Nova 3 Page 17

  Nathan, smiling, removes his own work-in-progress from his easel, places it gently on the table. He takes Markham’s painting and puts it on the easel. He stands back, rubs his chin and examines it.

  Anxious, as always, Markham looks around the large studio. Paintings cover the walls—not paintings of Nathan’s own, but those of other artists, other famous artists. And a few little-knowns. Markham imagines his own work hanging beside the work of such famous men and women. He looks back at Nathan, who, still smiling, continues to peruse the painting.

  Again, the feeling, the tremulous feeling of expectation.

  “Interesting,” Nathan says politely, looking away from the painting. “Your sense of perspective gets better and better, Wilson.”

  Markham nods slightly in what he hopes is a humble gesture.

  Nathan raises an eyebrow, sees Markham’s eager expression. “You’re getting there,” he says.

  W.F.H. Markham, young, hopeful artist, waits impatiently for the verdict.

  “But you’re still learning,” Nathan concludes. “Your work is still a little gaudy. You’ve got to learn to tone your colors down; you just can’t seem to keep your painting in control. Sorry, but no.”

  Visit of the Queen of Sheba to King Solomon

  Wilson Francis Howell Markham sits quietly, tiredly in his armchair, his sense of accomplishment replaced by a growing sense of failure. Every artist he has tried so far—Nathan, Math win, Simonson, Fletcher—has smiled sweetly at him and told him that he didn’t want his painting. There are three more artists he can and will try—tomorrow—but he no longer hopes so strongly for success. I’ll admit it to myself, he thinks with a heavy sigh.

  I’m a failure. Wait a minute. You go through this every time you get a painting rejected.

  But I never worked so hard on a painting before; I don’t know if I can do any better. If my best isn’t good enough . . .

  A knock on his door.

  Sighing again, fighting back what he realizes with slight surprise are real tears, he shuffles to the door and pushes the admit button.

  Sharon Linda something, a slightly spaced-out writer of what Markham considers overwritten, emotional garbage. She stands in the doorway, smiling and fidgeting. She likes him and comes down often from her apartment two stories above for a visit. They have made love two or three times, never to Markham’s real satisfaction.

  “Wilson,” she says before he can utter a mandatory greeting. “Do you remember my book Bonds of Fellowship?”

  Markham nods. “What about it?”

  Her smile becomes a huge, almost imbecilic grin. “I sold it to Claude Jameison for five hundred dollars. I’m Recognized now.”

  He forces a smile onto his face, knowing she expects one. “That’s wonderful,” he says, with false happiness. His own aching need for achievement grows suddenly stronger; she has been Recognized, why cannot he be?

  Still grinning, she looks directly into his eyes. “I’m so happy. I’ve always wanted this to happen . . . Wilson, I think I’m going to cry.” She steps toward him, and Markhm sees that her eyes are indeed wet. However, he feels no emotion toward her; she has cried in his presence before, never for sufficient reason.

  She puts her palms on his sides and presses lightly. Tears are now forming in the comers of her eyes. Markham realizes that he is expected to reach out and hold her in his arms, but he makes no movement.

  Sharon is not put off by his lack of emotion. She circles her arms about him and rests her head on his chest, sniffing.

  He feels disgust—not even hatred for her, only digust and misery. He pushes her away. “Get out,” he says, almost pleading himself.

  Finally, she senses that something is wrong in him. “Wilson,” she says, rubbing her eyes, “what’s the matter?”

  Again, “Get out.”

  Puzzled but uncaring, she says, “I’ll call you tomorrow, when you feel better. Take care of yourself, Wilson.” This she says with a hint of mock concern, as if she doubts his sanity. She blows him a kiss, sniffs one last time and hurries out the door.

  The Artist in His Studio

  The pit in his stomach has grown deeper and deeper.

  He stands before the last door; he has seen two of the remaining three artists who might have bought his work. Both said no with wide grins on their faces. He is beginning to dislike faces that smile.

  Hesitantly, with the perverse rising hope of the man who knows that he has just one chance to avoid being doomed to failure, he knocks.

  The door slides open almost immediately. A long, bony, surly face stares down at him.

  “Mr. Carstenson?” Markham says, suppressing the quiver in his voice. “I called earlier.”

  A frown. “You’re Markham, is that right? Markham.”

  “Wilson Markham. I’ve just completed a painting that I’d like to show you, if you have the time.” He has learned through past experience in dealing with Carstenson to be humble and polite no matter how obnoxious the man might become.

  Carstenson grunts. “Come in.”

  Markham does.

  Inside, paintings cover the walls. More are stacked on tables and chairs. Still more rest on easels, uncompleted.

  “Well?” the older artist says, extending his arms and hands. “Do you want to show me what you’ve done or not? I really don’t have time to watch you stare at my walls. I have my own paintings to work on, as you can see.”

  Markham hands him his painting.

  Carstenson examines the painting closely, frowning deeply. He hands it back to Markham and has him hold it up while he steps back to look at it from a distance. He continues to frown.

  Holding the painting tightly, Markham experiences the fantasy of the condemned man. He imagines the frown on Carstenson’s face suddenly turning into a smile, while the man walks cockily over, pats him on the back and says, “Markham, I want to buy this.”

  “Markham.” Loudly and with a tinge of annoyance. Carstenson has finished examining the painting, is now sitting on the edge of a chair, his rump and lower back brushing against a stack of framed paintings and prints.

  Painful, worried anticipation. Tense hope.

  “Markham, sometimes you really bother me. Do you seriously expect me to buy something like this? You’ve shown me some of your other stuff, and at least some of it wasn’t too bad. But this one is nothing but a piece of shit, and if you can’t realize that, then you probably never knew what you were doing in the first place.”

  Markham looks into the older artist’s eyes, amazed and hurt. Carstenson glares back for a moment; then his mouth twitches slightly as he sees the unstifled emotion on Markham’s face. “Look, don’t cry,” he says. “Do you think I’m telling you this for my own benefit?” His glare grows colder. “Face up to it, Markham, you’re just not an artist. Not a painter, anyway. All your work is way too subdued, too confined. If you want to be Recognized, you’re going to have to try some other field.”

  Markham, stunned, simply stares helplessly, silently, into the other man’s face.

  Not at all deeply moved, Carstenson stares back. “Listen, Markham, I’m only trying to keep you from beating your head against a wall for the rest of your life. I know talent when I see it; I’ve bought dozens of paintings from new artists in the past couple of years, and most of those artists have been doing very well. But those people were painters. You just aren’t; it’s as simple as that.”

  Mechanically, Markham blinks his eyes, turns, walks to the door. Carstenson says nothing.

  Without looking back—looking back is too terrifying now, nearly as terrifying as looking forward—he opens the door and shuffles out. He clutches the painting tightly. His hands feel empty, but his burden is ten years heavy.

  Still Life

  Slowly he realizes that he is back in his apartment, in the armchair, staring at his easel. On the easel is “Reluctant Sunset.” He tries to remember how long he has been sitting, finds no answer, gives up. He considers getting up and eating s
omething, rejects the idea. He feels no desire for food.

  Sex. He thinks of Sharon and shivers in disgust. Recognized. She is no longer merely the loud, tacky girl upstairs who wants his body.

  He sighs deeply and shivers again. He rubs his hands back and forth on the chair.

  He is more than tired. Empty. Emptied.

  He stands up wearily and rubs his forehead. He picks up a brush and fingers it absentmindedly. Tonight, he will begin a new painting. He must. Each time, after returning with an unsold painting, he forces himself to begin anew. Next time, next time . . .

  You’re just not an artist.

  He will begin again. He must. He must. He must.

  Wracked by pain and failure, he falls back into the chair. The paintbrush falls from his trembling fingers. He lifts his hands to his face and begins to cry.

  The Adoration of the Shepherds

  Below, the crowd babbles excitedly.

  He waits patiently for the audience to grow larger.

  He smiles, coldly.

  It is quite a crowd: two thousand, perhaps three thousand people. He has called up Police Center, division four-A, several hours before and notified it of his intentions, and it in turn has done a good job of spreading the word around to the general public.

  The huge bouquet of faces stares up at him, anxious, expectant. Waiting.

  He has waited long enough.

  At his first movement, a tremendous shiver shoots through him. Is this the solution? he thinks, for the twentieth time. Can’t I keep trying, and someday, maybe, I’ll make it?

  And then, again, he hears the words: You’re just not an artist.

  No.

  Am I just trying to spite the world? Am I getting back at society for not making me a success? Who am I trying to revenge: who am I mad at? Nathan? Carstenson? Sharon? Myself?

  Five stories below, the crowd begins clapping furiously.

  It’s too late now, he thinks, partly in fear, partly with relief. He must go through with it now.

  He smiles again. Feeling alone and empty but somewhat excited, he waves down at the crowd.

  The throngs cheer for him.

  He begins.

  Buckets of paint and several brushes of various sizes rest beside him on the rooftop. He picks up a large brush and dips it into the bright blue paint.

  As the thousands gaze up at him, he paints his face blue.

  Again, the crowd cheers for him.

  He tosses the brush off the roof. Hundreds of hands reach greedily to grab it. The noise of the crowd increases as someone catches it.

  He begins to take off his clothes. He removes his shirt, tosses this, too, to the crowd. And he paints his chest a fiery red.

  Next, he removes his pants and undershorts, paints his left leg green, his right leg orange and his genitals a deep purple. For some reason, which he himself cannot grasp, he feels compelled to fold his pants and underwear in a small pile next to the paints.

  Finally, he picks up a can of black, pours its contents over one arm, then the other.

  Dripping, he holds his arms up for silence. The crowd, faces turned upward like young birds seeking food, becomes quiet. Silently, the policemen push the crowd back to give him room.

  With a mad flourish, he lifts the can of turpentine and splashes the fluid all over his body.

  He walks to the very edge of the roof, looks down. He is not afraid, nor regretful, nor unhappy.

  I wonder if people will appreciate my paintings after I die, he thinks. So many artists were scorned during their lifetimes—and when they died, their work became famous.

  He picks up the matches, takes one and strikes it. He watches it flare for a moment, then looks down at the crowd one final time.

  And again, he smiles. And ignites himself. And hurls himself off the edge of the rooftop.

  The crowd utters a great gasp as the body bursts into flames and begins to fall.

  “My God, it’s beautiful,” an onlooker murmurs.

  “Yeah,” her companion answers. “But is it art?”

  SKETCHES AMONG

  THE RUINS OF MY MIND

  By PHILIP JOSÉ FARMER

  I like Phil Farmer. His scowling, hawk faced, midwest exterior is a fake and he is one of the nicest people you might want to meet. And he is a writer of note. In 1952 his story “The Lovers” introduced the concept of sex to science fiction, a concept that had great popularity elsewhere but had previously been prominent by its absence from this whiter-than-white area of literary enterprise. He not only writes well but he writes about original concepts, something very hard to do among the well picked-over bones of SF ideas. Now he takes a familiar idea, loss of memory, and shows that we have never considered all of the chilling possibilities that it might involve.

  1.

  June 1, 1980

  It is now 11:00 p.m., and I am afraid to go to bed. I am not alone. The whole world is afraid of sleep.

  This morning I got up at 6:30 a.m., as I do every Wednesday. While I shaved and showered, I considered the case of the state of Illinois against Joseph Lankers, accused of murder. It was beginning to stink as if it were a three-day-old fish. My star witness would undoubtedly be charged with perjury.

  I dressed, went downstairs, and kissed Carole good morning. She poured me a cup of coffee and said, “The paper’s late.”

  That put me in a bad temper. I need both coffee and the morning newspaper to get me started.

  Twice during breakfast, I left the table to look outside. Neither paper nor newsboy had appeared.

  At seven, Carole went upstairs to wake up Mike and Tom, aged ten and eight respectively. Saturdays and Sundays they rise early even though I’d like them to stay in bed so their horsing around won’t wake me. School days they have to be dragged out.

  The third time I looked out of the door, Joe Gale, the paperboy, was next door. My paper lay on the stoop.

  I felt disorientated, as if I’d walked into the wrong courtroom or the judge had given my client, a shoplifter, a life sentence. I was out of phase with the world. This couldn’t be Sunday. So what was the Sunday issue, bright in its covering of the colored comic section, doing there? Today was Wednesday.

  I stepped out to pick it up and saw old Mrs. Douglas, my neighbor to the left. She was looking at the front page of her paper as if she could not believe it.

  The world rearranged itself into the correct lines of polarization. My thin panic dwindled into nothing. I thought, the Star has really goofed this time. That’s what comes from depending so much on a computer to put it together. One little short circuit, and Wednesday’s paper comes out in Sunday’s format.

  The Star’s night shift must have decided to let it go through; it was too late for them to rectify the error.

  I said, “Good morning, Mrs. Douglas! Tell me, what day is it?”

  “The twenty-eighth of May,” she said. “I think . . .”

  I walked out into the yard and shouted after Joe. Reluctantly, he wheeled his bike around.

  “What is this?” I said, shaking the paper at him. “Did the Star screw up?”

  “I don’t know, Mr. Franham,” he said. “None of us knows, honest to God.”

  By “us” he must have meant the other boys he met in the morning at the paper drop.

  “We all thought it was Wednesday. That’s why I’m late. We couldn’t understand what was happening, so we talked a long time and then Bill Ambers called the office. Gates, he’s the circulation manager, was just as bongo as we was.”

  “Were,” I said.

  “What?” he said.

  “We were, not was, just as bongo, whatever that means,” I said.

  “For God’s sake, Mr. Franham, who cares!” he said.

  “Some of us still do,” I said. “All right, what did Gates say?”

  “He was upset as hell,” Joe said. “He said heads were gonna roll. The night staff had fallen asleep for a couple of hours, and some joker had diddled up the computers, or . . .”


  “That’s all it is?” I said. I felt relieved.

  When I went inside, I got out the papers for the last four days from the cycler. I sat down on the sofa and scanned them.

  I didn’t remember reading them. I didn’t remember the past four days at all!

  Wednesday’s headline was: MYSTERIOUS OBJECT ORBITS EARTH.

  I did remember Tuesday’s articles, which stated that the big round object was heading for a point between the Earth and the moon. It had been detected three weeks ago when it was passing through the so-called asteroid belt. It was at that time traveling approximately 57,000 kilometers per hour, relative to the sun. Then it had slowed down, had changed course several times, and it became obvious that, unless it changed course again, it was going to come near Earth.

  By the time it was eleven million miles away, the radars had defined its size and shape, though not its material composition. It was perfectly spherical and exactly half a kilometer in diameter. It did not reflect much light. Since it had altered its path so often, it had to be artificial. Strange hands, or strange somethings, had built it.

  I remembered the panic and the many wild articles in the papers and magazines and the TV specials made overnight to discuss its implications.

  It had failed to make any response whatever to the radio and laser signals sent from Earth. Many scientists said that it probably contained no living passengers. It had to be of interstellar origin. The sentient beings of some planet circling some star had sent it out equipped with automatic equipment of some sort. No being could live long enough to travel between the stars. It would take over four years to get from the nearest star to Earth even if the object could travel at the speed of light, and that was impossible. Even one-sixteenth the speed of light seemed incredible because of the vast energy requirements. No, this thing had been launched with only electromechanical devices as passengers, had attained its top speed, turned off its power, and coasted until it came within the outer reaches of our solar system.

  According to the experts, it must be unable to land on Earth because of its size and weight. It was probably just a surveying vessel, and after it had taken some photographs and made some radar/laser sweeps, it would proceed to wherever it was supposed to go, probably back to an orbit around its home planet.