Universeas a Pointillist painting, in which this planet is one infinitesimallysmall dot of color. The work is wholly imaginary, of course, sinceneither the canvas nor the pigment has what you would term anindependent existence. Nevertheless, the artist takes it seriously. Hewould not care to find, so to speak, mustaches daubed on it."
Herman sat limply, staring after him as he moved to the door. Secundusturned once more.
"I hope you will not think that I am displeased with you, Doctor," hesaid. "On the contrary, I feel that you are accomplishing more thananyone else has. However, should you succeed, as I devoutly hope,there may not be sufficient time to congratulate you as you deserve. Ishall have to replace you immediately in your normal world-line, foryour absence would constitute as noticeable a flaw as that of theplanet. In that event, my present thanks and congratulations will haveto serve."
With a friendly smile, he disappeared.
Herman wound his watch.
Two hours later, Primus's answers to his questions began to show atouch of resentment and surly defiance. _Transference_, Hermanthought, with a constriction of his throat, and kept workingdesperately.
Three hours. "What does the bolster remind you of?"
"I seem to see a big cylinder rolling through space, sweeping thestars out of its way...."
Four hours. Only three minutes left now, in the normal world. _I can'twait to get any deeper_, Herman thought. _It's got to be now ornever._
"You must understand that these feelings of resentment and hatred arenormal," he said, trying to keep the strain out of his voice, "but, atthe same time, you have outgrown them--you can rise above them now.You are an individual in your own right, Primus. You have a job to dothat only you can fill, and it's an important job. That's whatmatters, not all this infantile emotional clutter...."
He talked on, not daring to look at his watch.
Primus looked up, and a huge smile broke over his face. He began,"Why, of--"
* * * * *
Herman found himself walking along Forty-second Street, heading towardthe Hudson. The pavement was solid under his feet; the canyon betweenthe buildings was filled with the soft violet-orange glow of a summerevening in New York. In the eyes of the people he passed, he saw thesame incredulous relief he felt. It was over. He'd done it.
He'd broken all the rules, but, incredibly, he'd got results.
Then he looked up and a chill spread over him. No one who knew thecity would accept that ithyphallic parody as the Empire StateBuilding, or those huge fleshy curves, as wanton as the mountains inwhich Mr. Maugham's "Sadie Thompson" had her lusty existence, as theprosaic hills of New Jersey.
Psychoanalysis had certainly removed Mr. Primus's inhibitions. Theworld was like a fence scrawled on by a naughty little boy. Mr. Primuswould outgrow it in time, but life until then might be somewhatdisconcerting.
Those two clouds, for instance....
--FRANKLIN ABEL
* * * * *
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