Джек Макдевитт - Cryptic - The Best Short Fiction of Jack McDevitt

I bought it, though it took a sizable slice of my remaining finances. But it was a piece of history, worth considerably more than the price. At least, on Rimway. I hoped that, in addition, the purchase would have a soothing effect on the proprietor. “I would like very much,” I said, “to see the third floor. Do you mind?”

“I don’t have a key.”

“Maybe it’s not locked.”

“The owner always keeps it locked,” she said stubbornly. “Nobody’s allowed up there.” Her face had paled, but she stood her ground, defying me to try to get past her.

I sighed, thanked her, and strolled back into the sunlight.

The room was cramped, and the walls intersected at angles that were never precisely ninety degrees. Portraits of grotesque young women hung on them. A delicate white table held a cup of steaming liquid and a few books. The books had no titles. Directly ahead of me, a broad slice of wall was missing, and outside, some distance away, a single cloud pelted a blue glass floor with big plashing raindrops. An overturned chair and a freshly made bed lay in the storm. Someone had thrown a checked jacket across the bed.

I touched the control plate and the tableau dissolved. “It’s a bit heavy-handed, even for a holo,” I said. “My taste runs more to the traditional.”

Halson Stiles bowed slightly. “We don’t sell many oils,” he said. “I’m sorry to admit it, but,”—spreading his thin hands—“people today are more interested in entertainment than in art.” He’d gained weight, and his hair had thinned considerably. Time had not treated Halson kindly: a pity, considering the service he’d rendered. “I have a few canvases in back that you might be interested in. No landscapes, though. Some still life, a few character studies, and three excellent impressionistic arts.” He held out his hands, palms up, a man who has conceded to the tide. “It’s a pity, but no one cares any longer about the spiritual values. Or subtlety. They want spectacle—” He exhaled loudly. “Sometimes, when I see what has happened to the public taste, I suspect we’re heading into a dark age.”

“I doubt it,” I said. I wonder if legends are always disappointing when they take flesh. It was Stiles who, according to tradition, had wrested a meat-knife from Durell, and thereby saved the Cordelet , gaining immortality in the process. His name was inextricably linked now with Durell’s, as mine would never be. But the strong brown eyes and composed dignity of the photos had given way to the unctuousness of a badly pressed salesman.

His was the only gallery on Fishbowl. At least, the only one with a listing. It was anchored high off a second-floor ramp overlooking the wide lawns and vaguely topological designs of the Survey Cluster.

“It’s fortunate,” I said, “that the Cordelet wasn’t done as a holo..”

“Ah.” He beamed. “There is no way it could have been created on anything other than canvas. Yes: well, Durell was a serious artist.”

“Halson, you handled some of his early work, didn’t you?”

“Who are you?” he asked. He was looking closely at me, frowning because he could not place me.

“I was a friend of his,” I said. “My name’s Tiel Chadwick.”

He considered that, and smiled broadly, and extended his hand. “I didn’t think the dumb bastard would do so well.”

“Thanks.” I returned the smile.

“I was sorry to hear about his death. Terrible. Terrible accident.”

We paused in front of a portrait of Harry Pellinor in heroic mode. “Durell’s death wasn’t an accident.”

“I don’t think I understand, Tiel.”

“He killed himself. Probably not deliberately, but he didn’t much care whether he lived or died. It wasn’t hard to see it coming.” I was having trouble keeping my voice steady.

“Why?” he asked. He looked genuinely shocked. “Durell wasn’t exactly a tower of stability, but he would never have taken his life.”

“I’d hoped you might tell me why.”

“I have no idea. He was the only person I know who actually succeeded in his life’s ambitions. Was he having health problems? No?” He rubbed the back of his neck. “It makes no sense. What made you think I might know?”

“It’s something that happened here. Something drove him. Your comment that he was no tower of stability: is there an actual tower anywhere on Fishbowl?”

“No,” he said. “Not that I know of.”

“Anyplace called the Tower? Or the Tower Room ?”

“No.” We’d been wandering among some local work, more craft than art. “Why do you ask?”

“No reason, really. Something he said once that I must have misunderstood. How well did you know him?”

He stared at me a long time. “Not well. A couple of the other artists used to spend some time with him. They were all bone poor. Especially Coll.”

“Can you tell me the names of the others?”

“I could, but it wouldn’t do you much good. One’s dead, drank too much and fell off a ramp a couple years ago. The others are long gone. Left before Durell did.” He tilted his head. “I can tell you where you might find somebody who remembers him. Durell liked to play chess. He was a member of a club. The organization was still in existence, last I heard. They used to meet at Survey.”

“Thanks,” I said.

He pursed his lips. “You know, if I’d been smart enough to hang on to just one of his paintings, I could’ve retired. It’s frustrating. I knew how good he was. But I never thought anybody else would realize it. At least not before we were all dead.”

“Halson, you said he was ‘bone poor.’”

“He missed a few meals in his time. I did what I could to help, but I didn’t have much money in those days either. Durell wanted to get away from Fishbowl. For two years it was all he talked about. He even took jobs from time to time to try to get the fare together, but he could never stay with them long enough. Then one day he walked in, picked up his paintings—I had three of them in inventory then—, gave me a hundred for my trouble, and the next thing I heard about him, he was on Rimway.”

“I wonder where the money came from?”

“I have no idea.”

“Halson, are there any paintings other than the ones generally known?”

“No, I don’t think so.” He pulled sympathetically at his right ear, shook his head no, and slipped through a set of curtains. He returned moments later with iced cordials. “He did some murals for Survey’s operations center. But don’t get interested: they tore the place down two years ago.”

“Son of a bitch. He had his reputation by then. Didn’t anybody try to save them?”

“I don’t think anyone thought of it. His name didn’t mean anything to the people at Survey, and I—I didn’t know the building was coming down until it was too late. Ironically, they recycled the permearth, and used it to build this mall.”

“The world is full of philistines,” I sighed.

He nodded. “They were digging up Belarius to look at an alien culture, and they don’t know very much about their own.” Three women paused outside on the ramp, and one by one stepped into the shop’s display case. I couldn’t see the holo itself, but the edge of a soft blue haze expanded into the doorway. “They’re on a ledge overlooking a waterfall,” Stiles said. “It’s our biggest seller.

“The murals weren’t really that good anyhow. They were Belarian locales, sandstorms, broken columns in the desert, that sort of thing. Ozymandian stuff. Durell wasn’t interested in it, but it put food on the table.”

“He died rich,” I said.

“I would think so.” Stiles’s eyes were half closed. “I hope he learned to enjoy it.”