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diff --git a/78693-h/78693-h.htm b/78693-h/78693-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..3f9bef8 --- /dev/null +++ b/78693-h/78693-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,933 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html> +<html lang="en"> +<head> + <meta charset="UTF-8"> + <meta name="viewport" content="width=device-width, initial-scale=1"> + <title> + An Artist’s Life | Project Gutenberg + </title> + <link rel="icon" href="images/cover.jpg" type="image/x-cover"> + <style> + +body { + margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; +} + +h1,h2,h3,h4,h5,h6 { + text-align: center; /* all headings centered */ + clear: both; +} + +p { + margin-top: .51em; + text-align: justify; + margin-bottom: .49em; +} + + +hr { + width: 33%; + margin-top: 2em; + margin-bottom: 2em; + margin-left: 33.5%; + margin-right: 33.5%; + clear: both; +} + +hr.tb {width: 45%; margin-left: 27.5%; margin-right: 27.5%;} +hr.chap {width: 65%; margin-left: 17.5%; margin-right: 17.5%;} +@media print { hr.chap {display: none; visibility: hidden;} } + +div.chapter {page-break-before: always;} +h2.nobreak {page-break-before: avoid;} + + +blockquote { + margin-top: 0; + margin-bottom: 0; + margin-left: 5%; + margin-right: 10%; +} + + +.center {text-align: center;} + + + +figcaption {font-weight: bold;} +figcaption p {margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: .2em; text-align: inherit;} + +/* Images */ + +img { + max-width: 100%; + height: auto; +} + + + +.figcenter { + margin: auto; + text-align: center; + page-break-inside: avoid; + max-width: 100%; +} + + + +/* Transcriber's notes */ +.transnote {background-color: #E6E6FA; + color: black; + font-size:small; + padding:0.5em; + margin-bottom:5em; + font-family:sans-serif, serif; +} + +.f15 {font-size: 1.5em;} +img.w20 {width: 20em;} + + +/* Illustration classes */ +.illowe30_6250 {width: 30.6250em;} + </style> +</head> + +<body> +<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> diff --git a/78693-h/images/73.jpg b/78693-h/images/73.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..0e4291f --- /dev/null +++ b/78693-h/images/73.jpg diff --git a/78693-h/images/cover.jpg b/78693-h/images/cover.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..4a0d849 --- /dev/null +++ b/78693-h/images/cover.jpg |
