Down the time-track tumbled Andreson, to land in a
continuum of ghastly matter-and-space reversal—and
find a love that shattered the very laws of life!
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Planet Stories Fall 1948.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
The letters on the fly-specked glass were simple, almost dogmatic.Andreson eyed them with some amusement. Art agents seldom have anytaste, he thought; can't afford to.
The sign repeated, Special Showing of Surrealist Paintings, anddeclined to offer further information. Andreson started to walk on,then hovered indecisively. Modern arts of all kinds were his provincein preparation for a doctorate thesis. It wouldn't do to let thesmallest example go by without inspection. He went in.
The improvised gallery was musty with the odor of departed vegetables,and very cold. Like the sign, the show had been set up with a braggartsimplicity. No programs, no furniture, no eager guides—there werenot even any guards. Andreson wondered what was to stop a thief fromstooping under the heavy rayon rope, which kept the frames out of reachof curious or greedy fingers, and making off with the whole collection.
With his first look at the paintings themselves, Andreson was blessinghis good daemon fervently for having guided his footsteps. He could notplace the works in any specific category; they certainly were notsurrealistic, unless the word had been used in its original meaning of"super-realistic." The artist had used fantasy for his sources, trueenough, but the results were not the usual shapelessness.
He angled his long body over the rope and inspected the nearest one.It was a huge canvas, reaching almost to the floor, and it depicted abuilding or similar structure like a glistening glass rod, rising froma forest of lesser rods toward a red sun of almost tangible hotness.A single figure, man-like, but borne aloft on taut, delicate wingswhich suggested a bat rather than a human, floated over the nearestof the towers. A quick glance revealed that all the paintings but onecontained several of these shapes; the one exception was a field ofstars with a torpedo streaking across it.
His quick glance confirmed another suspicion. The scenes were indeliberate order, as if attempting a pictorial history of the flyingpeople. He felt vaguely disappointed. This stuff was garden-varietyfantasy, verging on the conceptions of science-fiction. Still, therewas a magnificent technique behind it all—a blending and effacingof brush-strokes which made the Dutch look like billboard-splashers,and a mastery of glaze which made each scene glow like an illuminatedtransparency.
This last painting by the door, for instance. It showed thetranslucent city again, with approximately the same details—but witha barely-perceptible dimming of the red sunlight, a single towerjaggedly shattered, a few other tiny touches, the artist had given itan atmosphere of almost unbearable desolation. It was the same fabulousmetropolis—but it was tragic, deserted, lost. Peering hopelessly fromthe summit of the broken tower was a tiny face, looking directlyupward at Andreson.
He allowed himself an appreciative shudder, and methodically wentaround the gallery, following the history the pictures built up. Itseemed commonplace enough: a race of space-travellers who had colonizedthe Earth, perhaps some time in the dim past, had built a civilization,and had finally succumbed to some undepicted doom. What was amazingwas the utterly convincing way the well-worn story was told. It wasreal—super-real, indeed, for it