Asimov's SF, Sep 2005

by Dell Magazine Authors

  Kurt smiled.

  * * * *

  As they left the bar, Joanna looked glum.

  "You shouldn't have told Greg that Mr. Tsishh intends to export famous paintings,” she said. “A man in your position should be more discreet."

  "Did I tell him that, dear?” Kurt asked.

  "Well, is it true?"

  "You're curious tonight,” Kurt teased. “And you and Greg already know a lot that I didn't tell you."

  Joanna blushed, but then looked irritated.

  Kurt didn't want a fight. He had something more pleasurable in mind. He let Joanna steer him to a Hydrian restaurant she'd heard of. The food was good—a dish of raw shixi, thinly sliced and marinated in different sauces. He tried not to think of it as rodent. Joanna became cheerful again, and, after dinner, Kurt even ordered a glass of that Hydrian alcohol. It, too, was surprisingly good, fiery and tasting faintly of cinnamon.

  "What do you think of that painting you showed us?” Joanna asked as they sipped their drinks.

  "I see a sad man seeking solace,” Kurt said solemnly, trying his best to remember what he'd read about The Vampire that afternoon. He spoke slowly, trying to make the words sound like his own. “He lays his hand on a woman's breast. He feels his own heart beating, fiery lips touch his neck, desire ripples through him. He feels his blood escaping."

  "All that, just from a painting?” Joanna asked.

  "No,” Kurt confessed, and laughed. “That's what Munch wrote about it. But I see what he means. I like it."

  "You're not going to get sentimental, are you?"

  "No, but I'd like to know why the Hydrians want these paintings. And admit it. It'll be a shame to sell unique works. They've taken a lot from us already."

  Joanna looked worried.

  They made a good pair, he and Joanna, Kurt thought. She had talents he lacked. They got along well, and their love-making was great. He had never had a stable relationship before. Maybe now was the time.

  "Joanna, will you marry me?” Kurt asked.

  Joanna smiled. She looked surprised, but not displeased. She took his hand. “You should get married, Kurt, at your age. But not me. Not yet."

  At his age. The words sliced through him. Is that how she saw him? Too old for her? He looked away, his face burning. When he looked back into her eyes, she looked sad. They finished their drinks in silence, and Kurt called for a company car.

  On their way home, Joanna snuggled up to him. She whispered how nice it was to be with him. He would take her to his place for the night, wouldn't he? And later, in bed, she was her usual passionate self. As he lay tightly against her afterward, Kurt felt her softly nibbling at his neck. A nibble that became a soft bite.

  * * * *

  The rebuff hit him again late the next afternoon. Kurt had spent the day on routine business and then checked his mail for answers from art dealers. Nothing of interest had come. It was still too soon. Then, when he called Joanna, she told him she was busy that night.

  It was just as well, he told himself. He would get some work done, look into the Munch paintings in greater detail. A quiet evening at home would do him good, at his age. The set of prints he had ordered were waiting for him in a flat plastic carrying case. With that in one hand and his mallette in the other, he left the building.

  He decided that he would walk home. It would only take about fifteen minutes. At his age, the exercise would do him good. Oh, stop it! said a voice from nowhere. You're not done-for yet! He laughed at himself.

  He crossed the street and walked along the embankment promenade. A brisk wind blew in from the river and the not-too-distant sea. The rounded forms of the alien architecture in the Concession soon gave way to the outskirts of the Terran city. His building came into view, a bright residential tower for upper-level company employees that stood a short way beyond the Concession boundary, near an underground station.

  As Kurt walked, he recalled Munch's account of how the inspiration for The Scream came to him.

  * * * *

  "I was walking along the road with two friends. The sun was setting. I felt a breath of melancholy. Suddenly the sky turned blood-red. I stopped, and leaned against the railing, deathly tired—looking out across the flaming clouds that hung like blood and a sword over the blue-black fjord and town. My friends walked on—I stood there trembling with fear. And I sensed a great infinite scream pass through nature. It seemed to me that I could hear the scream. I painted this picture; painted the clouds as real blood. The colors screamed."

  * * * *

  A breath of melancholy, Kurt thought. A breath of melancholy.

  Near the underground station, the crowd thickened. On the sidewalks, the homeless settled in for the night. Kurt thought of Workers Returning Home, another of the Munch paintings he had viewed. Dark-eyed figures in working blues trudging along the street, like these black-clad men and women leaving the factories that bordered the Concession.

  The apartment seemed empty without Joanna. He took off his jacket, tie, and shoes, and poured himself a whiskey, his oldest and finest. He put on some music, and was about to settle on the sofa when he remembered the prints. He quickly hung them on the wall, in no particular order. One caught his eye immediately.

  It was Melancholy, one of Munch's masterpieces. On a desolate beach, a man in black contemplated the rocks along a shoreline of pale blue water. In the distance, another man and a woman, accompanied by an oarsman, headed toward a moored boat. What was the dark man thinking? Dark thoughts probably. That the woman—his loved one, no doubt—was leaving with another man?

  Where was Joanna tonight? Those glances between her and Greg in the bar. Greg sitting there drooling at the idea of selling Terran art. Drooling over Joanna, too? But no, she'd never be attracted by an underling. He couldn't even call for a company car!

  On another wall was Two Women, by Kurt's friend Dan. In subdued reds and yellows, faces and hands ivory white, two figures emerged from shadows. Kurt had often thought it was only one woman, the second figure simply a ghost. Or the real woman hidden within the first. Which was real? Did he know the real Joanna?

  He took a sip of his whiskey. That dusty odor touched his nostrils. He smelled his fingers, his shirt—There it was. He stripped, and showered and then put on the light-colored bathrobe Joanna had given him.

  But he wasn't getting any work done. He still didn't understand why the aliens wanted these paintings. Could Dan be of help? His old friend had been a promising artist once. Kurt hadn't seen him in years, but he could call now, or even better, send a message.

  That done, he sat back and closed his eyes, tried to listen to the music. But there was something else he should do. On his mallette, he accessed his bank account and verified the month's transfer to his parents. He quickly ordered an additional transfer of an equivalent sum.

  Dan's answer came an hour later.

  Kurt, Good to hear from you. How's life? Difficult, from the sound of it. The snakes want Munchs now, do they? I've suspected for years they'd start taking works of art. Why? Because they'll end up taking everything. Why Munch? No idea. You tell me. You know them better than I do. If I were you, I wouldn't go through with this. But let me know if you need any help.

  * * * *

  Don't go through with this? That was easy to say. He had to go through with it. If he didn't, someone else would.

  Kurt sat back, whiskey in hand, and gazed at the prints. Every anguished face seemed to look back.

  * * * *

  Kurt saw Garth in the lobby first thing the next morning.

  The concierge eyed the case full of Munch prints Kurt was carrying, then looked about to make sure no one could hear.

  "Things may be different in the future, Mr. Soman,” he said. “It's a good time to be careful.” But he would say no more.

  In his office, Kurt put the Munch prints on the wall and then checked his mail. There was news. The outcry over his inquiries had been brutal. The idea that the current owners would part wit
h the works was scoffed at by many. But privately, some interest was shown. The rumor mill was hard at work, which was just what Kurt wanted. It would soon be time to make offers.

  Early that afternoon, Mr. Tsishh abruptly appeared on Kurt's monitor.

  "What of your progress, Mr. Soman?” he hissed. His Hydrian smile was more open than usual. The tip of his tongue showed.

  Kurt confidently brought him up to date.

  "You've made no offers yet?” the president hissed. He removed his glasses. “I told you we wanted a rapid conclusion to this operation, Mr. Soman. A rapid conclusion.” And the president was gone.

  Kurt was stunned. He had things well in hand. What was Tsishh's problem? The silence in his office was broken by that voice from nowhere again. It rose around him, a harsh whisper of fear and injustice.

  The Munch project tormented him the rest of the afternoon. After his contact with Dan, he had tried researching Hydrian civilization, but it proved difficult. His net search revealed thousands of sources—photos, maps, seemingly thoughtful pieces, all familiar, but devoid of analysis and substance. What dark secret were the aliens hiding?

  He called Joanna. He hadn't seen her for two days.

  "Dinner tonight?"

  She looked irritated. “I don't know if I should be seen with you,” she finally said. “It's this project of yours. Word gets around, you know."

  "Joanna, let's get together and discuss this situation.” They agreed to meet at the usual place.

  "People talk, Joanna,” Kurt muttered once he had signed off. “Not the snakes."

  * * * *

  Kurt found both Greg and Joanna waiting for him.

  "I'd like to speak to Joanna alone,” Kurt said.

  "Sorry, Kurt, uh—” Greg began, his nose twitching. The boy looked like some nervous rabbit seeking a few scattered seeds. “I didn't mean to—"

  "Kurt,” Joanna said. “We'd like to talk about work."

  "How's the Munch project coming?” Greg said.

  "Why do you ask?” Kurt said. He wouldn't show his anger, but he'd skin this bunny alive if he had to.

  "Word is going around that you aren't making progress,” Joanna said, exasperated.

  "Oh?” said Kurt. He waited.

  Greg and Joanna exchanged glances. Joanna looked as though she didn't know what to do next, quite unusual for her. Greg was anxious to speak, though.

  "Tsishh called me up to his office this afternoon,” Greg said, barely hiding his satisfaction. “The snake wants results, Kurt."

  "You think I'm not getting any?” Kurt asked. Again, he waited. Tsishh would never have met with Greg. Or would he? The president's behavior that afternoon had been surprising. And hadn't Garth warned him?

  "You know where this'll lead if you don't get the job done?” Greg said, shaking a finger at him. “To the slums, Kurt! To ruin! And you could take your friends down with you."

  "Why are you talking to Tsishh about my work?” Kurt asked calmly. And don't you tell me about the slums, boy, he wanted to add.

  "Kurt, will you please listen?” Joanna said.

  Greg's face was turning pink, his voice rising. “If you can't handle the job, let someone else do it!"

  "You, for instance?” Kurt said, feeling relieved. Greg was a fool.

  Greg looked furious. “You want to protect Terran art, don't you?” he sneered. “You told Joanna that the Hydrians had already taken too much!"

  "Greg!” Joanna gasped.

  Greg's words hit Kurt like flak. Everywhere at once. A crevice seemed to open beneath him, leaving him with one foot on either side. But he knew which one to pull back. He forced down the hurt and anger; he'd deal with his feelings for Joanna later. Right now, his job might be at stake.

  He looked at Joanna. But it wasn't the Joanna he knew. An unknown Joanna, hard and brutal, had taken her place. “What else have you told him?"

  She looked back, defiant.

  But Kurt didn't let up. He stared into those eyes, trying to remember what else he might have said. What innocent remark, what piece of information casually shared, might now come slicing through the air like a boomerang?

  Joanna turned to Greg. “Let's go,” she said. Greg followed her without looking back. At the door, they exchanged a few words that Kurt couldn't hear. As they walked out, she put her hand in Greg's.

  Kurt ordered a whiskey, sat back in his chair, and slowly sipped. This shouldn't hurt, he thought, but it did. He'd been stupid to be with a woman like Joanna. A man his age.

  He opened his mallette and accessed the Munch file. Self Portrait with a Wine Bottle appeared. A red-faced Munch, glum and alone, sat at a café table, a bottle and a glass before him. Contemplating his destiny, perhaps? Kurt thought that he should be contemplating his own destiny just then.

  He was beginning to like Edvard Munch.

  * * * *

  It was time to make an offer. One painting to begin with, the most famous. Refusal would provoke a crisis that could only be solved to the company's satisfaction, but acceptance would compromise Terran authorities. Either way, the company would win. And so would he, Kurt thought with some regret. He did have qualms. But he couldn't stop now. And, after all, it was only a few paintings.

  He contacted the Munch Museum and also sent a message to the Norwegian government. The answer came within a few hours. The deal was finalized with a minimum of fuss, though some virulent articles appeared on the net. The price, means of payment, delivery date, and transport details were agreed. The Scream would be shipped immediately.

  But Kurt made no move to acquire the other paintings. Not yet.

  * * * *

  "Traitors,” Garth grumbled to Kurt in the lobby one morning, “are everywhere.” The concierge walked off mumbling into his transceiver, something about paintings.

  In his office, Kurt had just enough time to put up the prints again when the override signal sounded on his monitor. Mr. Tsishh exploded onto the screen.

  "You're behind schedule with this first list, Mr. Soman,” the president said, making no attempt to smile. His pointed teeth glistened. He wore no glasses.

  First list? Kurt had indeed heard “first list.” The buying craze he had feared now loomed. He quickly informed Mr. Tsishh of his progress.

  "Your colleague, Mr. Ryder, has offered his help on this project, Mr. Soman."

  "He told me you brought it up with him."

  "He brought it up with me, Mr. Soman."

  "I thought so, Mr. Tsishh."

  "Proceed quickly, Mr. Soman. I've sent you another file.” The alien disappeared.

  "Damn him!” Kurt hissed as he read the new list: Delacroix, Gaugin, Picasso, Van Gogh, and Warhol. A frantic net search told him that the list was a mixture of periods and schools, all of the works highly prized. So much for any deeper significance.

  "No plunder of Terran artistic treasures,” Kurt muttered. The liar. Damn the company! Damn the snakes!

  That dusty odor of snakes hit him in wave after wave. He gagged, regained control of himself, and ripped off his shirt and tie. The odor was still there. His stomach spasmed. He steadied himself on the edge of his desk.

  Take hold, Kurt, he told himself.

  From the wall Self-Portrait with a Burning Cigarette looked down. The artist's eyes struck him. Munch had been strong, for sure. Anguished and emotionally erratic, but strong. Be strong, Kurt.

  He would need a new plan now.

  * * * *

  The Scream belonged to the company. One afternoon, in the presence of his staff and an employee from Security, Kurt supervised the delivery of the specially designed transport crate. He himself punched in the combinations to unlock it. He alone in the company had the codes.

  The painting was exposed. That face, now so familiar, was magnificent. Was the figure holding up his hands in surprise? In fear? Was he covering his ears? Who were those people following him?

  Alone with the masterpiece in his inner office, Kurt acted quickly. He removed the painting from
its frame and placed it in the carrying case he'd been using for the prints. The empty frame and the prints he then put into the transport crate. Ten prints in exchange for one original. That seemed fair enough, given the circumstances.

  The last print to come off the wall had become Kurt's favorite: Self-Portrait between the Clock and the Bed. The aged Munch stood erect before a grandfather clock that showed no hour. A bed awaited him, with a red, white, and black cover. Munch's funeral bier? And behind him, a door open to the dark.

  Kurt loved this artist, this man long dead.

  In a few minutes, Kurt would leave the building. He would be carrying the same case he'd been seen with every day for over a week. Once out of the Concession, he would take the underground to Dan's place. Dan had arranged to hide the painting.

  Then Kurt would disappear into the slums. He had already made his final bank transfers to his parents and to other hidden accounts. He could live off his savings for a time, and, one day, he might find a way to make a living, if the police didn't catch him first. And he would wait for better times. He knew he couldn't stop Tsishh, but, in some small way, he would have accomplished something.

  Mr. Tsishh appeared on the screen just as Kurt was making his final preparations. He wore his glasses, but no Hydrian smile.

  "The Scream has arrived, Mr. Soman."

  "I was just about to call you,” Kurt said. “I'll bring it up personally tomorrow morning."

  "Bring it up now,” said the president.

  Now. The word rang in Kurt's ears.

  "Very well, Mr. Tsishh,” Kurt said and smiled, hoping he'd hidden his surprise and fear.

  The Hydrian smiled and disappeared.

  Now. This was not in the plan.

  He would have to improvise. And quickly. He had made arrangements for Security to store the crate and its contents in the basement vault for the night. That could be changed easily. The rest would be more difficult.

  Kurt locked the crate and waited. When the men from Security arrived, he instructed them to deliver The Scream to Tsishh's office. The president was waiting for him, he told them, but Kurt had some phone calls to make first. Could they tell Tsishh's staff that Mr. Soman would be there as soon as possible? He thanked the men as they left.