold hair on the
+cheekbones ...” She turned her head “just so,” and “a little more”
+while they talked.
+
+Yet all during the discussion a small part of Brent’s mind was weighing
+and analyzing. The _how_ of the paintings was becoming clearer although
+the _why_ still escaped him. It wasn’t that there was an alienness
+in the figure itself, it was more as if the person were looking at
+something totally strange to worldly eyes.
+
+He felt the small throb of an incipient headache as his frustrated
+thoughts danced dizzily inward on themselves in ever tightening
+circles. The mellow sound of a chime from the wall cabinet provided a
+welcome interruption. Di Costa excused himself and stepped out of the
+room--leaving Brent alone with Marie. They had just seated themselves
+when Di Costa returned, looking as if he had received painful news.
+
+“I must ask you to excuse me, but my lawyer wishes to see me at once--a
+small but important matter about my estate. I am most unhappy to leave
+now. We must continue our talk another time. Please do not leave on my
+account, Mr. Dalgreen--my house is at your service.”
+
+When her husband left, Brent and Marie Di Costa talked idly on
+irrelevant topics, they _had_ to, since he had no idea of what might be
+relevant. You couldn’t walk up to a girl whom you’d met for the first
+time and ask, “Madam, does your husband paint monsters? Or perhaps you
+dabble in witchcraft! Is that the secret?”
+
+A quick glance at his watch convinced him it was time to go, before he
+wore out his welcome.
+
+Turning to light a cigarette his eyes fell on the mantle clock. He
+registered surprise.
+
+“Why, it’s three-thirty already! I’m afraid I’ll have to be leaving.”
+
+She rose, smiling. “You have been a most delightful guest,” she
+laughed. “I know I speak for Arthur as well as myself when I say I hope
+to see you again.”
+
+“I may take you up on that,” Brent said.
+
+Their forward progress was suddenly impeded as the elevator swung
+open to discharge a small bundle of screaming humanity. Dazed, Brent
+realized it was a young girl as she swept past. The child collapsed on
+Marie Di Costa’s shoulder, her golden hair shaking with muffled sobs. A
+plastic doll with a shattered head gave mute evidence of the source of
+the disturbance.
+
+Brent stood by self-consciously until the crying was soothed. Marie
+flashed him an understanding smile while she convinced the child at
+least to say hello to the visitor. He was rewarded with the sight of
+the red, tear-stained face.
+
+“Dotty, I want you to meet Mr. Dalgreen.”
+
+“How do you do, Mr. Dalgreen ... but Mommy the boy stepped on the doll
+and he laughed when it broke and ...” The thought was once again too
+much to bear--the tears began to course again through the well-used
+waterways.
+
+“Cheer up, Dotty. You wouldn’t want your father to see you like this,”
+Brent suggested.
+
+These seemingly innocent words, while having no affect on the little
+girl, had a marked affect on her mother. Her face whitened.
+
+“Arthur is not Dotty’s father, Mr. Dalgreen. You see, this is my second
+marriage. He ... I mean we cannot have children.” She spoke the words
+as if they were a pain, heavy within her.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Brent was slightly embarrassed--yet elated at the same time. This was
+the first crack in the facade of normality that concealed the occupants
+of the house. Her sudden change of expression could only mean that
+there was something troubling her--something he would give his last
+tube of oil paint to find out. Perhaps it wasn’t the secret hidden
+in the painting, but there must be a relationship somewhere. He was
+determined to search it out.
+
+Apartment lights were out all over the city, the daytime world was
+asleep. Brent stirred in the large chair and reached out for the glass
+of sparkling Burgundy that was slowly dying on the end table. A little
+flat--but still very good. It was one of the luxuries he allowed
+himself. A luxury that might really be called a necessity to one who
+lived by selling his emotional responses, translated into color.
+
+The wine was going flat, but the view of the city never would. New
+York, the eternal wonder city. The soft lights of his studio threw
+no reflections on the window, and his sight travelled easily over
+the architectural fairyland. Sparkling search-beams swept across the
+sky, throwing an occasional glint as they slid across a jetcar or a
+stratoplane. A thousand lights of a thousand hues twinkled in the city
+below. Even here on the one-hundred-eightieth floor he could hear the
+throbbing roar of its ceaseless activity. This was the foremost of the
+cities of man, yet somewhere in that city was a man who was ... not
+quite human.
+
+Brent had the partial answer, he was sure of that. He had found the
+missing factor in one of his own paintings. It was the only one he was
+even slightly pleased with. He had turned it out in nine solid hours of
+work, one of the “dangerous exposures” the doctors talked about. He had
+it propped on the video console, a stark vista of Mare Imbrium in the
+afternoon--moon time. It was a canvas touched with the raw grandeur of
+eternal space. It had a burning quality that reacted on human sight. An
+alien landscape seen through a human eye. Just as the Di Costa canvases
+were human scenes seen through a different eye. Perhaps not totally
+foreign to earth--they weren’t that obvious. Now that he understood,
+though; the influence was unmistakable.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+He also had substantiating evidence. The Law was the Law and genes
+would always be genes. Man and ape are warm-blooded mammals, close
+relatives among the anthropoids. Yet even with this close heritage,
+there could be no interbreeding. Offspring were out of the question;
+they were a genetic impossibility.
+
+It followed that alienness meant just that. A man who wasn’t Man--homo
+sapiens--could never have children with a human wife. Marie Di Costa
+was human, and had a real tear-soaked human daughter to prove it.
+Arthur Di Costa had no children.
+
+Brent pressed the window release and it sank into the casement with
+a soft sigh. The city noises washed in along with the fresh smell
+of growing things. The light breeze carried the fragrance in from
+the Jersey woodlands. It seemed a little out of place here above the
+gleaming city.
+
+Leaning out slightly, he could see the moon riding through the thin
+clouds and the morning star, Venus, just clearing the eastern horizon.
+He had been there on the moon. He had watched them assembling the first
+Venus rocket. Man, the erect biped, was the only sentient life form he
+had ever seen. If there were others, they were still out there among
+the stars. All, that is, except one ... or could there possibly be
+others here on Earth?
+
+This was useless thinking though. Don’t invent more monsters until
+you’ve caught your first. A night’s sleep first. After that, he could
+start setting his traps out tomorrow.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+For the tenth time, Brent threw a half-eaten candy bar into the
+receptacle and started down the street. Being a private eye was so
+easy in the teleshows--but how different the reality was! He had been
+shadowing Arthur Di Costa for three days now, and it was ruining his
+digestion. Whenever his quarry stopped, he stopped--often on the
+crowded city streets. Loitering was too obvious, so he found himself
+constantly involved with the vending machines that lined the streets.
+The news sheets were easily thrown away, but he felt obliged at least
+to sample the candy bars.
+
+Di Costa was just stepping onto the Fifth Avenue walkway. Brent got
+on a few hundred feet behind him. They rolled slowly uptown at the
+standard fifteen miles per hour. As the walkway crossed Fifty-Seventh
+Street, a small man in a black and gold business suit stepped briskly
+onto it. Brent noticed him only when he stopped next to Di Costa and
+tapped him on the shoulder. Di Costa turned with a smile--which changed
+slowly into a puzzled expression.
+
+The little man handed what appeared to be a folded piece of paper to
+the surprised painter. Before Di Costa could say anything, the man
+stepped off the walkway onto a safety platform. With a quick movement,
+surprising in a man of his chunky build, he vaulted the guard barrier
+and stepped onto the downtown walkway.
+
+Brent could only stare open-mouthed as the black figure swept by him
+and was lost in the crowds. Surprised by the entire action, he turned
+back to find Di Costa staring directly into his eyes!
+
+Whatever course of action he might have considered was lost. Di Costa
+took the initiative. He smiled and waved. Brent could hear his voice
+faintly through the street noises.
+
+“Mr. Dalgreen, over here!”
+
+Brent waved back and did the only thing possible. As he walked slowly
+forward he saw that Di Costa’s curiosity had gotten the better of him.
+Brent watched him open the note, read it--and change suddenly. The
+man’s arm dropped to his side, his body stiffened. Staring straight
+ahead, he stood on the walkway, eyes fixed and as full as a Roman
+portrait bust.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Dalgreen hurried toward the man. Events were going too fast. He had
+more than a suspicion that the note and the short man were somehow
+connected with the secret of the paintings. He stepped forward.
+
+The man stared ahead, unseeing and unhearing. Brent felt justified in
+removing the mysterious note from between his fingers. One side was
+blank, but the other contained a single illegible character--queer sign
+made up of flowing curves crossed by choppy green lines. It resembled
+nothing Brent had ever seen in his entire life.
+
+They rode uptown side by side. Brent leaned on the railing while Di
+Costa remained fixed in his strange trance. The note in Brent’s hand
+was tangible evidence that his suspicions had some basis in fact. As
+he examined it again, he was aware of an undefinable tingling in his
+hand. The note seemed to be vibrating, shaking free from his hand
+in some unknown way. Under his startled gaze it glowed suddenly and
+disappeared! One instant he had held it, the next his hand was empty.
+
+He leaped back in surprise--passing through the space formerly occupied
+by Di Costa. Gone--while he had been studying the note! Leaning over
+the rail he had a quick glimpse of the stiff figure entering the
+Central Park Skyport. Cursing himself for his stupidity, Brent changed
+lanes and raced back to the Skyport entrance.
+
+His luck still held. Di Costa was on the outgoing air cab line. It
+would take him at least ten minutes to get a cab this time of day. With
+a little speed and a few greased palms Brent could rent a Fly-Your-Own
+before the other man was airborne.
+
+Shortly after, the orange and black cab flashed up from the take-off
+circle followed closely by Brent’s blue helio. The two aircraft flew
+north and vanished in the distance over the Hudson.
+
+The air cab stayed at the 10,000 foot level. Brent cruised at 8,000,
+lagging slightly behind, keeping in the blind spot of the other ship.
+The entire affair was moving too fast for his peace of mind. He had the
+feeling that he was no longer a free agent, that he was being pushed
+into things before he decided for himself.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+He suddenly felt elated. The strange symbol on the note, the note that
+disappeared in such an inexplicable fashion, _proved_ the existence of
+alien hidden forces. Every mile that rushed under his plane brought him
+closer to the answer. He didn’t fear death--it was no longer a stranger
+to him. The moments of time left to him might be made more satisfactory
+if he ferreted out this secret. He smiled to himself.
+
+Fifteen minutes later the two ships grounded at the Municipal Skyport
+in Poughkeepsie. Brent parked the ship and followed his quarry down
+to the street level. Except for a certain stiffness in his movements,
+Di Costa seemed normal. He walked quickly and turned into an office
+building before Brent could catch up with him.
+
+Throwing discretion aside, Brent broke into a run. He turned into the
+lobby just as the elevator door closed. He pressed the call button but
+the car continued to rise. The indicator stopped at four, then slowly
+sank down again.
+
+He was too close to the end to even consider stopping now. He stepped
+into the self-service elevator and pressed four. The door closed and
+the car began to ... descend!
+
+With the realization that he was trapped came the knowledge that
+there was very little he could do about it. Just wait and see who--or
+_what_--might be outside the car when the door opened!
+
+The elevator dropped down to a level that must have been far beneath
+the basement floor. The door slid slowly back.
+
+The room was _not_ what he had expected. Not that he had any idea of
+what there would be; it was just--just that this room was so ordinary!
+
+Ordinary--except for the side wall. That was an impossibility. It was a
+glass wall looking into a vast tank of swirling water--only there was
+no glass! It was the surface of the ocean standing on its side. He felt
+himself drawn into it, falling into it.
+
+The sensation vanished as the wall suddenly turned jet black. He became
+aware for the first time that he wasn’t alone in the room. There was a
+girl behind a chrome desk. A lovely girl with straight bronze hair and
+green eyes.
+
+“An untrained person shouldn’t watch that machine, Mr. Dalgreen; it has
+a negative effect on the mind. Won’t you please step in?”
+
+His jaw dropped. “How do you know my name? Who are you? What is this
+pl....”
+
+“If you’ll be seated, I’ll be with you in a moment.”
+
+Brent saw that the elevator would stay here until he got out. He
+stepped into the room, and the door sliding shut behind him didn’t help
+his morale any. He was into it up to his neck, and the other team had
+taken complete charge. He sat.
+
+The redhead pulled the sheet of paper out of her typewriter and pushed
+it into the strange wall. It once more had the undersea look. Brent
+kept his eyes averted until she turned to him with a slight frown
+furrowing her forehead.
+
+“You have been very interested in Arthur Di Costa’s activities, Mr.
+Dalgreen. Perhaps there are some questions you would like to ask me?”
+
+“That, lady, is the world’s best understatement! Just _what_ happened
+to him today ... and what is this place?”
+
+She leaned forward and pointed. “You’re responsible for Mr. Di Costa’s
+visit here today. You were observed following him, so we brought him
+in, in the hope that you would come also. The message he received was
+a code word designed to trigger an automatic response planted in his
+mind. He came directly here, controlled by the posthypnotic suggestion.”
+
+“But the note,” he exclaimed.
+
+“A simple matter! It was written on a material made entirely of
+separate molecules. A small charge of energy held them together for a
+brief period of time. The charge leaked out and the material merely
+separated into its constituent molecules.”
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+The utter impossibility of the situation was striking home. The
+evidences of a superior culture were unmistakable. These people were
+his....
+
+“Aliens, Mr. Dalgreen--I suppose you could call us that. Yes. I can
+read your mind quite clearly. That is why you are here today. A thought
+receiver in Arthur Di Costa’s study informed us of your suspicions when
+you first walked in. We have been following you ever since, arranging
+your visit here.
+
+“I’ll tell you what I can, Mr. Dalgreen. We are not of Earth, in fact,
+we come from beyond your solar system. This office is, to be very
+frank, the outpatient ward of a sanitarium!”
+
+“Sanitarium!” Brent shouted. “This is the office only ... then where is
+the sanitarium?”
+
+The girl twirled her pencil slowly, her piercing stare seeming to
+penetrate his eyes--into his brain.
+
+“The entire Earth is our sanitarium. Mixed in with your population are
+a great number of our mentally ill.”
+
+The floor seemed to tilt under Brent’s feet. He clutched the edge of
+the desk. “Then Di Costa must be one of your outpatients. Is _he_
+insane?”
+
+The girl spoke quietly. “Not insane in the strictest sense of the word.
+He is congenitally feeble-minded; his case is incurable.”
+
+Brent thought of the brilliant Di Costa as a moron, and the inference
+shook his mind. “That means that the average I.Q. of your race must be
+...”
+
+“Beyond your powers of comprehension,” she said. “To your people Di
+Costa is normal, really far above average.
+
+“On his home planet he was not bright enough to take his place in that
+highly integrated society. He became a ward of the state. His body
+was altered to be an exact duplicate of homo sapiens. We gave him a
+new body and a new personality--but we could not change his basic
+intelligence. That is why he is here on Earth, a square peg in a square
+hole.
+
+“Di Costa spent his childhood on his home planet, living in an ‘alien’
+environment. These first impressions drive deep into the subconscious,
+you know. His new personality has no awareness of them--but they are
+there, nonetheless. When he is painting, these same impressions by-pass
+his conscious mind and operate directly on his thalamus. It takes a
+keen eye to detect their effect on the final work. May I congratulate
+you, Mr. Dalgreen?”
+
+Brent smiled ruefully, “I’m a little sorry now that I did. What are
+your plans for me? I imagine they don’t include a return to my earthly
+‘asylum’?”
+
+The girl folded her hands in her lap. She looked down at them as if
+not wanting to look Brent in the eye when she made her next statement.
+However, he wasn’t waiting for it. If he could overpower the girl, he
+might find the elevator control--any chance was worth taking. He tensed
+his muscles and jumped.
+
+A wave of pain swept through his body. Another mind--strong beyond
+comparison--was controlling his body!
+
+Every muscle jerked with spasmodic activity, halting his plunge in
+mid-air. Crashing to the desk he lay unmoving; every muscle ached with
+the fierce alien control. The redhead looked up--eyes blazing with the
+strength she had so suddenly revealed.
+
+“Never underestimate your opponent, Brent Dalgreen. I adopted the
+earthly form of a woman for just this reason. I find your people much
+easier to handle. They never suspect that I am ... more than what they
+see. I will release your mind from my control, but please don’t force
+me to resume it.”
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Brent sank to the floor, his heart pumping wildly, his body vibrating
+from the unnatural spasm.
+
+“I am the director of this ... sanitarium, so you see I have no desire
+to have our work exposed to the prying eyes of your government. I shall
+have to have you disposed of.”
+
+Brent controlled his breathing enough to allow him to speak. “You ...
+intend to ... kill me then?”
+
+“Not at all Mr. Dalgreen, our philosophy forbids killing except for the
+most humane reasons. Your physical body will be changed to conform to
+the environment of another of our sanitarium planets. We will of course
+remove all the radiation damage. You can look forward to a long and
+interesting life. If you agree to cooperate you will be allowed to keep
+your present personality.”
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+“What kind of a planet is it?” Brent asked hurriedly. He realized from
+the girl’s tones that the interview was almost at an end.
+
+“Quite different from this one. It is a very dense planet with a
+chlorine atmosphere.” She pressed a stud on her desk and turned back to
+her typewriter.
+
+Brent had a last, ragged thought as unconsciousness overcame him. He
+was going to _live_ ... and work ... and there must be some fine greens
+to paint on a chlorine planet....
+
+
+
+
+Transcriber’s note:
+
+
+ This etext was produced from Rocket Stories, September 1953 (Vol. 1,
+No. 3.). Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.
+copyright on this publication was renewed.
+
+ Obvious errors have been silently corrected in this version, but minor
+inconsistencies have been retained as printed.
+
+ New original cover art included with this eBook is granted to the
+public domain.
+
+*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78693 ***
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+<div style='text-align:center'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78693 ***</div>
+
+
+<figure class="figcenter illowe30_6250" id="73">
+  <img class="w20" src="images/73.jpg" alt="">
+  <figcaption>
+      Transcribed from Rocket Stories, September 1953 (Vol. 1, No. 3.).
+  </figcaption>
+</figure>
+<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"><div class="chapter"></div>
+<h1>
+An Artist’s Life
+</h1>
+
+
+<p class="center f15">by <strong>Felix Boyd</strong></p>
+<p class="center f15">[Pseudonym of <strong>Harry Harrison</strong>]</p>
+<p class="center">Illustrated by <strong>Berwin</strong></p>
+<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"><div class="chapter"></div>
+<blockquote>
+<p>Dalgreen came back from the Moon to die, and
+there was only the art he knew worth living for. But then he found Di
+Costa, who painted as no human could ... and whose secret was too great
+for any man to know.</p>
+</blockquote>
+
+
+
+<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"><div class="chapter"></div>
+
+
+
+<p><i>A busman’s holiday. A real busman’s holiday. I stay on the moon for a
+year, I paint pictures there for three hundred and sixty-five days—then
+the first thing I do back on Earth is go to the Metropolitan Museum of
+Art to look at more paintings.</i> Brent smiled to himself. <i>It had better
+be worthwhile.</i></p>
+
+<p>He looked up the immense stretch of granite steps. They
+shimmered slightly in the intense August sun. He took a deep breath
+and shifted the cane to his right hand. Slowly he dragged himself up
+the steps ... they seemed to stretch away into the oven like infinity.</p>
+
+<hr class="tb">
+
+<p>He was almost there ... a few more steps would do it. The cane caught
+between two of the steps, shifting his balance, and he was suddenly
+falling.</p>
+
+<p>The woman standing in the shade at the top of the steps
+screamed. She had watched since he first climbed out of the cab. Brent
+Dalgreen, the <i>famous</i> painter, everyone recognized the tanned young
+face under bristly hair burned silver white by the raw radiation of
+space. The papers had told how his stay on the moon had weakened his
+muscles from low gravity. He had climbed painfully up the steps and
+now he was rolling hopelessly down them. She screamed again and again.</p>
+
+<p>They carried him into the first aid room. “Gravity weakness,” he told
+the nurse. “I’ll be all right.”</p>
+
+<p>She tested him for broken bones and
+frowned when her hand touched his skin. She took his temperature, her
+eyes widened and she glanced at him with a frightened look.</p>
+
+<p>“I know,”
+he said. “It’s much higher than normal. Don’t let it worry you though,
+the fever isn’t due to the fall; in fact, it’s probably the other way
+around.”</p>
+
+<p>“I’ll have to enter it in my report, just in case there’s
+any trouble.”</p>
+
+<p>“I wish you wouldn’t. I don’t want the fact to leak out
+that I’m not as well as I should be. If you’ll call Dr. Grayber in
+the Medical Arts Building you’ll find that this condition is not new.
+The museum will have no worry about their responsibility as to my
+health.”</p>
+
+<p>It would make wonderful copy for the scandal sheets. “MOON
+PAINTER DYING ... GIVES LIFE FOR ART.” It wasn’t at all like that. He
+had known there was danger from radiation sickness; in the beginning he
+had been very careful to be out in his spacesuit only the prescribed
+length of time. That was before he ran into the trouble.</p>
+
+<p>There had
+been a feeling about the moon that he just couldn’t capture. He had
+almost succeeded in one painting—then lost it again forever. It was the
+feeling of the haunted empty places, the stark extremes of the plains
+and boulders. It was an alien sensation that had killed him before he
+could imprison it in oil.</p>
+
+<p>The critics had thought his paintings were
+unique, wonderful, just what they had always thought the moon would be
+like. That was exactly his trouble. The airless satellite wasn’t at all
+like that. It was <i>different</i>—so different that he could never capture
+the difference. Now he was going to die, a failure in the only thing
+he had really wanted to do.</p>
+
+<p>The radiation fever was in him, eating
+away at his blood and bones. In a few months it would destroy him. He
+had been too reckless those last months, fighting against time. He had
+tried and failed ... it was as simple as that.</p>
+
+<p>The nurse put the phone
+down, frowning.</p>
+
+<p>“I’ve checked and what you say is true, Mr. Dalgreen.
+I won’t put it in my report if that’s what you want.” She helped him
+up.</p>
+
+<p>The moon was out of his thoughts later as one canvas after another
+swam into his vision. He bathed his senses in the collected art of the
+ages. This was his life, and he was enjoying it to the utmost, trying
+to make up for his year’s absence from the world. The
+Greek marbles soothed his mind and the Rembrandt portraits wakened
+his interest once again. He marvelled at the fact that after all the
+years he could still wander through these halls and have his interest
+recaptured. But he also wanted to see what the moderns were doing. The
+elevator took him to the Contemporary Wing.</p>
+
+<p>Almost at once, his quiet
+enjoyment was broken by <i>the</i> painting. It was an autumn landscape, a
+representative example of the Classic-modern school that had been so
+popular for the last few years. However it had something else, an
+undefinable strangeness about it.</p>
+
+<p>His legs were beginning to tremble
+again; he knew that he had better rest for a few minutes.</p>
+
+<p>Brent sat
+on the wide lounge on the main staircase, cracking his knuckles, his
+mind whirling in circles as he rapidly introspected himself into a
+headache. There was no one thing in that painting that he could put
+his mental finger on, but it had upset him. It was disturbing him
+emotionally; something about the picture didn’t quite ring true. He
+knew there was a logical evaluation of a painting, just as there was a
+logical evaluation of any material object, but that wasn’t the trouble,
+he was sure. Equally, there was an emotional evaluation—more of a
+sensation or feeling; and this was where the trouble lay. Everyone has
+felt pleasure or interest at one time or another when looking at any
+form of visual art. A magazine photo, drawing or even a well-designed
+building could generate an emotional pattern. Brent was attempting
+to analyze such a sensation now, a next to impossible job. The only
+coherent thought he could muster on the subject was: “There is
+something subtly <i>wrong</i> with that picture.”</p>
+
+<p>Suddenly he had the answer.
+It came in a second, as if revealed by some hidden source of insight.
+Perhaps his recent stay on the moon helped the idea to form; it had a
+relationship to things he had experienced there. It brought to mind
+the cinder plains that had never felt the foot of man. The sensation
+could be expressed by one word—<i>alienness</i>.</p>
+
+<p>In the eternal lifelessness of
+the silent lunar wastes this sensation had a place. But how did it get
+into the polite autumn landscape? What twist in the mind of the painter
+enabled him to capture this strange feeling on canvas? Brent cursed
+himself softly. This wasn’t a painting of an alien landscape. It was an
+Autumn in the Woods landscape painted by a man who didn’t understand
+his topic. A man with an odd way of looking at things. A painter who
+could look at the bustling life of a fall day and capture the eternal
+death of a lifeless satellite.</p>
+
+<p>Brent leaned forward on his cane, his
+heart beating in tempo with his swirling thoughts. He had to find this
+artist. He would talk to him, reason with him—beat him if necessary ... he
+must find out the man’s secret. The thought of his coming death
+sat like a cold black weight in his body. To die without knowing how
+to capture that sensation on canvas!</p>
+
+<p>He had killed himself searching
+for it—to no avail. Yet all the time here on Earth was the man who had
+the knowledge he sought. The bitter irony of it swirled his head with
+madness.</p>
+
+<p>The insane thoughts seeped away slowly. He sat on the couch
+until he was rested enough to trust himself on his feet. He had to find
+the man.</p>
+
+<p>Down in the right hand corner of the picture in the shadow of
+a rock was the signature, Arthur Di Costa, printed with wide, sweeping
+strokes. Brent had never heard the name before but this fact was not
+unusual in itself. Real artists were a retiring crew. They labored in
+back rooms and old garages, filling canvas after canvas for their own
+satisfaction. Their work might never be shown until long after they
+were dead—dead.</p>
+
+<hr class="tb">
+
+<p>That word kept intruding in his thoughts. He turned angrily and walked
+towards the guard who leaned casually on a sworl of abstractionist
+sculpture.</p>
+
+<p>“Shore, mister,” the guard answered. “You’ll find the
+curator in his office—the door there behind them old hangings.”</p>
+
+<p>“Thanks,” Brent muttered, and followed the course indicated by a
+meaty finger. He found an alcove partially concealed by the luxurious
+draperies. It contained a photo-electric water fountain and a neomarble
+door bearing the legend, <i>G. Andrew Kinnent—Curator, Contemporary Wing.</i>
+He pushed open the door and stepped into the receptionist’s office.
+She looked up from her typewriter.</p>
+
+<p>“My name is Brent Dalgreen; I would
+like to see Mr. Kinnent.”</p>
+
+<p>“Not <i>the</i> Mr. Dalgreen! Why I ...” The girl
+broke off, flustered. She leaned hard on the intercom button.</p>
+
+<p>“Go
+right in, Mr. Dalgreen. Mr. Kinnent will be very happy to see you.”
+But the lovely smile that accompanied the statement was wasted on
+him; his thoughts were elsewhere, today.</p>
+
+<p>After thirty minutes of shop
+talk Brent drew the conversation around to the present exhibit—and
+one painter in particular.</p>
+
+<p>“Mr. Di Costa is one of our most brilliant
+young painters, yes, indeed,” the curator said smugly, as if he had
+personally taught Costa every painting trick he knew. “He has only
+lived in New York a short while, but the boy has made quite a name for
+himself already. Here, let me give you his address, I’m sure you would
+enjoy meeting him. Common interests, you know.”</p>
+
+<p>Brent was easily talked
+into accepting the information he had come for in the first place. He
+kept his real thoughts secret from the vociferous Kinnent. They would
+seem more than foolish—unsupported as they were by a single shred of
+real evidence. He couldn’t let this deter him. The sands of his life
+were trickling out, but there was something he had to do first.</p>
+
+<p>The
+building was one of a hundred identical greenstone structures that had
+lined the streets in the fashionable Thirties. The site of the former
+garment center was now one of the most favored residential districts
+in the city. Brent stood across the street from number 31, ostensibly
+studying the headlines on the newsvend machine. The windowless
+exterior gave the obvious fact that the owner was fairly well off
+financially. Any information he sought would be inside—not outside.
+He crossed the street and stepped into the chrome entranceway.</p>
+
+<hr class="tb">
+
+<p>The
+inductance of his body actuated the automatic butler and the soft
+mechanical voice spoke from over the door.</p>
+
+<p>“The Di Costa residence. May I serve you?”</p>
+
+<p>“Mr. Brent Dalgreen to see Mr. Di Costa.”</p>
+
+<p>“I’m sorry, but
+I have no information regarding you, sir; if you care to leave a mess—”
+The robot tones stopped with a sharp click, to be replaced by a man’s
+voice.</p>
+
+<p>“I am very happy to greet you, Mr. Dalgreen. Won’t you please
+step in?”</p>
+
+<p>The door swung quietly open to reveal a small wood-panelled
+vestibule. It wasn’t until the door closed again that Brent recognized
+it as an elevator. There was a feeling of motion and the end wall slid
+back to reveal a book-lined sitting room. The occupant turned from his
+desk and stepped forward.</p>
+
+<p>Brent took the proffered hand—at the same
+time trying to penetrate the man’s smile. Di Costa was taller than
+Brent with a thinness that seemed to contradict his graceful movements.
+They shook hands, and his hand had the same qualities; thin, long and
+strong. At this point Brent realized he was staring; he hastened to
+respond to his host’s hospitality.</p>
+
+<p>“I hope you will excuse my just
+dropping in like this, Mr. Di Costa. I have seen some work of yours at
+the Metropolitan, and found it, well, very interesting.”</p>
+
+<p>Brent stopped,
+aware of how weak his reasons seemed when brought out in conversation.
+He was more than pleased when Di Costa interrupted him.</p>
+
+<p>“I understand
+perfectly, Mr. Dalgreen. I have had the same experience many times when
+looking at your paintings and those of <i>some</i> of our fellow artists.” He
+smiled, “Not all of them, I assure you. I have looked at these works
+and said to myself, I would like to meet the man who did that. This
+very rarely happens, a fact which I deplore. That you feel the same
+way towards my work is both flattering and most enjoyable.”</p>
+
+<p>Di Costa’s
+friendliness broke the ice; they were soon on the best of terms. Brent
+sat in the comfortable leather chair while Di Costa mixed drinks at
+the built-in bar. This gave him a chance to look around the room. A
+brown study, it fitted the word. The decorations were all subdued to
+the room as a whole, the sort of things a man would buy for himself.
+The only clashing note was the rotary book rack in the corner.</p>
+
+<p>He
+suddenly realized that it was revolving slowly, had been doing so since
+he first entered the room. Something else ... yes, there on the desk, the
+bronze ashtray was also revolving with the same steady motion. They
+created an unusual effect, yet an oddly pleasing one. It fitted the
+room and the owner’s personality.</p>
+
+<p>“And here are the drinks. A toast
+first—always a good idea. Long life and good painting, to both of us.”</p>
+
+<p>Brent frowned to himself as he sipped the drink. There is a fascination
+about shop talk that carpenters and bank executives indulge in with
+equal pleasure. Brent found himself easily drawn into conversation on
+the merits of alizarin crimson and the influence of Byzantine art on
+Renaissance Italy. Yet all the time he talked a small portion of his
+mind was weighing the other’s words, testing and observing. But his
+host was everything he seemed to be—a gentleman of private means with
+an active interest in painting.</p>
+
+<p>A half hour had passed, entertaining
+but unenlightening, when a light rap sounded on the study door. It
+opened to reveal an attractive woman, tastefully dressed in a gray and
+silver robe of classic Greek design, the latest fashion.</p>
+
+<p>She hesitated
+in the doorway. “I don’t mean to disturb you, Arthur, but there is ... oh,
+excuse me, I had no idea you had a guest.”</p>
+
+<p>Di Costa took her
+gently by the arm. “I’m very glad you did, my dear. Let me introduce
+the famous Brent Dalgreen.” He passed his arm around her waist. “My
+wife, Marie.”</p>
+
+<hr class="tb">
+
+<p>Brent took her hand and smiled into her large brown
+eyes. She returned his greeting warmly—with exactly the right amount
+of pressure on his hand. A loving wife, a pleasant home—Arthur Di
+Costa was a model of the modern gentleman. The painting in the museum
+seemed unimportant in the face of all this normality.</p>
+
+<p>For a fraction
+of an instant as he held her hand, his eyes were drawn to a portrait
+that hung next to the door.</p>
+
+<p>It was only by the strongest effort of will
+that he prevented himself from crushing her hand. Marie was there in
+the portrait, her portrait....</p>
+
+<p>The same subtle transformation as
+the painting in the museum. Something about a twist of the mouth—the
+haunting look in her eyes as she stared out of the picture. He tore
+his gaze from the painting but not before Di Costa had noticed his
+attention.</p>
+
+<p>“It must be a strange sensation,” Di Costa laughed, “to
+meet both my beautiful Marie and her portrait at the same instant. But
+here, let me show you.” He touched the frame and a soft light bathed
+the painting. Brent mumbled something polite and stepped nearer, as if
+mere proximity would answer his questions.</p>
+
+<p>Di Costa seemed flattered
+by his famous guest’s interest. They discussed the many problems of a
+painting and their happy or unhappy solution. Blushing slightly,
+Marie was coaxed into standing under her portrait. She pretended not to
+notice the dissecting artistic analysis that could be so embarrassing
+to the outsider. “That blue hollow in the neck helps the form ...”
+“... the effect of the gold hair on the cheekbones ...” She turned her head
+“just so,” and “a little more” while they talked.</p>
+
+<p>Yet all during the
+discussion a small part of Brent’s mind was weighing and analyzing.
+The <i>how</i> of the paintings was becoming clearer although the <i>why</i> still
+escaped him. It wasn’t that there was an alienness in the figure
+itself, it was more as if the person were looking at something totally
+strange to worldly eyes.</p>
+
+<p>He felt the small throb of an incipient
+headache as his frustrated thoughts danced dizzily inward on themselves
+in ever tightening circles. The mellow sound of a chime from the wall
+cabinet provided a welcome interruption. Di Costa excused himself and
+stepped out of the room—leaving Brent alone with Marie. They had
+just seated themselves when Di Costa returned, looking as if he had
+received painful news.</p>
+
+<p>“I must ask you to excuse me, but my lawyer
+wishes to see me at once—a small but important matter about my estate.
+I am most unhappy to leave now. We must continue our talk another
+time. Please do not leave on my account, Mr. Dalgreen—my house is at
+your service.”</p>
+
+<p>When her husband left, Brent and Marie Di Costa talked
+idly on irrelevant topics, they <i>had</i> to, since he had no idea of what
+might be relevant. You couldn’t walk up to a girl whom you’d met for
+the first time and ask, “Madam, does your husband paint monsters? Or
+perhaps you dabble in witchcraft! Is that the secret?”</p>
+
+<p>A quick glance
+at his watch convinced him it was time to go, before he wore out his
+welcome.</p>
+
+<p>Turning to light a cigarette his eyes fell on the mantle
+clock. He registered surprise.</p>
+
+<p>“Why, it’s three-thirty already! I’m
+afraid I’ll have to be leaving.”</p>
+
+<p>She rose, smiling. “You have been a
+most delightful guest,” she laughed. “I know I speak for Arthur as well
+as myself when I say I hope to see you again.”</p>
+
+<p>“I may take you up on that,” Brent said.</p>
+
+<p>Their forward progress was suddenly impeded as the
+elevator swung open to discharge a small bundle of screaming humanity.
+Dazed, Brent realized it was a young girl as she swept past. The child
+collapsed on Marie Di Costa’s shoulder, her golden hair shaking with
+muffled sobs. A plastic doll with a shattered head gave mute evidence
+of the source of the disturbance.</p>
+
+<p>Brent stood by self-consciously
+until the crying was soothed. Marie flashed him an understanding smile
+while she convinced the child at least to say hello to the visitor. He
+was rewarded with the sight of the red, tear-stained face.</p>
+
+<p>“Dotty, I want you to meet Mr. Dalgreen.”</p>
+
+<p>“How do you do, Mr.
+Dalgreen ... but Mommy the boy stepped on the doll and he laughed when
+it broke and ...” The thought was once again too much to bear—the
+tears began to course again through the well-used waterways.</p>
+
+<p>“Cheer
+up, Dotty. You wouldn’t want your father to see you like this,” Brent
+suggested.</p>
+
+<p>These seemingly innocent words, while having no affect on
+the little girl, had a marked affect on her mother. Her face whitened.</p>
+
+<p>“Arthur is not Dotty’s father, Mr. Dalgreen. You see, this is my
+second marriage. He ... I mean we cannot have children.” She spoke the
+words as if they were a pain, heavy within her.</p>
+
+<hr class="tb">
+
+<p>Brent was slightly
+embarrassed—yet elated at the same time. This was the first crack in
+the facade of normality that concealed the occupants of the house. Her
+sudden change of expression could only mean that there was something
+troubling her—something he would give his last tube of oil paint to
+find out. Perhaps it wasn’t the secret hidden in the painting, but
+there must be a relationship somewhere. He was determined to search
+it out.</p>
+
+<p>Apartment lights were out all over the city, the daytime
+world was asleep. Brent stirred in the large chair and reached out
+for the glass of sparkling Burgundy that was slowly dying on the end
+table. A little flat—but still very good. It was one of the luxuries
+he allowed himself. A luxury that might really be called a necessity
+to one who lived by selling his emotional responses, translated into
+color.</p>
+
+<p>The wine was going flat, but the view of the city never would.
+New York, the eternal wonder city. The soft lights of his studio threw
+no reflections on the window, and his sight travelled easily over
+the architectural fairyland. Sparkling search-beams swept across the
+sky, throwing an occasional glint as they slid across a jetcar or a
+stratoplane. A thousand lights of a thousand hues twinkled in the city
+below. Even here on the one-hundred-eightieth floor he could hear
+the throbbing roar of its ceaseless activity. This was the foremost
+of the cities of man, yet somewhere in that city was a man who was ... not
+quite human.</p>
+
+<p>Brent had the partial answer, he was sure of that.
+He had found the missing factor in one of his own paintings. It was
+the only one he was even slightly pleased with. He had turned it out
+in nine solid hours of work, one of the “dangerous exposures” the
+doctors talked about. He had it propped on the video console, a stark
+vista of Mare Imbrium in the afternoon—moon time. It was a canvas
+touched with the raw grandeur of eternal space. It had a burning
+quality that reacted on human sight. An alien landscape seen through
+a human eye. Just as the Di Costa canvases were human scenes seen
+through a different eye. Perhaps not totally foreign to earth—they
+weren’t that obvious. Now that he understood, though; the influence
+was unmistakable.</p>
+
+<hr class="tb">
+
+<p>He also had substantiating evidence. The Law was
+the Law and genes would always be genes. Man and ape are warm-blooded
+mammals, close relatives among the anthropoids. Yet even with this
+close heritage, there could be no interbreeding. Offspring were out
+of the question; they were a genetic impossibility.</p>
+
+<p>It followed that
+alienness meant just that. A man who wasn’t Man—homo sapiens—could
+never have children with a human wife. Marie Di Costa was human, and
+had a real tear-soaked human daughter to prove it. Arthur Di Costa had
+no children.</p>
+
+<p>Brent pressed the window release and it sank into the
+casement with a soft sigh. The city noises washed in along with the
+fresh smell of growing things. The light breeze carried the fragrance
+in from the Jersey woodlands. It seemed a little out of place here
+above the gleaming city.</p>
+
+<p>Leaning out slightly, he could see the moon
+riding through the thin clouds and the morning star, Venus, just
+clearing the eastern horizon. He had been there on the moon. He had
+watched them assembling the first Venus rocket. Man, the erect biped,
+was the only sentient life form he had ever seen. If there were others,
+they were still out there among the stars. All, that is, except one ... or
+could there possibly be others here on Earth?</p>
+
+<p>This was useless
+thinking though. Don’t invent more monsters until you’ve caught your
+first. A night’s sleep first. After that, he could start setting his
+traps out tomorrow.</p>
+
+<hr class="tb">
+
+<p>For the tenth time, Brent threw a half-eaten candy
+bar into the receptacle and started down the street. Being a private
+eye was so easy in the teleshows—but how different the reality was!
+He had been shadowing Arthur Di Costa for three days now, and it was
+ruining his digestion. Whenever his quarry stopped, he stopped—often
+on the crowded city streets. Loitering was too obvious, so he found
+himself constantly involved with the vending machines that lined the
+streets. The news sheets were easily thrown away, but he felt obliged
+at least to sample the candy bars.</p>
+
+<p>Di Costa was just stepping onto
+the Fifth Avenue walkway. Brent got on a few hundred feet behind him.
+They rolled slowly uptown at the standard fifteen miles per hour. As
+the walkway crossed Fifty-Seventh Street, a small man in a black and
+gold business suit stepped briskly onto it. Brent noticed him only
+when he stopped next to Di Costa and tapped him on the shoulder.
+Di Costa turned with a smile—which changed slowly into a puzzled
+expression.</p>
+
+<p>The little man handed what appeared to be a folded piece
+of paper to the surprised painter. Before Di Costa could say anything,
+the man stepped off the walkway onto a safety platform. With a quick
+movement, surprising in a man of his chunky build, he vaulted the guard
+barrier and stepped onto the downtown walkway.</p>
+
+<p>Brent could only stare
+open-mouthed as the black figure swept by him and was lost in the
+crowds. Surprised by the entire action, he turned back to find Di Costa
+staring directly into his eyes!</p>
+
+<p>Whatever course of action he might
+have considered was lost. Di Costa took the initiative. He smiled and
+waved. Brent could hear his voice faintly through the street noises.</p>
+
+<p>“Mr. Dalgreen, over here!”</p>
+
+<p>Brent waved back and did the only thing
+possible. As he walked slowly forward he saw that Di Costa’s curiosity
+had gotten the better of him. Brent watched him open the note, read
+it—and change suddenly. The man’s arm dropped to his side, his body
+stiffened. Staring straight ahead, he stood on the walkway, eyes fixed
+and as full as a Roman portrait bust.</p>
+
+<hr class="tb">
+
+<p>Dalgreen hurried toward the
+man. Events were going too fast. He had more than a suspicion that
+the note and the short man were somehow connected with the secret of
+the paintings. He stepped forward.</p>
+
+<p>The man stared ahead, unseeing and
+unhearing. Brent felt justified in removing the mysterious note from
+between his fingers. One side was blank, but the other contained a
+single illegible character—queer sign made up of flowing curves crossed
+by choppy green lines. It resembled nothing Brent had ever seen in
+his entire life.</p>
+
+<p>They rode uptown side by side. Brent leaned on the
+railing while Di Costa remained fixed in his strange trance. The note
+in Brent’s hand was tangible evidence that his suspicions had some
+basis in fact. As he examined it again, he was aware of an undefinable
+tingling in his hand. The note seemed to be vibrating, shaking free
+from his hand in some unknown way. Under his startled gaze it glowed
+suddenly and disappeared! One instant he had held it, the next his
+hand was empty.</p>
+
+<p>He leaped back in surprise—passing through the space
+formerly occupied by Di Costa. Gone—while he had been studying the
+note! Leaning over the rail he had a quick glimpse of the stiff figure
+entering the Central Park Skyport. Cursing himself for his stupidity,
+Brent changed lanes and raced back to the Skyport entrance.</p>
+
+<p>His luck
+still held. Di Costa was on the outgoing air cab line. It would take
+him at least ten minutes to get a cab this time of day. With a little
+speed and a few greased palms Brent could rent a Fly-Your-Own before
+the other man was airborne.</p>
+
+<p>Shortly after, the orange and black cab
+flashed up from the take-off circle followed closely by Brent’s blue
+helio. The two aircraft flew north and vanished in the distance over
+the Hudson.</p>
+
+<p>The air cab stayed at the 10,000 foot level. Brent cruised
+at 8,000, lagging slightly behind, keeping in the blind spot of the
+other ship. The entire affair was moving too fast for his peace of
+mind. He had the feeling that he was no longer a free agent, that he
+was being pushed into things before he decided for himself.</p>
+
+<hr class="tb">
+
+<p>He suddenly
+felt elated. The strange symbol on the note, the note that disappeared
+in such an inexplicable fashion, <i>proved</i> the existence of alien hidden
+forces. Every mile that rushed under his plane brought him closer to
+the answer. He didn’t fear death—it was no longer a stranger to him.
+The moments of time left to him might be made more satisfactory if he
+ferreted out this secret. He smiled to himself.</p>
+
+<p>Fifteen minutes later
+the two ships grounded at the Municipal Skyport in Poughkeepsie. Brent
+parked the ship and followed his quarry down to the street level.
+Except for a certain stiffness in his movements, Di Costa seemed
+normal. He walked quickly and turned into an office building before
+Brent could catch up with him.</p>
+
+<p>Throwing discretion
+aside, Brent broke into a run. He turned into the lobby just as the
+elevator door closed. He pressed the call button but the car continued
+to rise. The indicator stopped at four, then slowly sank down again.</p>
+
+<p>He was too close to the end to even consider stopping now. He stepped
+into the self-service elevator and pressed four. The door closed and
+the car began to ... descend!</p>
+
+<p>With the realization that he was trapped
+came the knowledge that there was very little he could do about it.
+Just wait and see who—or <i>what</i>—might be outside the car when the
+door opened!</p>
+
+<p>The elevator dropped down to a level that must have been
+far beneath the basement floor. The door slid slowly back.</p>
+
+<p>The room
+was <i>not</i> what he had expected. Not that he had any idea of what there
+would be; it was just—just that this room was so ordinary!</p>
+
+<p>Ordinary—except for the side wall. That was an impossibility. It was a glass
+wall looking into a vast tank of swirling water—only there was no
+glass! It was the surface of the ocean standing on its side. He felt
+himself drawn into it, falling into it.</p>
+
+<p>The sensation vanished as the
+wall suddenly turned jet black. He became aware for the first time that
+he wasn’t alone in the room. There was a girl behind a chrome desk. A
+lovely girl with straight bronze hair and green eyes.</p>
+
+<p>“An untrained
+person shouldn’t watch that machine, Mr. Dalgreen; it has a negative
+effect on the mind. Won’t you please step in?”</p>
+
+<p>His jaw dropped. “How
+do you know my name? Who are you? What is this pl....”</p>
+
+<p>“If you’ll be seated, I’ll be with you in a moment.”</p>
+
+<p>Brent saw that the elevator
+would stay here until he got out. He stepped into the room, and the
+door sliding shut behind him didn’t help his morale any. He was into
+it up to his neck, and the other team had taken complete charge. He
+sat.</p>
+
+<p>The redhead pulled the sheet of paper out of her typewriter and
+pushed it into the strange wall. It once more had the undersea look.
+Brent kept his eyes averted until she turned to him with a slight frown
+furrowing her forehead.</p>
+
+<p>“You have been very interested in Arthur Di
+Costa’s activities, Mr. Dalgreen. Perhaps there are some questions you
+would like to ask me?”</p>
+
+<p>“That, lady, is the world’s best understatement!
+Just <i>what</i> happened to him today ... and what is this place?”</p>
+
+<p>She leaned
+forward and pointed. “You’re responsible for Mr. Di Costa’s visit here
+today. You were observed following him, so we brought him in, in the
+hope that you would come also. The message he received was a code word
+designed to trigger an automatic response planted in his mind. He came
+directly here, controlled by the posthypnotic suggestion.”</p>
+
+<p>“But the note,” he exclaimed.</p>
+
+<p>“A simple matter! It was written on a material
+made entirely of separate molecules. A small charge of energy held them
+together for a brief period of time. The charge leaked out and the
+material merely separated into its constituent molecules.”</p>
+
+<hr class="tb">
+
+<p>The utter
+impossibility of the situation was striking home. The evidences of a
+superior culture were unmistakable. These people were his....</p>
+
+<p>“Aliens, Mr.
+Dalgreen—I suppose you could call us that. Yes. I can read your mind
+quite clearly. That is why you are here today. A thought receiver in
+Arthur Di Costa’s study informed us of your suspicions when you first
+walked in. We have been following you ever since, arranging your visit
+here.</p>
+
+<p>“I’ll tell you what I can, Mr. Dalgreen. We are not of Earth,
+in fact, we come from beyond your solar system. This office is, to be
+very frank, the outpatient ward of a sanitarium!”</p>
+
+<p>“Sanitarium!” Brent
+shouted. “This is the office only ... then where is the sanitarium?”</p>
+
+<p>The
+girl twirled her pencil slowly, her piercing stare seeming to penetrate
+his eyes—into his brain.</p>
+
+<p>“The entire Earth is our sanitarium. Mixed
+in with your population are a great number of our mentally ill.”</p>
+
+<p>The
+floor seemed to tilt under Brent’s feet. He clutched the edge of the
+desk. “Then Di Costa must be one of your outpatients. Is <i>he</i> insane?”</p>
+
+<p>The girl spoke quietly. “Not insane in the strictest sense of the word.
+He is congenitally feeble-minded; his case is incurable.”</p>
+
+<p>Brent thought
+of the brilliant Di Costa as a moron, and the inference shook his mind.
+“That means that the average I.Q. of your race must be ...”</p>
+
+<p>“Beyond your
+powers of comprehension,” she said. “To your people Di Costa is normal,
+really far above average.</p>
+
+<p>“On his home planet he was not bright enough
+to take his place in that highly integrated society. He became a ward
+of the state. His body was altered to be an exact duplicate of homo
+sapiens. We gave him a new body and a new personality—but we could
+not change his basic intelligence. That is why he is here on Earth,
+a square peg in a square hole.</p>
+
+<p>“Di Costa spent his childhood on his
+home planet, living in an ‘alien’ environment. These first impressions
+drive deep into the subconscious, you know. His new personality has
+no awareness of them—but they are there, nonetheless. When he is
+painting, these same impressions by-pass his conscious mind and operate
+directly on his thalamus. It takes a keen eye to detect their effect
+on the final work. May I congratulate you, Mr. Dalgreen?”</p>
+
+<p>Brent smiled
+ruefully, “I’m a little sorry now that I did. What are your plans for
+me? I imagine they don’t include a return to my earthly ‘asylum’?”</p>
+
+<p>The
+girl folded her hands in her lap. She looked down at them as if not
+wanting to look Brent in the eye when she made her next statement.
+However, he wasn’t waiting for it. If he could overpower the girl,
+he might find the elevator control—any chance was worth taking. He
+tensed his muscles and jumped.</p>
+
+<p>A wave of pain swept through his body.
+Another mind—strong beyond comparison—was controlling his body!</p>
+
+<p>Every muscle jerked with spasmodic activity, halting his plunge in
+mid-air. Crashing to the desk he lay unmoving; every muscle ached with
+the fierce alien control. The redhead looked up—eyes blazing with
+the strength she had so suddenly revealed.</p>
+
+<p>“Never underestimate your
+opponent, Brent Dalgreen. I adopted the earthly form of a woman for
+just this reason. I find your people much easier to handle. They never
+suspect that I am ... more than what they see. I will release your mind
+from my control, but please don’t force me to resume it.”</p>
+
+<hr class="tb">
+
+<p>Brent sank
+to the floor, his heart pumping wildly, his body vibrating from the
+unnatural spasm.</p>
+
+<p>“I am the director of this ... sanitarium, so you see
+I have no desire to have our work exposed to the prying eyes of your
+government. I shall have to have you disposed of.”</p>
+
+<p>Brent controlled
+his breathing enough to allow him to speak. “You ... intend to ... kill
+me then?”</p>
+
+<p>“Not at all Mr. Dalgreen, our philosophy forbids killing
+except for the most humane reasons. Your physical body will be changed
+to conform to the environment of another of our sanitarium planets. We
+will of course remove all the radiation damage. You can look forward
+to a long and interesting life. If you agree to cooperate you will be
+allowed to keep your present personality.”</p>
+
+<hr class="tb">
+
+<p>“What kind of a planet is
+it?” Brent asked hurriedly. He realized from the girl’s tones that
+the interview was almost at an end.</p>
+
+<p>“Quite different from this one.
+It is a very dense planet with a chlorine atmosphere.” She pressed a
+stud on her desk and turned back to her typewriter.</p>
+
+<p>Brent had a last,
+ragged thought as unconsciousness overcame him. He was going to <i>live</i> ... and
+work ... and there must be some fine greens to paint on a chlorine
+planet....</p>
+
+
+<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
+<div class="chapter"></div><div class="transnote">
+  <h2 class="nobreak" id="Transcribers_note">
+    Transcriber’s note:
+  </h2>
+
+
+<blockquote>
+<p>This etext was produced from Rocket Stories, September 1953 (Vol. 1, No.
+3.). Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.
+copyright on this publication was renewed.</p>
+
+<p>Obvious errors have been silently corrected in this version, but minor
+inconsistencies have been retained as printed.</p>
+
+<p>New original cover art included with this eBook is granted to the public domain.</p>
+</blockquote>
+</div>
+<div style='text-align:center'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78693 ***</div>
+</body>
+</html>
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+
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+
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+Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for eBook #78693
+(https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/78693)