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Title: An artist's life
Author: Felix Boyd
Illustrator: Milton Berwin
Release date: May 16, 2026 [eBook #78693]
Language: English
Original publication: New York: Space Publications, Inc, 1953
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/78693
Credits: Tom Trussel (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Luminist Archive)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK AN ARTIST'S LIFE ***
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.
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