Patron of the Arts

by William Rotsler

  The images seemed to radiate outward from a center, in long curving arms like that of a spiral galaxy, coming out from a central radiance, gradually forming into more and more distinct shapes as they neared the ends of the spiraling arms. Vaguely amorphic humanoids, which could be winged and could be great insectoids and could be ships and could be decoration.

  I lay back on the pile of sand and drank it in, putting my mind in neutral, not probing, just absorbing, drifting toward an assimilation of the whole. When pieces or moments of a work of art stand out it is often because the form is not complete, not unified, not integrated. When a work of art can be experienced all at one time, as in a painting, these factors are clear. When time and motion are involved, as in a dance or a tape or even a sensatron, then there is linear development, hence a variation in reaction, and sometimes this “bright spot, dull spot” theory can work for the artist, providing contrast, rest before activity, part of the selection process.

  So I lay there and absorbed and did not judge or concentrate, for that can always be done. I found that I was wondering why man—and the long-dead Martians—created art at all. You didn’t need art to feed your body or to keep you warm or sheltered from the rains. But from the caves onward man had created art with a persistence second only to his desire to feed, to sleep, and to reproduce. To deny food to your body is to die. To deny sex to your body is to deny life. To reject art is to impoverish yourself, rejecting pleasure and growth. We always think of those who have minimal interest in the arts as dull clods, as insensitive beasts. But to accept your sexual self, and to accept art, is to add to yourself.

  Art depicts the inner and outer manifestations of sex and living and feeling and dreams and frustrations. It reveals us to ourselves, or should.

  Man persistently creates art under the most depressing as well as the most enjoyable circumstances. Some men and women create art as easily as breathing. For them, not to create would be to die. The mysterious process of creation is something that no one had ever stated clearly, at least to me. Some have said it is to go beyond oneself, to be

  “other” and “another” and more than the sum of the parts. Goldstone told me it was “to get high,” to become intoxicated with creation. Perhaps artists create to imitate god, to become a god by creating. Art is ego, but the attitude an artist may have about it, before or after, is the purest form of egotism.

  Michael Cilento once said that it was to “escape to freedom . . . or to escape from freedom.” Freedom seems to be the constant. Freedom to create, freedom to create new images, new thoughts, new philosophies, new anything.

  New worlds, perhaps.

  Freedom to create Star Palaces and Grand Halls and perhaps the ultimate freedom from self. Maybe that was where the Martians had gone, simply creating the ultimate, artistic self, the purest ego, a disembodied form of energy to wander the universe, shaping it, or simply experiencing what they had found.

  The concept of a race that had evolved beyond the flesh was an old one, but a persistent one, as though it was a sort of genetic goal. I turned off the light and forced sleep upon myself. And the dreams forced themselves upon me.

  9

  It was hours before I awakened, and when I did I came awake like an animal, instantly alert, not moving, eyes wide in the utter blackness of the deep tomb. When I had determined that I had simply awakened, that nothing had jolted me back, I switched on the light and grinned to myself. I had rarely awakened like that, like a hunted animal. For some reason it was like a proof of skill, oddly pleasing,

  I started back up, checking the ceilings of several rooms as I passed; here and there were faint remains of other ceiling murals, very ancient and in a bad state of repair. But my mind was on more immediate things.

  Laser in hand, I crept up the curving steps, my light off, with only the faint glow from above to guide me. It was day, and as my head cleared the rock and I was into the lowest level of the crystal palace I was fully alert, with all senses out at the extremes.

  I hardly glanced at the rainbow of sunlit glories that I found, from lemon yellow, intimate enclosures to curved-ceiling sanctums of positive and negative green rosettes, from snowy white salons of milky smooth lumps flowing and blending to tiny cells of patterned intersecting circles, each a convoluted, three-dimensional design of pinpoint-faceted crystals. My eyes followed my gunpoint and I went as silent as a shadow, crossing colorless crystal floors, looking down into a forest of stalagmites that seemed random from some points and clearly designed from others. I went swiftly over smoky, delicate bridges that spanned what seemed like liquid crystal pools of many colors, and through grottos of crimson swirls, and past nooks and niches of amber and azure and palest pink. I went as swiftly as possible through the familiar and the unfamiliar, feeling my way, moving fast, then moving slowly to the final portico and the sight of the sands beyond.

  After a period of listening and looking I ran as fast as I could

  straight out into the sands, threw myself over a dune, rolled, and ran to the right. I moved around the Palace until I found what I hoped was my own track, then followed it, coming in from the desert where, if they were still here, they might least expect me.

  I hoped.

  I lay on the sand, behind a tiny crystal growth, like a bush in the desert, and surveyed the openings around the base of the big building. Here on this side the prevailing wind had not piled the drifting sand, and there was more open space. And another set of sandcat tracks. They had stopped here, then turned left. But had they dropped off someone with a Magnum Laser equipped with a heatscope and some experience with it?

  I backed out into the desert and went to the left. I found their sandcat parked in another compartment a quarter circle on, and saw where they had carelessly backed in and had broken off the edge of the opening, grinding the crystals under the treads. Somehow that made me angrier than their unexplained attempts to murder me. Like the behavior of that mad fool who had used a hammer on Michaelangelo’s Pieta or of the suicidal Arab who had taken a laser to the Wailing Wall, this was a totally senseless act of destruction. I raised my weapon and sliced into the cab with vicious cuts, trusting the resistance of the metal to keep the beam from going through to the back of the chamber.

  The pressurized cabin blew outward but as the pressure inside was not that much greater than that outside there was not much noise. I dropped the muzzle and put a series of pulses through the forward drive train, ruining forever this particular sandcat.

  If they were going to get me they would have to walk home—and I didn’t think they’d make it.

  As soon as I finished firing I started running, for I knew they’d have telltales as well. I went out into the desert, then curved again toward my own vehicle. I had to check it quickly, while they investigated the killing of their cat.

  I ran quickly out of the shelter of the dunes, my breath coming hard in the thin air, my heart pounding wildly, fully expecting to feel the silent sword of a laser pulse ripping through me at any moment. I gained the shelter of a crystal opening, but felt no protection behind the millenium-old walls. Their polished surfaces might reflect a portion of the tight light beam, but not enough. I had to move fast.

  I zig-zagged in and out of two more arches and then I was at my machine. Nothing seemed wrong until I saw they had neatly cut away the lock. I jumped up on the step and looked in, wary of booby traps, and saw that they had fused the ignition switch with a low-intensity burn. I jumped back down and then I heard the voices.

  “Goddamn it, Ashley, watch that cat!”

  I heard the crunch of footsteps in the sand and I ducked into the dark behind the cat, trying to control my ragged breathing. There was a sudden surge of something that was almost joy. It rushed over me in a hot wave, making me tremble, mixing with the fear. Just for a second, just for a fleeting nanosecond or three I was glad to be able to strike back, to do something. I crouched, primitive and ready, the laser tight in my fist, my finger tense.

  Someone
came into the crystal cave, paused, grunted faintly as if satisfied no one had been near, and then came quickly around the cat to hide in the dimness behind.

  If I hadn’t been ready, and scared, he might have gotten me. He was very fast. My beam sliced into his chest and my nervous finger held down the trigger, but by then he was falling, falling through the beam, falling in bloody hunks and sections and gobbets of meat. He hit and sloshed over my feet and rolled against my leg, and his laser scraped the back of the cat but never went off.

  The sounds of still-functioning organs were nightmarish. I fought vomiting as I wrenched my foot from under the lump of his head and one shoulder and shoved back against the wall. The blood was soaking into the sands, and he had lost all sphincter and bladder control. The growing stench was nauseating and unforgettable, but I scuffed my bloody feet in the sand and threw myself on the ground just behind the forward track, looking under the machine toward the entry from which the other—or others—should come.

  “Ashley!”

  Ashley had nothing to say, so they came on carefully and cautiously. I could see two of them.

  Grading your opponents should be quite automatic, I heard Shigeta say. When combat comes, if it comes, you take the most dangerous man first . . . and fast.

  I shot the one who was the closest through the chest. My hands had been shaking too much for a head shot. I knew I hit him, but I couldn’t wait to watch him fall. I rolled over and shot around the bottom of the track at the other one, and missed. I fired again but I was a millisecond late and he burned through the headlight over my head, showering me with glass and bits of molten metal. But he was too far from shelter and I hit him with my next shot. He fell, but I could see I had only slashed into his leg, and before I could aim again he had dragged himself past the curve of the base and out of my sight. Were there more?

  Could I fix the fused ignition and drive away? Could I leave the wounded man? There is something odd about wounded men. By the rules of the game they are supposed to be neutralized, out of the fight, so you treat them with respect and love and care. But that son-of-a-bitch had tried to kill me. And might again. Game!

  I hesitated, then dodged around the arch and ran back up into the Star Palace. I moved through a space composed of latticed crystal fancies and a bowl-shaped atrium of tiered rosettes, open to the dark Martian sky, then onto a wandering balcony, fringed with spires no bigger than my arm, no two alike. I moved along, gun at the ready, trying to estimate where the wounded man had hidden. I kept up a scan of the ground below and the balconies above, nervous as a cat. It is not so important to win a fight, Shigeta said with unbidden intrusion, but it is important not to let the other man win. I saw scuffmarks in the sand and a few droplets of blood. I climbed over the balcony, careful of the crystal fancies, and went down the slope on the facets of the lower base. I angled off to the right, beyond where he was secreted. I moved slowly and carefully, watching my shadow, fully exposed should he or another step out into the sand. Finally I crawled into a flat spot and edged slowly to the rim. I could see one foot. I debated shearing it off and if he had moved it I might have. I felt no bloodlust, only a very desperate need to survive. The removal of his foot would have been no more painful than firing a grossly inefficient employee. I was feeling calmer now, and a bit more confident.

  But the foot did not move. When at last I edged further out, my laser aimed and ready, I saw the reason. A large pool of blood. What was the line from Macbeth, about not knowing there was so much blood in him?

  I felt sick.

  When at last I crawled the rest of the way down and dropped onto the sands I knew it was over. Just to be certain I took another quick look through the Palace, but there were only the three. I thought about burying them, but decided the authorities had best see everything the way it was.

  I grinned wryly to myself. What authorities? The Marine commandant at Ares? A Guild council head?

  The ignition on the assassins’ sandcat was untouched. It took me most of the day to take it out, repair my own cat, and transfer what supplies there were. It was almost sunset when I headed toward Bradbury.

  Behind me was one of the most beautiful buildings in the System. And three dead men. But I had discovered two important things. First, just before I left I noticed that the broken crystals near the killers’ cat had glazed over. I examined the surfaces closely and thought I knew why the Star Palace was still so beautiful, even after all these sandy centuries. The crystals were regrowing, ever so slowly, but regrowing to the original formation, or perhaps to a new configuration.

  The second thing I learned was about myself. Three hired killers had come after me and I had vanquished them. Despite the revulsion, despite the fear and pain, I was jubilant. Tested and not found wanting!

  This time Shigeta and his eternal admonishments thrust into my consciousness. Believing yourself the best man can get you killed or defeated. Better to always be a little scared than to walk tough. Beware the reputation that makes men desire to test you. I was beginning to understand Shigeta more all the time. I didn’t expect an answer yet from Huo, but I checked anyway, just to be certain. What I did get was a surprise, a Null-Edit tape from Bowie, my chauffeur and personal guard.

  “It came in on the Ivan Dimitri, right after you touched down,”

  the dispatcher with the leg stumps told me. I kept my eyes off his stumps and kept the images away. “It’s been following you all around.”

  I thanked him and borrowed a reader and the privacy of his toilet. I sat on the ceramic stool and read the code on the outside of the biskit and dialed it into the reader. Nothing. I depressed the personal code key and redialed. Perhaps it was Huo, routed through Bowie as a ruse. But all I got was gibberish.

  I redialed, leaving off the personal code. The random numbers tape, on which this had been recorded, had been keyed to my own company code. When I hit the green tab I heard the coded beep on the audio track and knew it was synchronous.

  The screen blipped and there was Bowie. He looked very nervous. “Sir,” he said almost in a whisper, “I know I’m not supposed to know where you are, but I had to warn you. There’s something wrong here. I can’t figure out what it is.” He looked around, as if in fear of being found. “I . . . I thought it was odd when you didn’t take me along, but I figured that was your business. Then I was assigned to Mr. Huo, but only in the outer cells.” He looked slightly hurt as he said, “You know my rank. It seemed strange that I’d be . . . well . . . overlooked like that. Unless they thought I was a little too loyal to you. Then I heard something, just a part of a conversation, and I figured you were on Mars.”

  He grinned into the camera and said, “And good for you! I mean, that’s great! So I figured it was all a hush-hush so that you could do your number and everything would be null-zongo. I really envied you, if you want to know the truth.”

  Bowie grew serious. “Then I saw Osbourne and Sayles going into Mr. Huo’s private elevator. They’re a shifty pair. No one ever proved anything about that Metaxa affair, but I have my ideas. After that no guardian company would bond them, so they started doing freelance muscle. At least, that’s the word.”

  Bodigard, Commguard, the Burns Agency, and all the rest of the quality security agencies had a standard policy that was quite effective. If any of their bonded agents—a term they preferred over bodyguard and security man—ever violated that bond, the agencies were pledged not only to pursue that violator to the limits of the law, but to pursue him without stop and with little regard to extradition, legality, or anything else; that is, never to stop until he was legally or illegally dead, if his crime was sufficient. As a result, the bonded guards were loyal, well-paid, and intelligent.

  “Franky, sir, I think they are going out to assassinate you. I’m sending this out on the Dmitri, but they are going out on it, too. I hope this gets to you before they do. Go to ground, sir, or get the hell back here in a hurry. Something definitely odd is happening! There’s a Brian Thorne out there
in the boonies, but now I think it’s a double, not just a marker moving on paper. Watch yourself.”

  The screen went blank and there was just electron rubble until the tape ended. I sat staring at the tiny rectangle. Thank you, Bowie. I suppose I should have felt shocked and betrayed, but I was just numb. Huo had been my right-hand man for years, always efficient, always loyal. If Bowie was correct, it was apparently a major change in the man’s character. But maybe this element had been there all the time, hidden, suppressed, kept waiting until the right moment. It seemed so unlikely. Before Huo started working for me he had been with Randall/Bergstresser, working his way up from junior urbomax programmer to department head. His record was spotless, his dossier portraying a model of the ambitious but ethical man. He had done some minor investing in the market and had made a modest profit, steadily adding to his portfolio over the years. He had bought into a number of my own corporations even before I put him under contract, and, with various stock options, he was respectably well off.

  What would Huo gain from my death? If my Mars trip was not revealed to my board of directors they would think I was still running around in the hinterlands, a ruse I myself had help set up. That could give Huo time to shift a few million from Column A to Column B, to sell a company off at rock bottom price and to buy it himself, to rig the computer payouts, to rape a company of assets, and so on. But how much could he steal?

  I laughed at myself. I remembered when even a million New Dollars seemed like the largest sum of power and energy there was. Yes, Huo could steal more than he would ever make as my assistant, even limiting himself to the “legal” thefts that would never be discovered if I died. He could steal himself a lifetime of luxury in a year. Real power, real luxury, came very high indeed on our overpopulated Earth. Even second-in-command to Brian Thorne could not hope to live as Brian Thorne might.

  Just like the boss, huh, Huo?