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diff --git a/78693-0.txt b/78693-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..c7066e9 --- /dev/null +++ b/78693-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,761 @@ +*** 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 *** |