ART DISPLAY.
People milled about here and there by the entranceway, but the actual concourse did not look at all crowded. In fact, the art show seemed embarrassingly understocked with people for its grand opening.
As Todd stepped from the tube-car, a woman strode up to him extending a hand, beaming a too-wide smile.
“Welcome!” she said, grabbing Todd’s hand and patting it familiarly. “You have the distinguishing quality of being our two hundredth guest for the grand opening!”
“I do?” Todd cringed. This wasn’t good. Cog had suggested that though he could freely mingle with the passengers of the Star Fall, he should not allow himself to be too noticed. “I am? I mean, does that mean I win a prize?”
The woman laughed artificially. “No, no. Tell me, what’s your name.”
“Todd Spigot” leaped to his tongue tip, but he managed to quickly switch it to “Charley Haversham, miss.”
“My name is Ivy Henderson, manager of this marvelous gallery. Tell me, are you a writer, an artist yourself? Or do you number yourself among the scientific portion of this star cruise?”
“I’m a janitor, ma’am,” Todd said.
Ivy Henderson blinked dark eyes, brushed back slightly unruly dark hair. Her mouth dipped into a frown briefly. “A jan—” She groped for words. “One of the technical crew! How fortunate!” The overfriendly smile was again broad on her face, displaying bright teeth to good advantage. “As you know, this is one of the displays intended specifically for visitors shuttled up from the surfaces of colony planets. Simple working people—like yourself! My goodness, I should have thought of inviting others like yourself! We can get an immediate typical reaction of the—”
Todd smiled wryly. “Untermensch?”
“You must meet our host and benefactor.” She waved blithely toward a dim form in a translucent plastic booth. Her narrow nostrils flared with excitement. “What a marvelous idea! We can have a gala ... what was that word you used?”
“Untermensch,” Todd repeated.
“Yes, an untermensch gala! A kind of testday for the masses. We’ll invite all the crew and see how the wonderful energy these art forms exude impresses them.” She grabbed Todd by the hand and led him to the booth. “Mr. Hurt has been such a sweetheart to me. I’ve had such a wonderful time dealing with all these wonderful artists.” She stopped at the door, hands fluttering at her bosom. “I feel so vibrant here amid their radiant emanations.” She exhaled fervently. “Well, now—let me introduce you to Mr. Hurt.”
Good grief. Cog wouldn’t like this at all.
“I really shouldn’t take up his time,” Todd objected.
“Nonsense! I’m sure that Mr. Hurt would be more than happy to hear our idea.” A delicate finger tapped a button. A door slid open. “Quickly, quickly! We mustn’t let too much of Mr. Hurt’s special air escape!”
Todd stepped into the rectangular room. The Art Director followed on his heels, promptly pushing another button. The door whisked shut behind them.
The man sat in a chair overlooking the aisle of the gallery concourse. Dressed in golden, shimmering robes, he casually stroked his trim, very black beard. It framed a pale-lipped mouth. Smooth, sallow skin held small pores. A delicate nose sensitively jutted from beneath eyes which, Todd noted as the man slowly swung his way, were the man’s most arresting characteristic. Deep black, they were slightly flecked with silver, like coins at the bottom of a well. Their look simultaneously expressed self-confidence and sadness, control and despair. Long dark hair holding not a hint of gray cascaded delicately to his shoulders in an artistic arrangement no doubt held in place by a hair style-field emanating from a microchip button on the back of his necklace.
His voice was rich, measured, as he spoke, the accent indefinable though bearing a faint cultured British texture. “Ms. Henderson. I was thinking that perhaps I have been at fault in inadequately advertising your excellent display. Why else should there be so few attendees for such a stunning show?”
Ivy Henderson did not seem to catch the faint ironic twist to the small mouth. “Time. Time for the news to spread of all these simply fabulous artists gathered in one place, Mr. Hurt. That’s all it will take. Besides, as I pointed out to you before, your intentions from the very beginning were to create a travelling museum, visiting dozens of planets, shining the light of culture on deprived citizens of the Federation.” She slipped a hand around Todd’s arm. “Mr. Charley Haversham has given me a simply divine idea concerning the show. You see, Mr. Haversham is with the menial staff of the ship—janitorial, am I correct Mr. Haversham?”
“Yes,” Todd said, noting the faint amusement in Hurt’s eloquent eyes. ”It’s a true pleasure to be on your terrific cruise, Mr. Hurt. I only hope I can be of adequate service. Anything I can do in the way of testing responses of Normal Joes.”
“Please, Mr. Haversham,” Hurt said, an expansive smile showing perfect white teeth. “I am a rich man. Ms. Henderson surely does not realize that even the crew and maintenance technicians for this jaunt of the Star Fall were carefully screened. I can afford quality, you see.”
Ms. Henderson did not even have the grace to blush. “I merely thought that because of his role in life, his world view would be ... I mean, he would be more similar to the regular visitors from colonies and ... oh my, I hope I haven’t offended you, Mr. Haversham,” she said.
“Not at all. I’m just here to see the show, actually, and I’d be happy to let you know my reactions.”
“You are a doll,” she exulted, voice expressive again. “You see, Mr. Hurt. It’s not such a bad idea!”
Hurt gave a pained smile. “In that case, perhaps I should take a moment or two to interview our ... what is the term? Guinea pig, I think—before he ventures onto the floor of art treasures so exquisitely culled from Earth and arranged by yourself, Ms. Henderson. In the meantime, I notice that several of the artists have not quite completed their setting up. Perhaps you would be so good as to aid them. I will have Mr. Haversham report to you just as soon as he completes his tour.”
She turned to Todd. “I shall no doubt be in the welcoming booth. I’ll prepare a questionnaire for your attention.”
“There’s so much out there, I’m sure I’ll not be able to do the whole thing today. But I’ll be glad to let you know what I think of what I see.”
Ms. Henderson’s attention, however, was elsewhere. A flurry of activity seemed to be occurring near the show’s center. Voices were raised in anger. There was the sound of fluttering paper. Todd glanced through the darkened glass. An attractive dark-haired woman seemed to be the center of the ruckus. “Oh my,” the Art Director said. “I’ll bet it’s that Veronica March again.” She clucked her tongue. “A walking disaster area, that woman. I’ve thrown her out of five New York shows if I’ve thrown her out of one. I don’t even like her work.”
“She is one of my favorite young artists,” Hurt spoke up. “It was I, Ms. Henderson, who overrode your rejection of her application to contribute to this show. I trust that you will give her every polite consideration.”
“Yes, of course, Mr. Hurt.” Ivy Henderson replied in glacial tones. Without further ado, she spun on her heel and departed.
“Please excuse the woman,” Earnest Evers Hurt said. “I find her hard to take, but she is simply the most influential organizer of these sort of things on Earth. It was only through her that I was able to obtain such a wide variety of artists of such caliber.”
“I’m not offended. Better than pressing buttons on a sewer computer.”
“Ah, but well pressed, I’m sure,” Hurt said with a faint chuckle.
Todd found himself liking the man. Although he had an urbane, clipped manner, he seemed not merely genteel and mannerly, but honestly interested in his guest and not conceited. “Please. Sit down. Would you like some tea? I can order you something more powerful if you like, but I f
ear I do not imbibe alcohol or anything that might be too hard on the old brain cells, you know.”
“Tea would be just fine, thank you,” Todd said, settling into a comfortable chair which had popped up from the floor at the tap of a finger. The man poured steaming brown liquid into a delicate porcelain Chinese cup.
“I hope you find this satisfactory. My personal hybrid of the ancient oriental ginseng root. An honorable longevity treatment.”
Todd remembered Cog’s comment on Hurt’s age. “You wish to live a long time?”
“You need not pretend ignorance as to my ancient state, Mr. Haversham,” Hurt said mildly. “I have never claimed to be desirous of being young. I merely wish to remain old for a long time.”
“You are well preserved,” Todd observed, tasting the tea. Strong, bitter—like ground-up dirt—it nonetheless had a savory aspect.
“The best body parts that my genetic engineers can grow,” Hurt drawled, casually running fingertips down his chest to his legs. “I’m the oldest man alive, Mr. Haversham. Did you know that? A regular modern-day Methuselah. Two hundred and twenty-one years old. And I don’t feel a day over two hundred and nineteen.”
Todd, disarmed by the man’s manner, laughed. This was the person Cog was so worried about?
“How old are you, Mr. Haversham?” Hurt asked casually.
Now there was a question. Just how old was poor Charley? Todd took a guess. “Twenty-nine.”
Hurt sipped daintily from the cup, which portrayed exquisitely painted sea gulls in flight over a blue background. The old man fitted in a young body grimaced slightly for some private reason and set the cup back in its place on a warming cabinet. “Ever have your optimum age computed stochastically? Ultimate probability, I mean, barring accidents. Bottom line. Cut-off point.”
“Uhm. No. That always seemed to me to be so ... well, morbid.” Depressing, too. Among the middle class on Todd’s home world of Deadrock, average life spans only just touched a hundred Terran standard years for normal citizenry; considerably less for miners.
Earnest Evers Hurt turned away with a blank gaze. “Even with the finest geriatric and longevity treatments—developed of course by my personal scientists from my personal funds—” a wry smile—“I have at best another ten years to live. My mortality weighs heavy upon my shoulders.” His eyes brightened. “But please, forgive me. You are young. I’ve no business interrupting your enjoyment of what is, after all, a well-earned break in your prescribed duties.”
“No, please,” Todd said. “I find myself privileged to be able to talk with you. I never thought I’d have the opportunity.”
Hurt folded his hands across his abdomen, bent in an oddly vulnerable, fetal manner. “When I was your age, Mr. Haversham, I too took long journeys, though ostensibly in search of Truth rather than to earn a living. I was happy then—or at least absorbed. I was not of this life, really. You never are when you’re an innocent acolyte of the Meaning Quest, when you lose yourself in science, philosophy, religion and all the odd byways and highways that bridge them.”
“What happened?” Todd straightened, terribly interested.
“Then my particular slice of reality folded upon me. My father died, you see. My father, whom I had never really known. Master of the then pioneering Hurt Associates, criminal on some worlds, practically God on others. He decayed past recall and was ... no more. I was haunted by him. He’d literally designed me, a structural improvement over his own genetic code. As responsibility tumbled down upon me—I was his designated heir, you understand—I found myself fascinated and appalled by the man. Slowly, I found myself”—Hurt seemed to have difficulty forcing the word out—“becoming my father. You see, I too am a devil to some, a deity to others. I have sinned unforgivably, yet I have also done the most kind, most benevolent deeds, on a scale befitting my stature. I, Mr. Haversham, am a living testimony to the polarity of Nature. A particularly monstrous example, thanks to my power. Now, though my hunger for life continues—most selfishly, since I happen to have heirs who wait for my demise somewhat less than patiently —I can taste my mortality.” He gestured expansively. “That, perhaps, is why I wished to use the Star Fall for these admittedly grandiose purposes. When my obituary is stamped across the news-fax screens of the human universe, perhaps fewer people will say, ‘Ah! Another megalomaniac—perhaps the biggest of all—has bitten the dust. Hurrah!’ I should like to think that some people will say, ‘Ah! That humanitarian Earnest Evers Hurt, who founded the greatest monument and museum of the human race, traveled among the worlds, a testimony to Truth and Intelligence. Founder of the Hurt Foundation!’ ” A finger smote the air in mock exclamation. “Benefactor of millions! He will be sorely missed!” Hurt leaned over toward Todd and spoke in a softer voice. “Will you miss me, Mr. Haversham?” An easy smile made Todd realize that an answer was not expected.
“You’ve accomplished wonders for the reputation of the ship that nearly destroyed Earth.”
“Ah yes! A phoenix risen from the ashes. Perhaps I should have renamed the vessel the Star Spring! Fascinating thought.”
“Why are you telling all this to a stranger?”
Hurt’s eyes glimmered moistly, for a brief instant young. “I should like to hear your thoughts on mortality, Mr. Haversham. I offer my fears and dreams to make you feel comfortable. A habit with individuals I take a liking to.”
“Me?” Todd felt the familiar shiver running up his spine at the thought of such numinous matters. “You’re asking to open a whole can of worms there, Mr. Hurt. You have to realize I was raised in a radically religious environment.”
“How fascinating. Determinists, I take it?”
“Yes. If indeed each individual is programmed socially and culturally, then you might say I was programmed metaphysically.”
“A Christian sect?”
“Hardliners. Fundamentalists. Lots of fear and anxiety.”
“A natural state for rational human beings, surely? Isn’t that what Kierkegaard maintained?”
“Not when your dreads are totally irrational, private niggling things that haunt your dreams.”
“Please excuse my prying, but what are your religious and philosophic convictions now, Mr. Haversham?” Hurt leaned forward intently, stroking his beard.
“Mr. Hurt, I’ve had profound religious experiences, and therefore I count myself a religious individual in the minimalist sense of the word. I find comfort in prayer and belief, but not to a deity that has been socially and culturally drilled into me—a creation of other people’s misconceptions and fears. I remain a Christian, though a Christian open to all that awaits him, interested in all thought and philosophies and yet still searching, still growing.”
Hurt’s eyes were wide with interest. “Tell me, Mr. Haversham, should you somehow have the opportunity to make a more literal quest—would you? A quest, perhaps to disclose as certainty the important secrets of this universe? Just how strong is your hunger?”
“No less strong than any other’s, I suppose. I like to think that I would accept whatever is offered to me in the way of truth and knowledge. I accept what is, Mr. Hurt. The more I know, the more I realize how little I know and understand.”
“A most commendable attitude, Mr. Haversham!” Todd noticed that a small blood-red light pulsed on the console to Hurt’s immediate right, attracting the man’s attention. “Ah, but you must excuse me. Please feel free to visit me during the journey. We can discuss these things at length. In the meantime I hope you enjoy the educational elements and entertainments at your disposal aboard the Star Fall. We certainly appreciate your services.” The man congenially proffered his hand, which Todd shook.
“Thank you.” As Todd departed, the last thing he saw was Hurt bending over a comm-unit as it slowly extended itself from the console.
* * *
“Yes?”
“None other than yours truly, reporti
ng that Insertion will be achieved at precisely eight o’clock this evening, ship’s time, with suitable ceremony.”
“Can you give me the approximate time of our arrival at the optimum nexus point to commence the metapsychic attraction processes?”
“Nope. As you well know, we haven’t the foggiest notion of the location or essential composition of what we’re trying to attract.”
“Yes. Yes of course. Arachnid. I just had an interesting discussion with none other than your friend Todd Spigot.”
“Ah ha! In his masquerade as Charles Haversham!”
“Yes. He is to be plotted into one of the main scenarios.”
A moment of silence. “But you promised him all to me.”
“They will all be yours eventually. He has the aptitude I need for a particular course of seeking that will create strong sympathetic psychic harmonics to the Field. I want him plugged into the composite. Do not harm him.”
“Arrangements will be made, brother,” said the Arachnid in a sly tone.
Brother? Why had the creature called him that?
“Scenario 17, Arachnid.” Earnest Evers Hurt smiled to himself. “Mr. Spigot will have his holy quest all right.”
THE WOMAN stepped back a pace, her heel landing squarely on the toes of Todd Spigot’s left foot.
“Ouch,” Todd said.
She twirled, startled, her long brunette hair a carousel sparkling in the light from a nearby geltoid light sculpture. “Oh, my. I’m so sorry.” She took a cigarette from her lips. Lit ash tumbled down Todd’s shirtfront. “Oh dear!” the woman exclaimed again, trying to brush the stuff off, which resulted in a long carbon smear on the off-white.
Curved black lashes batted. White hands with superb nails colored green clasped in contrition. Apologetic words began to tumble from glossy lips. “Forgive me! I didn’t see you!”
“That’s all right,” Todd said, grimacing with the pain, redistributing his weight. “I have two of them.”
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