"I mean hand work," said the spaceman. "Actually working by hand."
The artist shrugged. "There have been crazes for the techniques of the boiler works and the machine shop," he admitted. "Some interesting things were done, but they didn't stand up well. Is there anything here that takes your eye?"
"I like those dolphins," said the spaceman, pointing to a perforated terra-cotta relief on the wall. They had been commissioned by an architect, then later refused for reasons of economy when the house had run way over estimate. "They'd look bully over the fire-place in my town apartment. Like them, Lucy?"
"I think they're wonderful," said the girl.
Roald saw the spaceman go rigid with the effort not to turn and stare at her. He loved her and he was jealous.
Roald told the story of the dolphins and said: "The price that the architect thought was too high was three hundred and sixty dollars."
Malone grunted. "Doesn't seem unreasonable—if you set a high store on inspiration."
"I don't know about inspiration," the artist said evenly. "But I was awake for two days and two nights shoveling coal and adjusting drafts to fire that thing in my kiln."
The spaceman looked contemptuous. "I'll take it," he said. "Be something to talk about during those awkward pauses. Tell me, Halvorsen, how's Lucy's work? Do you think she ought to stick with it?"
"Austin," objected the girl, "don't be so blunt. How can he possibly know after one day?"
"She can't draw yet," the artist said cautiously. "It's ah … coordination, you know—thousands of hours of practice, training your eye and hand to work together until you can put a line on paper where you want it.
Lucy, if you're really interested in it, you'll learn to draw well. I don't think any of the other students will. They're in it because of boredom or snobbery, and they'll stop before they have their eye-hand coordination."
"I am interested," she said firmly.
Malone's determined restraint broke. "Damned right you are. In—" He recovered himself and demanded of Halvorsen: "I understand your point about coordination. But thousands of hours when you can buy a camera? It's absurd."
"I was talking about drawing, not art," replied Halvorsen. "Drawing is putting a line on paper where you want it, I said." He took a deep breath and hoped the great distinction wouldn't sound ludicrous and trivial.
"So let's say that art is knowing how to put the line in the right place."
"Be practical. There isn't any art. Not any more. I get around quite a bit and I never see anything but photos and S.P.G.s. A few heirlooms, yes, but nobody's painting or carving any more."
"There's some art, Malone. My students—a couple of them in the still-life class—are quite good. There are more across the country. Art for occupational therapy, or a hobby, or something to do with the hands.
There's trade in their work. They sell them to each other, they give them to their friends, they hang them on their walls. There are even some sculptors like that. Sculpture is prescribed by doctors. The occupational therapists say it's even better than drawing and painting, so some of these people work in plasticine and soft stone, and some of them get to be good."
"Maybe so. I'm an engineer, Halvorsen. We glory in doing things the easy way. Doing things the easy way got me to Mars and Venus and it's going to get me to Ganymede. You're doing things the hard way, and your inefficiency has no place in this world. Look at you! You've lost a fingertip—some accident, I suppose."
"I never noticed—" said Lucy, and then let out a faint, "Oh!"
Halvorsen curled the middle finger of his left hand into the palm, where he usually carried it to hide the missing first joint.
"Accidents are a sign of inadequate mastery of material and equipment," said Malone sententiously. "While you stick to your methods and I stick to mine, you can't compete with me."
His tone made it clear that he was talking about more than engineering.
"Shall we go now, Lucy? Here's my card, Halvorsen. Send those dolphins along and I'll mail you a check."
IV
The artist walked the half-dozen blocks to Mr. Krehbeil's place the next day. He found the old man in the basement shop of his fussy house, hunched over his bench with a powerful light overhead. He was trying to file a saw.
"Mr. Krehbeil!" Halvorsen called over the shriek of metal.
The carpenter turned around and peered with watery eyes. "I can't see like I used to," he said querulously. "I go over the same teeth on this damn saw, I skip teeth, I can't see the light shine off it when I got one set. The glare." He banged down his three-cornered file petulantly.
"Well, what can I do for you?"
"I need some crating stock. Anything. I'll trade you a couple of my maple four-by-fours."
The old face became cunning. "And will you set my saw? My saws, I mean. It's nothing to you—an hour's work. You have the eyes."
Halvorsen said bitterly, "All right." The old man had to drive his bargain, even though he might never use his saws again. And then the artist promptly repented of his bitterness, offering up a quick prayer that his own failure to conform didn't make him as much of a nuisance to the world as Krehbeil was.
The carpenter was pleased as they went through his small stock of wood and chose boards to crate the dolphin relief. He was pleased enough to give Halvorsen coffee and cake before the artist buckled down to filing the saws.
Over the kitchen table, Halvorsen tried to probe. "Things pretty slow now?"
It would be hard to spoil Krehbeil's day now. "People are always fools.
They don't know good hand work. Some day," he said apocalyptically, "I laugh on the other side of my face when their foolish machine-buildings go falling down in a strong wind, all of them, all over the country. Even my boy—I used to beat him good, almost every day—he works a foolish concrete machine and his house should fall on his head like the rest."
Halvorsen knew it was Krehbeil's son who supported him by mail, and changed the subject. "You get some cabinet work?"
"Stupid women! What they call antiques-they don't know Meissen, they don't know Biedermeier. They bring me trash to repair sometimes. I make them pay; I swindle them good."
"I wonder if things would be different if there were anything left over in Europe …"
"People will still be fools, Mr. Halvorsen," said the carpenter positively.
"Didn't you say you were going to file those saws today?"
So the artist spent two noisy hours filing before he carried his crating stock to the studio.
Lucy was there. She had brought some things to eat. He dumped the lumber with a bang and demanded: "Why aren't you at work?"
"We get days off," she said vaguely. "Austin thought he'd give me the cash for the terra-cotta and I could give it to you."
She held out an envelope while he studied her silently. The farce was beginning again. But this time he dreaded it.
It would not be the first time that a lonesome, discontented girl chose to see him as a combination of romantic rebel and lost pup, with the consequences you'd expect.
He knew from books, experience, and Labuerre's conversation in the old days that there was nothing novel about the comedy—that there had even been artists, lots of them, who had counted on endless repetitions of it for their livelihood.
The girl drops in with groceries and the artist is pleasantly surprised; the girl admires this little thing or that after payday and buys it and the artist is pleasantly surprised; the girl brings her friends to take lessons or make little purchases and the artist is pleasantly surprised. The girl may be seduced by the artist or vice versa, which shortens the comedy, or they may get married, which lengthens it somewhat.
It had been three years since Halvorsen had last played out the farce with a manic-depressive divorcee from Elmira: three years during which he had crossed the mid-point between thirty and forty; three more years to get beaten down by being unwanted and working too much and eating too little.
Als
o, he knew, he was in love with this girl.
He took the envelope, counted three hundred and twenty dollars, and crammed it into his pocket. "That was your idea," he said. "Thanks.
Now get out, will you? I've got work to do."
She stood there, shocked.
"I said get out. I have work to do."
"Austin was right," she told him miserably. "You don't care how people feel. You just want to get things out of them."
She ran from the studio, and Halvorsen fought with himself not to run after her.
He walked slowly into his workshop and studied his array of tools, though he paid little attention to his finished pieces. It would be nice to spend about half of this money on open-hearth steel rod and bar stock to forge into chisels; he thought he knew where he could get some—but she would be back, or he would break and go to her and be forgiven and the comedy would be played out, after all.
He couldn't let that happen.
V
Aalesund, on the Atlantic side of the Dourefeld Mountains of Norway, was in the lee of the blasted continent. One more archeologist there made no difference, as long as he had the sense to recognize the propellor-like international signposts that said with their three blades, Radiation Hazard, and knew what every schoolboy knew about pro-tective clothing and reading a personal Geiger counter.
The car Halvorsen rented was for a brief trip over the mountains to study contaminated Oslo. Well muffled, he could make it and back in a dozen hours and no harm done.
But he took the car past Oslo, Wennersborg, and Goteborg, along the Kattegat coast to Helsingborg, and abandoned it there, among the three-bladed polyglot signs, crossing to Denmark. Danes were as unlike Prussians as they could be, but their unfortunate little peninsula was a sprout off Prussia that radio-cobalt dust couldn't tell from the real thing. The three-bladed signs were most specific.
With a long way to walk along the rubble-littered highways, he stripped off the impregnated coveralls and boots. He had long since shed the noisy counter and the uncomfortable gloves and mask.
The silence was eerie as he limped into Copenhagen at noon. He didn't know whether the radiation was getting to him or whether he was tired and hungry and no more. As though thinking of a stranger, he liked what he was doing.
I'll be my own audience, he thought. God knows 1 learned there isn't any other, not any more. You have to know when to stop. Rodin, the dirty old, wonderful old man, knew that. He taught us not to slick it and polish it and smooth it until it looked like liquid in-stead of bronze and stone. Van Gogh was crazy as a loon, but he knew when to stop and varnish it, and he didn't care if the paint looked like paint instead of looking like sunset clouds or moonbeams. Up in Hartford, Browne and Sharpe stop when they've got a turret lathe; they don't put caryatids on it. I'll stop while my life is a life, before it becomes a thing with distracting embellishments such as a wife who will come to despise me, a succession of gradually less worthwhile pieces that nobody will look at.
Blame nobody, he told himself, lightheadedly.
And then it was in front of him, terminating a vista of weeds and bomb rubble—Milles's Orpheus Fountain.
It took a man, he thought. Esthetikon circuits couldn't do it. There was a gross mixture of styles, a calculated flaw that the esthetikon couldn't be set to make. Orpheus and the souls were classic or later; the three-headed dog was archaic. That was to tell you about the antiquity and invincibility of Hell, and that Cerberus knows Orpheus will never go back into life with his bride.
There was the heroic, tragic central figure that looked mighty enough to battle with the gods, but battle wasn't any good against the grinning, knowing, hateful three-headed dog it stood on. You don't battle the pavement where you walk or the floor of the house you're in; you can't.
So Orpheus, his face a mask of controlled and suffering fury, crashes a great chord from his lyre that moved trees and stones. Around him the naked souls in Hell start at the chord, each in its own way: the young lovers down in death; the mother down in death; the musician, deaf and down in death, straining to hear.
Halvorsen, walking uncertainly toward the fountain, felt something break inside him, and a heaviness in his lungs. As he pitched forward among the weeds, he didn't care that the three-headed dog was grinning its knowing, hateful grin down at him. He had heard the chord from the lyre.
Iteration
[Future - September/October 1950]
I punched IIIAA24 and heard over my bonephone, wincing: "Darling—
you're …back!"
I cut the wince short and threw in the life lever. Joe Henderson, standing in the actor's dock, said broodingly: "Yes, dear …" He registered worry, then gallantry and cheerfulness. I threw out the life lever and punched IVTG13, which was a young couple, summer clothes, seen walking into their suburban bungalow.
I could've played that score in my sleep; I don't know how many times the soapies have used it
I asked you not to interrupt me damn it! You wanted to know why I ran out, and I said I'd tell you—oh, dinner?
What's this stuff—beep—oh, beef? 'S good. Hard on the jaws first time, though—I'll go on with the story.
You want to know why they don't punch it on rolls like a jacquard loom, do you? Once they used to, but even a weaving machine makes mistakes. When there's a mistake they just rip it out and go on. But when the soapies go out
Their pattern either got punched wrong or the machine slipped or something. So when Old Ma Whiddicomb came into the screen, instead of lavender from the grill you got IXWQO9, which is used in stable scenes. And once, on When a Man Marries Joan's Big Sister everything was going fine on a big renunciation scene—Joan was giving up David—she kept up a brave front and walked away smiling. When she turned the corner she was supposed to run for her bedroom and burst into tears, but instead of her bedroom door closing, the machine cut in a shot of a two-holer from Uncle Eb of Gobbler's Nob.
That's what the present system evolved out of, and it's foolproof. I took three years at the Rochester Conservatory and did PG at the Juilliard.
Give me any score, one with a hundred sets, landscapes, weather, twenty actors in the dock, scents to match everything, mood music changing every two seconds—I can handle it.
Pay is right, brother—didn't catch your name?—how'd'y'do, Mr.
Osgood. I got two thousand a month and a pension plan for a twelve-hour week.
Okay, okay—I'm telling you why I ran out. In fact I've told you already. It was that line: "Darling—you're …back!"
It's a dramatic convention, I suppose, like the property man in the Chinese theater, or a Chorus in the Greek, or asides in the big tub-thumping Victorian days. If an Athenian Greek didn't have a chorus to explain what was going on, he'd feel bewildered and cheated. If the housewife watching a soapie didn't see the heroine say to her husband when he comes home: "Darling—you're …back!" she'd think there was something wrong and worry about it.
No, don't ask me why they say it. I don't know why a dame who just saw her husband leave for work at ten should register surprise, delight and wonder when he comes back home at fifteen o'clock. They just do, in the soapies.
Anyway, I was telling you about the day before yesterday. In a nice blend of canned shots by me and close-ups by Henderson and his babe, we ground our way through the next ten minutes. It was established that Henderson had lost his job because of an inexplicable decline in his efficiency index; he groaned that he was no good and would run out because it would be better that way.
Then we cut to Henderson's mother-in-law and established that she'd slipped him some phenylethylbarbituric acid instead of his vitamins, so he'd lose his job and run out and she could marry her daughter off to a man she had her eye on. Some nice canned stuff in that sequence of her hands opening a capsule and changing the powder in it, all with the appropriate chemical scents.
Cut back to Henderson, making his will before running out. His wife shyly comes in and shows him a tiny identif
ication tag she's been making.
"You don't mean—?" cries Henderson and she lowers her eyes. I step down hard on the benzedrine pedal, throw in the Hallelujah Chorus, set up Abstraction 17 for two seconds and cut to the announcer, who's been combing his beard and worrying about a blackhead he just noticed.
"Ladies!" he cries—big smile—"How often lately have you been making the FT?" He lowers his voice, winks a little and coos: "FT, as of course you all know, stands for the famous Cam Brothers Flatulence Test—"
Pete Laurie comes to relieve me on the console and I'm through for the day; I walk out on the Commercial and head for the Olde Tyme Speake, down the street.
I don't know if any of you are New Yorkers—maybe you know the Speake? It's a really quaint place with authentic atmosphere, early twentieth century—old oak rafters and red-leather bar-stools, a rack of shaving mugs, lots of chromium. They have mottoes on the wall from the period—Landlord, Fill the Flowing Bowl, Nuts to You, and things like that.
Can I have some more of that beep stuff? I mean beef. I'll learn, quit the kidding—I only ran out last night, fella!
Anyway, I met Sam Caldicott at the Speake. Could've knocked me over with a feather. We were classmates at Chicago Metaphysical before I went to Rochester. He was going to go in for dietetics or something.
"Hello, Sam!" I said.
"You too," he growled, looking up. "Go to Dachau." He was nasty-drunk, but he finally recognized me. I got him a wake-up and had a buttered rum myself. When the stuff worked on him, he apologized and asked me politely what I was doing with myself. I told him I was a soapie consolist; he gave me a funny look.
He had switched from dietetics to psychiatry pretty late and so had to start learning almost from the beginning again. He'd been in practice only six years, but he said he was doing nicely.
"Well," I said. "If I'm ever tempted to run out I'll give you a ring and you can talk me out of it."
"Are you so sure I would?"
His Share of Glory The Complete Short Science Fiction Page 39