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| author | Roger Frank <rfrank@pglaf.org> | 2025-10-15 02:33:17 -0700 |
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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/26936-h.zip b/26936-h.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..1574670 --- /dev/null +++ b/26936-h.zip diff --git a/26936-h/26936-h.htm b/26936-h/26936-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..e05228a --- /dev/null +++ b/26936-h/26936-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,1904 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> + <head> + <meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=iso-8859-1" /> + <meta http-equiv="Content-Style-Type" content="text/css" /> + <title> + The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Gallery, by Rog Phillips + </title> + <style type="text/css"> +/*<![CDATA[ XML blockout */ +<!-- + p {margin-top: .75em; text-align: justify; margin-bottom: .75em;} + h1,h2 {text-align: left; font-weight: normal;} + hr {width: 45%; margin: 1em auto; visibility: hidden;} + body {margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + .p2,.figr {text-align: center;} + .figr {float: right; clear: right; margin: 1em 0 1em 1em; padding: 0; width: 363px;} + .trn {border: solid 1px; margin: 3em 15%; padding: 1em; text-align: justify;} + img {border: none;} + p.cap:first-letter {float: left; margin-right: .05em; padding-top: .05em; font-size: 300%; line-height: .8em;} + .dcap {text-transform: uppercase;} + .bk1 {float: right; width: 13em; padding: 2em 0 2em 2em; border-left: solid 2px;} + .p1,.cap,.p2 {margin-top: 2em;} +// --> +/* XML end ]]>*/ + </style> + </head> +<body> + + +<pre> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Gallery, by Roger Phillips Graham + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Gallery + +Author: Roger Phillips Graham + +Illustrator: Llewellyn + +Release Date: October 16, 2008 [EBook #26936] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GALLERY *** + + + + +Produced by Greg Weeks, Stephen Blundell and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + +</pre> + + +<div class="bk1"><p><b><i><big>Aunt Matilda needed him +desperately, but when he +arrived she did not want +him and neither did anyone +else in his home town.</big></i></b></p></div> + +<h1><big><b>THE<br /> +GALLERY</b></big></h1> + +<h2>By ROG PHILLIPS</h2> + +<p class="p1">ILLUSTRATOR LLEWELLYN</p> + +<p class="cap"><span class="dcap">I was</span> in the midst of the +fourth draft of my doctorate +thesis when Aunt Matilda's telegram +came. It could not have +come at a worse time. The deadline +for my thesis was four days +away and there was a minimum +of five days of hard work to do +on it yet. I was working around +the clock.</p> + +<p>If it had been a telegram informing +me of her death I could +not have taken time out to attend +the funeral. If it had been +a telegram saying she was at +death's door I'm very much +afraid I would have had to call +the hospital and order them to +keep her alive a few days longer.</p> + +<p>Instead, it was a tersely +worded appeal. ARTHUR STOP +COME AT ONCE STOP AM IN +TERRIBLE TROUBLE STOP +DO NOT PHONE STOP AUNT +MATILDA.</p> + +<p>So there was nothing else for +me to do. I laid the telegram +aside and kept on working on +my thesis. That is not as heartless +as it might seem. I simply +could not imagine Aunt Matilda +in terrible trouble. The end of +the world I could imagine, but +not Aunt Matilda in trouble.</p> + +<div class="figr"> +<img src="images/001.png" width="363" height="550" alt="" title="" /> +<b><small>Wherever he went Arthur felt the power behind the lens.</small></b></div> + +<p>She was the classic flat-chested +ageless spinster living alone +in the midst of her dustless +bric-a-brac and Spode in +a frame house of the same vintage +as herself at the edge of +the classic small town of Sumac, +near the southwest corner of +Wisconsin. I had visited her for +two days over a year ago, and +she had looked exactly the same +as she had when I stayed with +her when I was six all summer, +and there was no question but +what she would some day attend +my funeral when I died of old +age, and she would still look the +same as always.</p> + +<hr /> + +<p>There was no conceivable +trouble of terrestrial origin that +could touch her—or would want +to. And, as it turned out, I was +right in that respect.</p> + +<p>I was right in another respect +too. By finishing my thesis I became +a Ph.D. on schedule, and if +I had abandoned all that and +rushed to Sumac the moment I +received the telegram it could +not have materially altered the +outcome of things. And Aunt +Matilda, hanging on the wall of +my study, knitting things for +the Red Cross, will attest to +that.</p> + +<p>You, of course, might argue +about her being there. You +might even insist that I am +hanging on her wall instead. +And I would have to agree with +you, since it all depends on the +point of view and as I sit here +typing I can look up and see myself +hanging on her wall.</p> + +<p>But perhaps I had better begin +at the beginning when, with +my thesis behind me, I arrived +on the 4:15 milk run, as they +call the train that stops on its +way past Sumac.</p> + +<p>I was in a very disturbed +state of mind, as anyone who +has ever turned in a doctorate +thesis can well imagine. For the +life of me I couldn't be sure +whether I had used <i>symbol</i> or +<i>token</i> on line 7, sheet 23, of my +thesis, and it was a bad habit +of mine to unconsciously interchange +them unpredictably, and +I knew that Dr. Walters could +very well vote against acceptance +of my thesis on that ground +alone. Also, I had thought of a +much better opening sentence to +my thesis, and was having to use +will power to keep from rushing +back to the university to ask +permission to change it.</p> + +<p>I had practically no sleep during +the fourteen-hour run, and +what sleep I did have had been +interrupted by violent starts of +awaking with a conviction that +this or that error in the initial +draft of my thesis had not been +corrected by the final draft. And +then, of course, I would have to +think the thing through and recall +when I had made the correction, +before I could go back to +sleep.</p> + +<p>So I was a wreck, mentally, if +not physically, when I stepped +off the train onto the wooden depot +platform that had certainly +been built in the Pleistocene +Era, with my oxblood two-suiter +firmly clutched in my left hand.</p> + +<p>With snorts of steam and the +loud clanking of loose drives, +the train got under way again, +its whistle wailing mournfully +as the last empty coach car sped +past me and retreated into the +distance.</p> + +<p>As I stood there, my brain +tingling with weariness, and +listened to the absolute silence +of the town triumph over the +last distant wail of the train +whistle, I became aware that +something about Sumac was +different.</p> + +<p>What it was, I didn't know. I +stood where I was a moment +longer, trying to analyze it. In +some indefinable way everything +looked unreal. That was as close +as I could come to it, and of +course having pinned it down +that far I at once dismissed it +as a trick of the mind produced +by tiredness.</p> + +<p>I began walking. The planks +of the platform were certainly +real enough. I circled the depot +without going in, and started +walking in the direction of Aunt +Matilda's, which was only a +short eight blocks from the depot, +as I had known since I was +six.</p> + +<p>The feeling of the unreality +of my surroundings persisted, +and with it came another feeling, +of an invisible pressure +against me. Almost a resentment. +Not only from the people, +but from the houses and even +the trees.</p> + +<hr /> + +<p>Slowly I began to realize that +it couldn't be entirely my imagination. +Most of the dozen or so +people I passed knew me, and I +remembered suddenly that every +other time I had come to Aunt +Matilda's they had stopped to +talk with me and I had had to +make some excuse to escape +them. Now they were behaving +differently. They would look at +me absently as they might at +any stranger walking from the +direction of the depot, then their +eyes would light up with recognition +and they would open +their lips to greet me with +hearty welcome.</p> + +<p>Then, as though they just +thought of something, they +would change, and just say, +"Hello, Arthur," and continue +on past me.</p> + +<p>It didn't take me long to conclude +that this strange behavior +was probably caused by something +in connection with Aunt +Matilda. Had she perhaps been +named as corespondent in the +divorce of the local minister? +Had she, of all people, had a +child out of wedlock?</p> + +<p>Things in a small town can be +deadly serious, so by the time +her familiar frame house came +into view down the street I was +ready to keep a straight face, no +matter what, and reserve my +chuckles for the privacy of her +guest room. It would be a new +experience, to find Aunt Matilda +guilty of any human frailty. It +was slightly impossible, but I +had prepared myself for it.</p> + +<p>And that first day her behavior +convinced me I was right +in my conclusion.</p> + +<p>She appeared in the doorway +as I came up the front walk. She +was breathing hard, as though +she had been running, and there +was a dust streak on the side of +her thin face.</p> + +<p>"Hello, Arthur," she said +when I came up on the porch. +She shook my hand as limply as +always, and gave me a reluctant +duty peck on the cheek, then +backed into the house to give me +room to enter.</p> + +<p>I glanced around the familiar +surroundings, waiting for her to +blurt out the cause of her telegram, +and feeling a little guilty +about not having come at once.</p> + +<p>I felt the loneliness inside her +more than I ever had before. +There was a terror way back in +her eyes.</p> + +<p>"You look tired, Arthur," she +said.</p> + +<p>"Yes," I said, glad of the opportunity +she had given me to +explain. "I had to finish my +thesis and get it in by last night. +Two solid years of hard work +and it had to be done or the +whole thing was for nothing. +That's why I couldn't come four +days ago. And you seemed quite +insistent that I shouldn't call." +I smiled to let her know that I +remembered about party lines in +a small town.</p> + +<p>"It's just as well," she said. +And while I was trying to decide +what the antecedent of her +remark was she said, "You can +go back on the morning train."</p> + +<p>"You mean the trouble is +over?" I said, relieved.</p> + +<p>"Yes," she said. But she had +hesitated.</p> + +<p>It was the first time I had +ever seen her tell a lie.</p> + +<p>"You must be hungry," she +rushed on. "Put your suitcase +in the room and wash up." She +turned her back to me and hurried +into the kitchen.</p> + +<p>I was hungry. The memory of +her homey cooking did it. I +glanced around the front room. +Nothing had changed, I thought. +Then I noticed the framed +portrait of my father and his +three brothers was hanging +where the large print of a basket +of fruit used to hang. The +basket of fruit picture was +where the portrait should have +been, and it was entirely too big +a picture for that spot. I would +never have thought Aunt Matilda +could tolerate anything out of +proportion. And the darker area +of wallpaper where the fruit picture +had prevented fading stood +out like a sore thumb.</p> + +<p>I looked around the room for +other changes. The boat picture +that had hung to the right of +the front door was not there. +On the floor under where it +should have been I caught the +flash of light from a shard of +glass. Next to it, the drape +framing the window was not +hanging right.</p> + +<p>On impulse I went over and +peeked behind the drape. There, +leaning against the wall, was +the boat picture with fragments +of splintered glass still in it.</p> + +<hr /> + +<p>From the evidence it appeared +that Aunt Matilda had either +been trying to hang the picture +where it belonged, or taking it +down, and it had slipped out of +her hands and fallen, and she +had hidden it behind the drape +and hastily swept up the broken +glass.</p> + +<p>But why? Even granting that +Aunt Matilda might behave in +such an erratic fashion (which +was obvious from the evidence), +I couldn't imagine a sensible +reason.</p> + +<p>It occurred to me, facetiously, +that she might have gone in for +pictures of musclemen, and, seeing +me coming up the street, she +had rushed them into hiding and +brought out the old pictures.</p> + +<p>That could account for the +evidence—except for one thing. +I hadn't dallied. She could not +possibly have seen me earlier +than sixty seconds before I came +up the front walk.</p> + +<p>Still, the telegrapher at the +depot could have called her and +told her I was here when he saw +me get off the train.</p> + +<p>I shrugged the matter off and +went to the guest room. It too +was the same as always, except +for one thing. A picture.</p> + +<p>It was a color photograph of +the church, taken from the +street. The picture was in a +frame, but without glass over it, +and was about eighteen inches +wide and thirty high.</p> + +<p>It was a very good picture. +Very lifelike. There was a car +parked at the curb in front of +the church, and someone inside +the car smoking a cigarette, and +it was so real I would have +sworn I could see the streamer +of smoke rising from the cigarette +moving.</p> + +<p>The odor of good food came +from the kitchen, reminding me +to get busy. I opened my two-suiter +and took out my toilet kit +and went to the bathroom.</p> + +<p>I shaved, brushed my teeth, +and combed my hair. Afterward +I popped into my room just for +a second to put my toilet kit on +the dresser, and hurried to the +dining room.</p> + +<p>Something nagged at the back +of my mind all the time I was +eating. After dinner Aunt Matilda +suggested I'd better get +some sleep. I couldn't argue. I +was already asleep on my feet. +Her fried chicken and creamed +gravy and mashed potatoes had +been an opiate.</p> + +<p>I didn't even bother to hang +up my clothes. I slipped into the +heaven of comfort of the bed +and closed my eyes. And the +next minute it was morning.</p> + +<p>Getting out of bed, I stopped +in mid motion. The picture of +the church was no longer on the +wall. And as I stared at the +blank spot where it had been, +the thing that had nagged me +during dinner last night finally +leaped into consciousness.</p> + +<p>When I had dashed into the +room and out again last night +on the way to the dining room +I had glanced briefly at the picture +and something had been +different about it. Now I knew +what had been different.</p> + +<p>The car had no longer been in +front of the church.</p> + +<hr /> + +<p>I lit a cigarette and sat on the +edge of the bed. I thought about +that picture, and simply could +not bring myself to believe the +accuracy of that fleeting impression.</p> + +<p>Aunt Matilda had slipped +into my room and removed the +picture while I slept. That was +obvious. Why had she done +that? The fleeting impression +that I couldn't be positive about +would give her a sensible +reason.</p> + +<p>I studied my memory of that +picture as I had closely studied +it. It had been a remarkable picture. +The more I recalled its +details the more remarkable it +became. I couldn't remember any +surface gloss or graining to it, +but of course I had not been +looking for such things. Only an +expert photographer would notice +or recognize such technical +details.</p> + +<p>My thoughts turned in the +direction of Aunt Matilda—and +her telegram. Her source of income, +I knew, was her part of +the estate of my grandfather, +and amounted to something like +thirty thousand dollars. I knew +that she was terrified of touching +one cent of the capital, and +lived well within the income +from good sound stocks.</p> + +<hr /> + +<p>I took her telegram out of the +pocket of my coat which was +hanging over the back of a chair. +COME AT ONCE STOP AM IN +TERRIBLE TROUBLE ... The +only kind of terrible trouble +Matilda could be in was if some +swindler talked her out of some +of her capital! And that definitely +would not be easy to do. I +grinned to myself at the recollection +of her worrying herself +sick once over what would +happen to her if there was a +revolution and the new government +refused to honor the old +government bonds.</p> + +<p>Things began to make sense. +Her telegram, then those pictures +moved around in the front +room, and the one she had forgotten +to hide, in the guest +room. If the other pictures were +anything like it, I could see how +Aunt Matilda might cash in on +part of her securities to invest +in what she thought was a sure +thing.</p> + +<p>But sure things are only as +good as the people in control of +them. Many a sure thing has +been lost to the original investors +by stupid decisions leading +to bankruptcy, and many a +seemingly sure thing has fleeced +a lot of innocent victims.</p> + +<p>Slowly, as I thought it out, I +became sure that that was what +had happened.</p> + +<p>Then why Aunt Matilda's +about-face, hiding the pictures +and telling me to go back to +Chicago? Had she threatened +whoever was behind this, and +gotten her money back? Or had +she again become convinced that +her financial venture was sound?</p> + +<p>In either case, why was she +trying to keep me from knowing +about the pictures?</p> + +<p>I made up my mind. Whether +Aunt Matilda liked it or not, I +was going to stay until I got to +the bottom of things. What Aunt +Matilda evidently didn't realize +was that no inventor who really +had something would waste time +trying to find backing in a place +like Sumac.</p> + +<p>Getting dressed, I decided +that first on the agenda would +be to find where Matilda had +hidden those pictures, and get a +good look at them.</p> + +<p>That was simpler than I expected +it to be. When I came out +of my room I stuck my head in +the kitchen doorway and said +good morning to her, and she +leaped to her feet to get some +breakfast ready for me. It was +obvious that she was anxious to +get me fed and out of the house.</p> + +<p>Then I simply took the two +steps past the bathroom door to +the door to her bedroom and +went in. The pictures were +stacked against the side of her +dresser. The one of the church +was the first one. It was on its +side.</p> + +<p>With a silent whistle of +amazement I bent down to +watch it. The car was not parked +at the curb in it, but there +were several children walking +along, obviously on their way to +school. And they were walking. +Moving.</p> + +<hr /> + +<p>I picked up the picture. It was +as heavy as it should be, but not +more. A faint whisper of sound +seemed to come from it. I put +my ear closer and heard children's +voices. I explored with my +ear close to the surface, and +found that the voices were loudest +when my ear was closest to +the one talking, as though the +voices came out of the picture +directly from the images!</p> + +<p>All it needed to be perfect was +a volume control somewhere. I +searched, and found it behind +the upper right corner of the +picture. I twisted it very slowly, +and the voices became louder. I +turned it back to the position it +had been in.</p> + +<p>The next picture was of the +railroad depot. The telegrapher +and baggage clerk were going +around the side of the depot towards +the tracks. A freight +train was rushing through the +picture.</p> + +<p>Even as I watched it in the +picture, I heard the wail of a +train whistle in the distance, +and it was coming from outside, +across town. That freight train +was going through town <i>right +now</i>.</p> + +<p>I put the pictures back the +way they had been, and stole +softly from Aunt Matilda's bedroom +to the bathroom, and +closed the door.</p> + +<p>"No wonder Aunt Matilda invested +in this thing!" I said to +my image in the mirror as I +shaved.</p> + +<p>Picture TV would make all +other TV receivers obsolete! +Full color TV at that! And with +some new principle in stereophonic +sound!</p> + +<p>What about the fact that +neither picture had been plugged +into an outlet? Probably run by +batteries.</p> + +<p>What about the lack of +weight? Obviously a new TV +principle was involved. Maybe it +required fewer circuits and less +power.</p> + +<p>What about the broadcasting +end, the cameras? Permanently +set up? What about the broadcast +channels?</p> + +<p>There had been ten or twelve +pictures. I'd only looked at two. +Was each a different scene? +Twelve different broadcasting +stations in Sumac?</p> + +<p>It had me dizzy. Probably the +new TV principle was so simple +that all that could be taken care +of without millions of dollars +worth of equipment.</p> + +<p>A new respect for Aunt Matilda +grew in me. She had +latched on to a money maker! It +didn't hurt to know that I was +her favorite nephew, either. +With my Ph.D. in physics, and +my aunt as one of the stockholders, +I could probably land a +good job with the company. +What a deal!</p> + +<p>By the time I finished shaving +I was whistling. I was still +whistling when I went into the +kitchen for breakfast.</p> + +<p>"You'll have to hurry, Arthur," +Aunt Matilda said. "Your +train leaves in forty-five minutes."</p> + +<p>"I'm not leaving," I said +cheerfully.</p> + +<p>I went over to the bright +breakfast nook and sat down, +and took a cautious sip of coffee. +I grunted my approval of it +and looked around toward Aunt +Matilda, smiling.</p> + +<p>She was staring at me with +wide eyes. She looked as haggard +as though she had just +heard she had a week to live.</p> + +<p>"But you must go!" she croaked +as though my not going were +unthinkable.</p> + +<p>"Nonsense, you old fox," I +said. "I know a good thing as +well as you do. I want to get a +job with that outfit."</p> + +<p>She came toward me with a +wild expression on her face.</p> + +<p>"Get out!" she screamed. "Get +out of my house! I won't have +it! You catch that train and get +out of town. Do you hear?"</p> + +<p>"But, Aunt Matilda!" I protested.</p> + +<hr /> + +<p>In the end I had to get out +or she would have had a stroke. +She was shaking like a leaf, her +skin mottled and her eyes wild, +as I went down the front steps +with my bag.</p> + +<p>"You get that train, do you +hear?" was the last thing she +screamed at me as I hurried toward +Main Street.</p> + +<p>However, I had no intention +of leaving town with Aunt Matilda +upset that way. I'd let her +have time to cool off, then come +back. Meanwhile I'd try to get +to the bottom of things. A thing +as big as wall TV in full color +and stereophonic sound must be +the talk of the town. I'd find out +where they had their office and +go talk with them. A career with +something like that would be the +best thing I could ever hope to +find. And getting in on the +ground floor!</p> + +<p>It surprised me that Aunt Matilda +could be so insanely greedy. +I shook my head in wonder. It +didn't figure.</p> + +<p>I had breakfast at the hotel +cafe and made a point of telling +the waitress, who knew me, that +it was my second breakfast, and +that I had intended to catch the +morning train back to Chicago, +but maybe I wouldn't.</p> + +<p>After I finished eating I asked +if it would be okay to leave +my suitcase behind the counter +while I looked around a bit. She +showed me where to put it so it +would be out of the way.</p> + +<p>When I paid for my breakfast +I half turned away, then turned +back casually.</p> + +<p>"Oh, by the way," I said. +"Where's this wall TV place?"</p> + +<p>"This what?" she said.</p> + +<p>"You know," I said. "Color TV +like a picture you hang on a +wall."</p> + +<p>All the color faded from her +face. Her eyes went past me, +staring. I turned in the direction +she was staring, and on the wall +above the plateglass front of the +cafe was a picture.</p> + +<p>That is, there was a picture +frame and a pair of dark glasses +that took up most of the picture, +with the lower part of a forehead +and the upper part of a +nose. I had noticed it once while +I was eating and had assumed +it was a display ad for sun +glasses. Now I looked at it more +closely, but could detect no +movement in it. It still looked +like an ad for sun glasses.</p> + +<p>"I don't know what you're +talking about," I heard the +waitress say, her voice edged +with fear.</p> + +<p>"Huh?" I said, turning my +head back to look at her. "Oh. +Well, never mind."</p> + +<p>I left the cafe with every outward +appearance of casual innocence; +but inside I was beginning +to realize for the first time +the possibilities and the danger +that could lie in the use of this +new TV development.</p> + +<p>That had been a Big-Brother-is-Watching-you +setup back +there in the cafe, except that it +had been a girl instead of a man, +judging from the style of sun +glasses and the smoothness of +the nose and forehead.</p> + +<p>I had wondered about the +broadcasting end of things. Now +I knew. That had been the TV +"eye," and somewhere there was +a framed picture hanging on the +wall, bringing in everything that +took place in the cafe, including +everything that was said. Everything +<i>I</i> had said, too. It was an +ominous feeling.</p> + +<p>Aunt Matilda had almost had +a stroke trying to get me out +of town. Now I knew why. She +was caught in this thing and +wanted to save me. Four days +ago she had probably not fully +realized the potentiality for evil +of the invention, but by the +time I showed up she knew it.</p> + +<p>Well, she was right. This was +not something for me to tackle. +I would keep up my appearance +of not suspecting anything, and +catch that train Aunt Matilda +wanted me to catch.</p> + +<hr /> + +<p>From way out in the country +came the whistle of the approaching +milk run, the train +that would take me back to Chicago. +In Chicago I would go to +the F.B.I, and tell them the +whole thing. They wouldn't believe +me, of course, but they +would investigate. If the thing +hadn't spread any farther than +Sumac it would be a simple matter +to stop it.</p> + +<p>I'd hurry back to the cafe and +get my suitcase and tell the +waitress I'd decided to catch the +train after all.</p> + +<p>I turned around.</p> + +<p>Only I didn't turn around.</p> + +<p>That's as nearly as I can describe +it. I did turn around. I +know I did. But the town turned +around with me, and the sun and +the clouds and the countryside. +So maybe I only thought I +turned around.</p> + +<p>When I tried to stop walking +it was different. I simply could +not stop walking. Nothing was +in control of my mind. It was +more like stepping on the brakes +and the brakes not responding.</p> + +<p>I gave up trying, more curious +about what was happening than +alarmed. I walked two blocks +along Main Street. Ahead of me +I saw a sign. It was the only +new sign I had seen in Sumac. +In ornate Neon script it said, +"PORTRAITS by Lana."</p> + +<hr /> + +<p>I don't know whether my feet +took me inside independently of +my mind or not, because I was +sure that this was the place and +I wanted to go in anyway.</p> + +<p>Not much had been done to +modernize the interior of the +shop. I remembered that the last +time I had been here it had been +a stamp collector headquarters +run by Mr. Mason and his wife. +The counter was still there, but +instead of stamp displays it held +a variety of standard portraits +such as you can see in any portrait +studio. None of the TV +portraits were on display here.</p> + +<p>The same bell that used to +tinkle when I came into the +stamp store tinkled in back of +the partition when I came in. A +moment later the curtain in the +doorway of the partition parted, +and a girl came out.</p> + +<p>How can I describe her? In +appearance she was anyone of a +thousand smartly dressed brunettes +that wait on you in +quality photograph studios, and +yet she wasn't. She was as much +above that in cut as the average +smartly dressed girl is above a +female alcoholic after a ten-day +drunk. She was perfect. Too perfect. +She was the type of girl a +man would dream of meeting +some day, but if he ever did he +would run like hell because he +could never hope to live up to +such perfection.</p> + +<p>"You have come to have your +portrait taken?" she asked. "I +am Lana."</p> + +<p>"I thought you already had +my portrait," I said. "Didn't you +get it from that eye in the hotel +cafe?"</p> + +<p>"It's not the same thing," +Lana said. "Through an eye you +remain a variable in the Mantram +complex. It takes the +camera to fix you, so that you +are an iconic invariant in the +Mantram." She smiled and half +turned toward the curtain she +had come through. "Would you +step this way, please?" she invited.</p> + +<p>"How much will it cost?" I +said, not moving.</p> + +<p>"Nothing, of course!" Lana +said. "Terrestrial money is of +no use to me since you have +nothing I would care to buy. +And don't be alarmed. No harm +will come to you, or anyone +else." A fleeting expression of +concern came over her. "I realize +that many of the people of +Sumac are quite alarmed, but +that is to be expected of a people +uneducated enough to still +be superstitious."</p> + +<p>I went past her through the +curtain. Behind the partition I +expected to see out-of-this-world +scientific equipment stacked to +the ceiling. Instead, there was +only a portrait camera on a tripod. +It had a long bellows and +would take a plate the same size +as that picture of the church I +had seen.</p> + +<p>"You see?" Lana said. "It's +just a camera." She smiled disarmingly.</p> + +<hr /> + +<p>I went toward it casually, and +suddenly I stopped as though another +mind controlled my actions. +When I gave up the idea +I had had of smashing the +camera, the control vanished.</p> + +<p>There was no lens in the lens +frame. "Where's the lens?" I +said.</p> + +<p>"It doesn't use a glass lens," +Lana said. "When I take the picture +a lens forms just long +enough to focus the elements of +your body into a Mantram fix." +She touched my shoulder. +"Would you sit down over there, +please?"</p> + +<p>"What do you mean by a +Mantram fix?" I asked her.</p> + +<p>She paused by the camera and +smiled at me. "I use your language," +she said. "In some of +your legends you have the notion +of a Mantram, or what you +consider magical spell. In one +aspect the notion is of magical +words that can manipulate natural +forces directly. The notion +of a devil doll is a little closer. +Only instead of actual substance +from the subject—hair, fingernail +parings, and so on—the +Mantram matrix takes the detailed +force pattern of the subject, +through the lens when it +forms. So, in your concepts, +what results is an iconic Mantram. +But it operates both ways. +You'll see what I mean by that."</p> + +<p>With another placating smile +she stepped behind the camera +and without warning light seemed +to explode from the very air +around me, without any source. +For a brief second I seemed to +see—not a glittering lens—but +a black bottomless hole form in +the metal circle at the front of +the camera. And—an experience +I am familiar with now—I seemed +to rush into the bottomless +darkness of that hole and back +again, at the rate of thousands +of times a second, arriving at +some formless destination and +each time feeling it take on more +of form.</p> + +<p>"There. That wasn't so bad, +was it?" Lana said.</p> + +<p>I felt strangely detached, as +though I were in two places at +the same time. I told her so.</p> + +<p>"You'll get used to it," she +assured me. "In fact, you will +get to enjoy it. <i>I</i> do. Especially +when I've made several prints."</p> + +<p>"Why are you doing this?" I +asked. "Who are you? <i>What</i> are +you?"</p> + +<p>"I'm a photographer!" Lana +said. "I'm connected with the +natural history museum of the +planet I live on. I go to various +places and take pictures, and +they go into exhibits for the +people to watch."</p> + +<p>She pulled the curtain aside +for me to leave.</p> + +<p>"You're going to let me +leave? Just like that?" I said.</p> + +<p>"Of course." She smiled +again. "You're free to go +wherever you wish, to your +aunt's or back to Chicago. I was +glad to get your portrait. In return, +I'll send you one of the +prints. And would you like one +of your aunt's? Actually, when +she came in to have her picture +taken it was for the purpose of +sending it to you. She was my +first customer. I've taken a special +liking to her and given her +several pictures."</p> + +<p>"Yes," I said. "I would like +one of Aunt Matilda."</p> + +<p>When I emerged from the +shop I discovered to my surprise +that the train was just +pulling into the depot. An urge +to get far away from Sumac possessed +me. I trotted to the cafe +to get my bag, and when the +train pulled out I was on it.</p> + +<hr /> + +<p>There's little more to tell. In +Chicago once again, I spent a +most exasperating two days trying +to inform the F.B.I., the police, +or anyone who would listen +to me. My fingers couldn't dial +the correct phone number, and +at the crucial moment each time +I grew tongue-tied. My last attempt +was a letter to the F.B.I., +which I couldn't remember to +mail, and when I finally did remember +I couldn't find it.</p> + +<p>Then the express package +from Sumac came. With fingers +that visibly trembled I took out +the two framed pictures, one of +Aunt Matilda in the process of +dusting the front room. All of +her pictures that she had hidden +from me were back in their +places on the walls. While I +watched her move about, she +went into the sewing room, and +there I saw a picture on the wall +that looked familiar.</p> + +<p>It was of me, an opened express +package at my feet, a +framed picture held in my +hands, and I was staring at it +intently.</p> + +<p>In the picture I was holding, +Aunt Matilda looked in my direction +and waved, smiling in +the prim way she smiles when +she is contented. I understood. +She had me with her now.</p> + +<p>I laid the picture down carefully, +and took the second one +out of the box.</p> + +<p>It was not a picture at all, it +was a mirror!</p> + +<p>It couldn't be anything except +a mirror. And yet, suddenly, I +realized it wasn't. The uncanny +feeling came over me that I had +transposed into the mirror and +was looking out at myself. Even +as I got that feeling I shifted +and was outside the mirror looking +at my image.</p> + +<p>I found that I could be in +either place by a sort of mental +shift, something like staring at +one of the geometrical optical +illusions you can find in any psychology +textbook in the chapter +on illusions, and seeing it become +something else.</p> + +<p>It was strange at first, then +it became fun, and now, as I +write this, it is a normal thing. +My portrait is where it should +be—on the medicine cabinet in +the bathroom, where the mirror +used to be.</p> + +<p>But I can transpose to any of +the copies of my portrait, anywhere. +To Aunt Matilda's sewing +room, or to the museum, or to +Lana's private collection. The +only thing is, it's almost impossible +to tell when I shift, or +where I shift to. It just seems to +happen.</p> + +<p>The reason for that is that +my surroundings, no matter in +what direction I look, are +exactly identical with my real +surroundings. My physical surroundings +are duplicated exactly +in all my portraits, just as Aunt +Matilda's are in the portrait of +her that hangs on my study wall. +She is the invariant of each of +her iconic Mantrams and her +surroundings are the variables +that enter and leave the screen. +I am the invariant in my own +portraits, wherever they are. So, +except for the slight <i>twist</i> in my +mind that takes place when I +<i>shift</i>, that I have learned to +recognize from practice in front +of my "mirror" each morning +when I shave, and except for the +portrait of Aunt Matilda, I +would never be able to suspect +what happens.</p> + +<p>If Lana had taken my picture +without my knowing it and I +had never seen one of her collection +of portraits, nor ever +heard of an iconic Mantram, I +would have absolutely nothing to +go on to suspect the truth that I +know. Except for one thing.</p> + +<p>I don't quite know how to explain +it, except that I must actually +transfer to one of my +portraits, and, transferring, I +am more real than—what shall +I call it?—the photographic reproduction +of my real surroundings. +Then, sometimes, the +photographic reproduction, the +iconic illusion, that is my environment +when I am <i>in</i> one of +the portraits of me, fades just +enough so that I can look "out" +into the reality where my portrait +hangs, and see, and even +hear the <i>watchers</i>, as ghosts in +my solid "reality."</p> + +<hr /> + +<p>Quite often I can only hear +them, and then they are voices +out of nowhere, sometimes addressing +me directly, just as +often talking to one another and +ignoring my <i>presence</i>. But when +I can see them too, they appear +as ghostly but sharply clear visions +that seem to be present +in my solid-looking environment. +There, but somewhat transparent.</p> + +<p>I have often seen and talked +to Lana in this manner, in her +far-off world, where I am part +of her private collection. In fact, +I can almost always tell when I +<i>shift</i> to my portrait in her gallery, +because I am suddenly +exhilarated and remain so until +I shift back, or to some other +portrait. That is so even when +she is not there but out on one +of her many photographic expeditions.</p> + +<p>When she is there, and is +watching me, and my thoughts +are quiet and my mind receptive, +she becomes visible. A +ghost in my study, or the lab +where I work, or—if I am +asleep—in my dreams. Like an +angel, or a goddess. And we +talk.</p> + +<hr /> + +<p>Back in the physical reality, +of course, no one else can hear +her voice. My real body is going +through its routine work almost +automatically but my mind, my +consciousness, is focused into my +portrait in Lana's gallery, and +we are talking. And of course in +the real world I am talking too, +but my associates can't see who +I'm talking to, and it would be +useless to try to explain to them.</p> + +<p>So I'm getting quite a reputation +as a nut! Can you imagine +that?</p> + +<p>But why should I mind? My +reality has a much broader and +more complex scope than the +limited reality of my associates. +I might be fired, or even sent to +a state hospital, except for the +fact that Lana foresees such +problems and teaches me enough +things in my field that are unknown +to Earth, so that my employers +consider me too valuable +to lose.</p> + +<p>If this story were fiction the +ending would have to be that I +am in love with Lana and she +with me, and there would be a +nice conclusive ending where she +comes back to Earth to marry +me and carry me back to her +world, where we would live happily +ever after. But the truth of +the matter is that I'm not in +love with Lana, nor she with me. +Sometimes I think I am her favorite +portrait, but nothing +more.</p> + +<p>But really, everything is so +interesting. Lana's gallery +where I hang, the museum +where there are new faces each +time I look out, and new voices +when I can't see out, Aunt Matilda's +sewing room where she +is at the moment, and all Sumac +as she goes about her normal +pattern of living.</p> + +<p>It is a rich, full life that I +live, shifting here and there in +consciousness while my physical +body goes about its necessary +tasks, as often unguided as not. +(What a reputation I'm getting +for absent-mindedness, too!)</p> + +<p>And out of it all has come a +perspective that, when I feel it +strongly, makes me feel almost +like a god. In that perspective +all my portraits (and there are +many now, on many worlds and +in many places on this world!) +blend into one. That one is the +stage of my life. But not a stage, +really. A show window. Yes, that +is it. A show window, where the +<i>watchers</i> pass.</p> + +<p>I live in a show window that +opens out in many worlds and +many places that are hidden +from me by a veil that sometimes +grows thin, so I can see +through it. And from the other +side of that veil, even when I +cannot see through it, come the +voices of the watchers, as they +pass by, or pause to look at me.</p> + +<p>And I am not the only one! +There are others. More and +more of them, as Lana comes +back on her photographic expeditions +for the museum.</p> + +<p>None that I have met understand +what it is about as fully +as I do. Some have an insight +into the true state of things, but +very very few.</p> + +<p>But that is understandable. +Lana can't give the same time +to them that she gives to me. +There aren't that many hours in +a day! And, you see, I am her +favorite.</p> + +<p>If I were not, she would never +have permitted me to tell you all +this, so I must be her favorite!</p> + +<p>Doesn't that make sense?</p> + +<p>I <i>AM</i> her favorite!</p> + +<p class="p2"><b>THE END</b></p> + +<div class="trn"><b>Transcriber's Note:</b> +This etext was produced from <i>Amazing Stories</i> January 1959. +Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. +copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and +typographical errors have been corrected without note.</div> + + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Gallery, by Roger Phillips Graham + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GALLERY *** + +***** This file should be named 26936-h.htm or 26936-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/2/6/9/3/26936/ + +Produced by Greg Weeks, Stephen Blundell and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Gallery + +Author: Roger Phillips Graham + +Illustrator: Llewellyn + +Release Date: October 16, 2008 [EBook #26936] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GALLERY *** + + + + +Produced by Greg Weeks, Stephen Blundell and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + + + + + THE + GALLERY + + By ROG PHILLIPS + + ILLUSTRATOR LLEWELLYN + + + _Aunt Matilda needed him + desperately, but when he + arrived she did not want + him and neither did anyone + else in his home town._ + + +I was in the midst of the fourth draft of my doctorate thesis when Aunt +Matilda's telegram came. It could not have come at a worse time. The +deadline for my thesis was four days away and there was a minimum of +five days of hard work to do on it yet. I was working around the clock. + +If it had been a telegram informing me of her death I could not have +taken time out to attend the funeral. If it had been a telegram saying +she was at death's door I'm very much afraid I would have had to call +the hospital and order them to keep her alive a few days longer. + +Instead, it was a tersely worded appeal. ARTHUR STOP COME AT ONCE STOP +AM IN TERRIBLE TROUBLE STOP DO NOT PHONE STOP AUNT MATILDA. + +So there was nothing else for me to do. I laid the telegram aside and +kept on working on my thesis. That is not as heartless as it might seem. +I simply could not imagine Aunt Matilda in terrible trouble. The end of +the world I could imagine, but not Aunt Matilda in trouble. + +[Illustration: Wherever he went Arthur felt the power behind the lens.] + +She was the classic flat-chested ageless spinster living alone in the +midst of her dustless bric-a-brac and Spode in a frame house of the same +vintage as herself at the edge of the classic small town of Sumac, near +the southwest corner of Wisconsin. I had visited her for two days over a +year ago, and she had looked exactly the same as she had when I stayed +with her when I was six all summer, and there was no question but what +she would some day attend my funeral when I died of old age, and she +would still look the same as always. + + * * * * * + +There was no conceivable trouble of terrestrial origin that could touch +her--or would want to. And, as it turned out, I was right in that +respect. + +I was right in another respect too. By finishing my thesis I became a +Ph.D. on schedule, and if I had abandoned all that and rushed to Sumac +the moment I received the telegram it could not have materially altered +the outcome of things. And Aunt Matilda, hanging on the wall of my +study, knitting things for the Red Cross, will attest to that. + +You, of course, might argue about her being there. You might even insist +that I am hanging on her wall instead. And I would have to agree with +you, since it all depends on the point of view and as I sit here typing +I can look up and see myself hanging on her wall. + +But perhaps I had better begin at the beginning when, with my thesis +behind me, I arrived on the 4:15 milk run, as they call the train that +stops on its way past Sumac. + +I was in a very disturbed state of mind, as anyone who has ever turned +in a doctorate thesis can well imagine. For the life of me I couldn't be +sure whether I had used _symbol_ or _token_ on line 7, sheet 23, of my +thesis, and it was a bad habit of mine to unconsciously interchange them +unpredictably, and I knew that Dr. Walters could very well vote against +acceptance of my thesis on that ground alone. Also, I had thought of a +much better opening sentence to my thesis, and was having to use will +power to keep from rushing back to the university to ask permission to +change it. + +I had practically no sleep during the fourteen-hour run, and what sleep +I did have had been interrupted by violent starts of awaking with a +conviction that this or that error in the initial draft of my thesis had +not been corrected by the final draft. And then, of course, I would have +to think the thing through and recall when I had made the correction, +before I could go back to sleep. + +So I was a wreck, mentally, if not physically, when I stepped off the +train onto the wooden depot platform that had certainly been built in +the Pleistocene Era, with my oxblood two-suiter firmly clutched in my +left hand. + +With snorts of steam and the loud clanking of loose drives, the train +got under way again, its whistle wailing mournfully as the last empty +coach car sped past me and retreated into the distance. + +As I stood there, my brain tingling with weariness, and listened to the +absolute silence of the town triumph over the last distant wail of the +train whistle, I became aware that something about Sumac was different. + +What it was, I didn't know. I stood where I was a moment longer, trying +to analyze it. In some indefinable way everything looked unreal. That +was as close as I could come to it, and of course having pinned it down +that far I at once dismissed it as a trick of the mind produced by +tiredness. + +I began walking. The planks of the platform were certainly real enough. +I circled the depot without going in, and started walking in the +direction of Aunt Matilda's, which was only a short eight blocks from +the depot, as I had known since I was six. + +The feeling of the unreality of my surroundings persisted, and with it +came another feeling, of an invisible pressure against me. Almost a +resentment. Not only from the people, but from the houses and even the +trees. + + * * * * * + +Slowly I began to realize that it couldn't be entirely my imagination. +Most of the dozen or so people I passed knew me, and I remembered +suddenly that every other time I had come to Aunt Matilda's they had +stopped to talk with me and I had had to make some excuse to escape +them. Now they were behaving differently. They would look at me absently +as they might at any stranger walking from the direction of the depot, +then their eyes would light up with recognition and they would open +their lips to greet me with hearty welcome. + +Then, as though they just thought of something, they would change, and +just say, "Hello, Arthur," and continue on past me. + +It didn't take me long to conclude that this strange behavior was +probably caused by something in connection with Aunt Matilda. Had she +perhaps been named as corespondent in the divorce of the local minister? +Had she, of all people, had a child out of wedlock? + +Things in a small town can be deadly serious, so by the time her +familiar frame house came into view down the street I was ready to keep +a straight face, no matter what, and reserve my chuckles for the privacy +of her guest room. It would be a new experience, to find Aunt Matilda +guilty of any human frailty. It was slightly impossible, but I had +prepared myself for it. + +And that first day her behavior convinced me I was right in my +conclusion. + +She appeared in the doorway as I came up the front walk. She was +breathing hard, as though she had been running, and there was a dust +streak on the side of her thin face. + +"Hello, Arthur," she said when I came up on the porch. She shook my hand +as limply as always, and gave me a reluctant duty peck on the cheek, +then backed into the house to give me room to enter. + +I glanced around the familiar surroundings, waiting for her to blurt out +the cause of her telegram, and feeling a little guilty about not having +come at once. + +I felt the loneliness inside her more than I ever had before. There was +a terror way back in her eyes. + +"You look tired, Arthur," she said. + +"Yes," I said, glad of the opportunity she had given me to explain. "I +had to finish my thesis and get it in by last night. Two solid years of +hard work and it had to be done or the whole thing was for nothing. +That's why I couldn't come four days ago. And you seemed quite insistent +that I shouldn't call." I smiled to let her know that I remembered about +party lines in a small town. + +"It's just as well," she said. And while I was trying to decide what the +antecedent of her remark was she said, "You can go back on the morning +train." + +"You mean the trouble is over?" I said, relieved. + +"Yes," she said. But she had hesitated. + +It was the first time I had ever seen her tell a lie. + +"You must be hungry," she rushed on. "Put your suitcase in the room and +wash up." She turned her back to me and hurried into the kitchen. + +I was hungry. The memory of her homey cooking did it. I glanced around +the front room. Nothing had changed, I thought. Then I noticed the +framed portrait of my father and his three brothers was hanging where +the large print of a basket of fruit used to hang. The basket of fruit +picture was where the portrait should have been, and it was entirely too +big a picture for that spot. I would never have thought Aunt Matilda +could tolerate anything out of proportion. And the darker area of +wallpaper where the fruit picture had prevented fading stood out like a +sore thumb. + +I looked around the room for other changes. The boat picture that had +hung to the right of the front door was not there. On the floor under +where it should have been I caught the flash of light from a shard of +glass. Next to it, the drape framing the window was not hanging right. + +On impulse I went over and peeked behind the drape. There, leaning +against the wall, was the boat picture with fragments of splintered +glass still in it. + + * * * * * + +From the evidence it appeared that Aunt Matilda had either been trying +to hang the picture where it belonged, or taking it down, and it had +slipped out of her hands and fallen, and she had hidden it behind the +drape and hastily swept up the broken glass. + +But why? Even granting that Aunt Matilda might behave in such an erratic +fashion (which was obvious from the evidence), I couldn't imagine a +sensible reason. + +It occurred to me, facetiously, that she might have gone in for pictures +of musclemen, and, seeing me coming up the street, she had rushed them +into hiding and brought out the old pictures. + +That could account for the evidence--except for one thing. I hadn't +dallied. She could not possibly have seen me earlier than sixty seconds +before I came up the front walk. + +Still, the telegrapher at the depot could have called her and told her I +was here when he saw me get off the train. + +I shrugged the matter off and went to the guest room. It too was the +same as always, except for one thing. A picture. + +It was a color photograph of the church, taken from the street. The +picture was in a frame, but without glass over it, and was about +eighteen inches wide and thirty high. + +It was a very good picture. Very lifelike. There was a car parked at the +curb in front of the church, and someone inside the car smoking a +cigarette, and it was so real I would have sworn I could see the +streamer of smoke rising from the cigarette moving. + +The odor of good food came from the kitchen, reminding me to get busy. I +opened my two-suiter and took out my toilet kit and went to the +bathroom. + +I shaved, brushed my teeth, and combed my hair. Afterward I popped into +my room just for a second to put my toilet kit on the dresser, and +hurried to the dining room. + +Something nagged at the back of my mind all the time I was eating. After +dinner Aunt Matilda suggested I'd better get some sleep. I couldn't +argue. I was already asleep on my feet. Her fried chicken and creamed +gravy and mashed potatoes had been an opiate. + +I didn't even bother to hang up my clothes. I slipped into the heaven of +comfort of the bed and closed my eyes. And the next minute it was +morning. + +Getting out of bed, I stopped in mid motion. The picture of the church +was no longer on the wall. And as I stared at the blank spot where it +had been, the thing that had nagged me during dinner last night finally +leaped into consciousness. + +When I had dashed into the room and out again last night on the way to +the dining room I had glanced briefly at the picture and something had +been different about it. Now I knew what had been different. + +The car had no longer been in front of the church. + + * * * * * + +I lit a cigarette and sat on the edge of the bed. I thought about that +picture, and simply could not bring myself to believe the accuracy of +that fleeting impression. + +Aunt Matilda had slipped into my room and removed the picture while I +slept. That was obvious. Why had she done that? The fleeting impression +that I couldn't be positive about would give her a sensible reason. + +I studied my memory of that picture as I had closely studied it. It had +been a remarkable picture. The more I recalled its details the more +remarkable it became. I couldn't remember any surface gloss or graining +to it, but of course I had not been looking for such things. Only an +expert photographer would notice or recognize such technical details. + +My thoughts turned in the direction of Aunt Matilda--and her telegram. +Her source of income, I knew, was her part of the estate of my +grandfather, and amounted to something like thirty thousand dollars. I +knew that she was terrified of touching one cent of the capital, and +lived well within the income from good sound stocks. + + * * * * * + +I took her telegram out of the pocket of my coat which was hanging over +the back of a chair. COME AT ONCE STOP AM IN TERRIBLE TROUBLE ... The +only kind of terrible trouble Matilda could be in was if some swindler +talked her out of some of her capital! And that definitely would not be +easy to do. I grinned to myself at the recollection of her worrying +herself sick once over what would happen to her if there was a +revolution and the new government refused to honor the old government +bonds. + +Things began to make sense. Her telegram, then those pictures moved +around in the front room, and the one she had forgotten to hide, in the +guest room. If the other pictures were anything like it, I could see how +Aunt Matilda might cash in on part of her securities to invest in what +she thought was a sure thing. + +But sure things are only as good as the people in control of them. Many +a sure thing has been lost to the original investors by stupid decisions +leading to bankruptcy, and many a seemingly sure thing has fleeced a lot +of innocent victims. + +Slowly, as I thought it out, I became sure that that was what had +happened. + +Then why Aunt Matilda's about-face, hiding the pictures and telling me +to go back to Chicago? Had she threatened whoever was behind this, and +gotten her money back? Or had she again become convinced that her +financial venture was sound? + +In either case, why was she trying to keep me from knowing about the +pictures? + +I made up my mind. Whether Aunt Matilda liked it or not, I was going to +stay until I got to the bottom of things. What Aunt Matilda evidently +didn't realize was that no inventor who really had something would waste +time trying to find backing in a place like Sumac. + +Getting dressed, I decided that first on the agenda would be to find +where Matilda had hidden those pictures, and get a good look at them. + +That was simpler than I expected it to be. When I came out of my room I +stuck my head in the kitchen doorway and said good morning to her, and +she leaped to her feet to get some breakfast ready for me. It was +obvious that she was anxious to get me fed and out of the house. + +Then I simply took the two steps past the bathroom door to the door to +her bedroom and went in. The pictures were stacked against the side of +her dresser. The one of the church was the first one. It was on its +side. + +With a silent whistle of amazement I bent down to watch it. The car was +not parked at the curb in it, but there were several children walking +along, obviously on their way to school. And they were walking. Moving. + + * * * * * + +I picked up the picture. It was as heavy as it should be, but not more. +A faint whisper of sound seemed to come from it. I put my ear closer and +heard children's voices. I explored with my ear close to the surface, +and found that the voices were loudest when my ear was closest to the +one talking, as though the voices came out of the picture directly from +the images! + +All it needed to be perfect was a volume control somewhere. I searched, +and found it behind the upper right corner of the picture. I twisted it +very slowly, and the voices became louder. I turned it back to the +position it had been in. + +The next picture was of the railroad depot. The telegrapher and baggage +clerk were going around the side of the depot towards the tracks. A +freight train was rushing through the picture. + +Even as I watched it in the picture, I heard the wail of a train whistle +in the distance, and it was coming from outside, across town. That +freight train was going through town _right now_. + +I put the pictures back the way they had been, and stole softly from +Aunt Matilda's bedroom to the bathroom, and closed the door. + +"No wonder Aunt Matilda invested in this thing!" I said to my image in +the mirror as I shaved. + +Picture TV would make all other TV receivers obsolete! Full color TV at +that! And with some new principle in stereophonic sound! + +What about the fact that neither picture had been plugged into an +outlet? Probably run by batteries. + +What about the lack of weight? Obviously a new TV principle was +involved. Maybe it required fewer circuits and less power. + +What about the broadcasting end, the cameras? Permanently set up? What +about the broadcast channels? + +There had been ten or twelve pictures. I'd only looked at two. Was each +a different scene? Twelve different broadcasting stations in Sumac? + +It had me dizzy. Probably the new TV principle was so simple that all +that could be taken care of without millions of dollars worth of +equipment. + +A new respect for Aunt Matilda grew in me. She had latched on to a money +maker! It didn't hurt to know that I was her favorite nephew, either. +With my Ph.D. in physics, and my aunt as one of the stockholders, I +could probably land a good job with the company. What a deal! + +By the time I finished shaving I was whistling. I was still whistling +when I went into the kitchen for breakfast. + +"You'll have to hurry, Arthur," Aunt Matilda said. "Your train leaves in +forty-five minutes." + +"I'm not leaving," I said cheerfully. + +I went over to the bright breakfast nook and sat down, and took a +cautious sip of coffee. I grunted my approval of it and looked around +toward Aunt Matilda, smiling. + +She was staring at me with wide eyes. She looked as haggard as though +she had just heard she had a week to live. + +"But you must go!" she croaked as though my not going were unthinkable. + +"Nonsense, you old fox," I said. "I know a good thing as well as you do. +I want to get a job with that outfit." + +She came toward me with a wild expression on her face. + +"Get out!" she screamed. "Get out of my house! I won't have it! You +catch that train and get out of town. Do you hear?" + +"But, Aunt Matilda!" I protested. + + * * * * * + +In the end I had to get out or she would have had a stroke. She was +shaking like a leaf, her skin mottled and her eyes wild, as I went down +the front steps with my bag. + +"You get that train, do you hear?" was the last thing she screamed at me +as I hurried toward Main Street. + +However, I had no intention of leaving town with Aunt Matilda upset that +way. I'd let her have time to cool off, then come back. Meanwhile I'd +try to get to the bottom of things. A thing as big as wall TV in full +color and stereophonic sound must be the talk of the town. I'd find out +where they had their office and go talk with them. A career with +something like that would be the best thing I could ever hope to find. +And getting in on the ground floor! + +It surprised me that Aunt Matilda could be so insanely greedy. I shook +my head in wonder. It didn't figure. + +I had breakfast at the hotel cafe and made a point of telling the +waitress, who knew me, that it was my second breakfast, and that I had +intended to catch the morning train back to Chicago, but maybe I +wouldn't. + +After I finished eating I asked if it would be okay to leave my suitcase +behind the counter while I looked around a bit. She showed me where to +put it so it would be out of the way. + +When I paid for my breakfast I half turned away, then turned back +casually. + +"Oh, by the way," I said. "Where's this wall TV place?" + +"This what?" she said. + +"You know," I said. "Color TV like a picture you hang on a wall." + +All the color faded from her face. Her eyes went past me, staring. I +turned in the direction she was staring, and on the wall above the +plateglass front of the cafe was a picture. + +That is, there was a picture frame and a pair of dark glasses that took +up most of the picture, with the lower part of a forehead and the upper +part of a nose. I had noticed it once while I was eating and had assumed +it was a display ad for sun glasses. Now I looked at it more closely, +but could detect no movement in it. It still looked like an ad for sun +glasses. + +"I don't know what you're talking about," I heard the waitress say, her +voice edged with fear. + +"Huh?" I said, turning my head back to look at her. "Oh. Well, never +mind." + +I left the cafe with every outward appearance of casual innocence; but +inside I was beginning to realize for the first time the possibilities +and the danger that could lie in the use of this new TV development. + +That had been a Big-Brother-is-Watching-you setup back there in the +cafe, except that it had been a girl instead of a man, judging from the +style of sun glasses and the smoothness of the nose and forehead. + +I had wondered about the broadcasting end of things. Now I knew. That +had been the TV "eye," and somewhere there was a framed picture hanging +on the wall, bringing in everything that took place in the cafe, +including everything that was said. Everything _I_ had said, too. It was +an ominous feeling. + +Aunt Matilda had almost had a stroke trying to get me out of town. Now I +knew why. She was caught in this thing and wanted to save me. Four days +ago she had probably not fully realized the potentiality for evil of the +invention, but by the time I showed up she knew it. + +Well, she was right. This was not something for me to tackle. I would +keep up my appearance of not suspecting anything, and catch that train +Aunt Matilda wanted me to catch. + + * * * * * + +From way out in the country came the whistle of the approaching milk +run, the train that would take me back to Chicago. In Chicago I would go +to the F.B.I, and tell them the whole thing. They wouldn't believe me, +of course, but they would investigate. If the thing hadn't spread any +farther than Sumac it would be a simple matter to stop it. + +I'd hurry back to the cafe and get my suitcase and tell the waitress +I'd decided to catch the train after all. + +I turned around. + +Only I didn't turn around. + +That's as nearly as I can describe it. I did turn around. I know I did. +But the town turned around with me, and the sun and the clouds and the +countryside. So maybe I only thought I turned around. + +When I tried to stop walking it was different. I simply could not stop +walking. Nothing was in control of my mind. It was more like stepping on +the brakes and the brakes not responding. + +I gave up trying, more curious about what was happening than alarmed. I +walked two blocks along Main Street. Ahead of me I saw a sign. It was +the only new sign I had seen in Sumac. In ornate Neon script it said, +"PORTRAITS by Lana." + + * * * * * + +I don't know whether my feet took me inside independently of my mind or +not, because I was sure that this was the place and I wanted to go in +anyway. + +Not much had been done to modernize the interior of the shop. I +remembered that the last time I had been here it had been a stamp +collector headquarters run by Mr. Mason and his wife. The counter was +still there, but instead of stamp displays it held a variety of standard +portraits such as you can see in any portrait studio. None of the TV +portraits were on display here. + +The same bell that used to tinkle when I came into the stamp store +tinkled in back of the partition when I came in. A moment later the +curtain in the doorway of the partition parted, and a girl came out. + +How can I describe her? In appearance she was anyone of a thousand +smartly dressed brunettes that wait on you in quality photograph +studios, and yet she wasn't. She was as much above that in cut as the +average smartly dressed girl is above a female alcoholic after a ten-day +drunk. She was perfect. Too perfect. She was the type of girl a man +would dream of meeting some day, but if he ever did he would run like +hell because he could never hope to live up to such perfection. + +"You have come to have your portrait taken?" she asked. "I am Lana." + +"I thought you already had my portrait," I said. "Didn't you get it from +that eye in the hotel cafe?" + +"It's not the same thing," Lana said. "Through an eye you remain a +variable in the Mantram complex. It takes the camera to fix you, so that +you are an iconic invariant in the Mantram." She smiled and half turned +toward the curtain she had come through. "Would you step this way, +please?" she invited. + +"How much will it cost?" I said, not moving. + +"Nothing, of course!" Lana said. "Terrestrial money is of no use to me +since you have nothing I would care to buy. And don't be alarmed. No +harm will come to you, or anyone else." A fleeting expression of concern +came over her. "I realize that many of the people of Sumac are quite +alarmed, but that is to be expected of a people uneducated enough to +still be superstitious." + +I went past her through the curtain. Behind the partition I expected to +see out-of-this-world scientific equipment stacked to the ceiling. +Instead, there was only a portrait camera on a tripod. It had a long +bellows and would take a plate the same size as that picture of the +church I had seen. + +"You see?" Lana said. "It's just a camera." She smiled disarmingly. + + * * * * * + +I went toward it casually, and suddenly I stopped as though another mind +controlled my actions. When I gave up the idea I had had of smashing the +camera, the control vanished. + +There was no lens in the lens frame. "Where's the lens?" I said. + +"It doesn't use a glass lens," Lana said. "When I take the picture a +lens forms just long enough to focus the elements of your body into a +Mantram fix." She touched my shoulder. "Would you sit down over there, +please?" + +"What do you mean by a Mantram fix?" I asked her. + +She paused by the camera and smiled at me. "I use your language," she +said. "In some of your legends you have the notion of a Mantram, or what +you consider magical spell. In one aspect the notion is of magical words +that can manipulate natural forces directly. The notion of a devil doll +is a little closer. Only instead of actual substance from the +subject--hair, fingernail parings, and so on--the Mantram matrix takes +the detailed force pattern of the subject, through the lens when it +forms. So, in your concepts, what results is an iconic Mantram. But it +operates both ways. You'll see what I mean by that." + +With another placating smile she stepped behind the camera and without +warning light seemed to explode from the very air around me, without any +source. For a brief second I seemed to see--not a glittering lens--but a +black bottomless hole form in the metal circle at the front of the +camera. And--an experience I am familiar with now--I seemed to rush into +the bottomless darkness of that hole and back again, at the rate of +thousands of times a second, arriving at some formless destination and +each time feeling it take on more of form. + +"There. That wasn't so bad, was it?" Lana said. + +I felt strangely detached, as though I were in two places at the same +time. I told her so. + +"You'll get used to it," she assured me. "In fact, you will get to enjoy +it. _I_ do. Especially when I've made several prints." + +"Why are you doing this?" I asked. "Who are you? _What_ are you?" + +"I'm a photographer!" Lana said. "I'm connected with the natural history +museum of the planet I live on. I go to various places and take +pictures, and they go into exhibits for the people to watch." + +She pulled the curtain aside for me to leave. + +"You're going to let me leave? Just like that?" I said. + +"Of course." She smiled again. "You're free to go wherever you wish, to +your aunt's or back to Chicago. I was glad to get your portrait. In +return, I'll send you one of the prints. And would you like one of your +aunt's? Actually, when she came in to have her picture taken it was for +the purpose of sending it to you. She was my first customer. I've taken +a special liking to her and given her several pictures." + +"Yes," I said. "I would like one of Aunt Matilda." + +When I emerged from the shop I discovered to my surprise that the train +was just pulling into the depot. An urge to get far away from Sumac +possessed me. I trotted to the cafe to get my bag, and when the train +pulled out I was on it. + + * * * * * + +There's little more to tell. In Chicago once again, I spent a most +exasperating two days trying to inform the F.B.I., the police, or anyone +who would listen to me. My fingers couldn't dial the correct phone +number, and at the crucial moment each time I grew tongue-tied. My last +attempt was a letter to the F.B.I., which I couldn't remember to mail, +and when I finally did remember I couldn't find it. + +Then the express package from Sumac came. With fingers that visibly +trembled I took out the two framed pictures, one of Aunt Matilda in the +process of dusting the front room. All of her pictures that she had +hidden from me were back in their places on the walls. While I watched +her move about, she went into the sewing room, and there I saw a picture +on the wall that looked familiar. + +It was of me, an opened express package at my feet, a framed picture +held in my hands, and I was staring at it intently. + +In the picture I was holding, Aunt Matilda looked in my direction and +waved, smiling in the prim way she smiles when she is contented. I +understood. She had me with her now. + +I laid the picture down carefully, and took the second one out of the +box. + +It was not a picture at all, it was a mirror! + +It couldn't be anything except a mirror. And yet, suddenly, I realized +it wasn't. The uncanny feeling came over me that I had transposed into +the mirror and was looking out at myself. Even as I got that feeling I +shifted and was outside the mirror looking at my image. + +I found that I could be in either place by a sort of mental shift, +something like staring at one of the geometrical optical illusions you +can find in any psychology textbook in the chapter on illusions, and +seeing it become something else. + +It was strange at first, then it became fun, and now, as I write this, +it is a normal thing. My portrait is where it should be--on the medicine +cabinet in the bathroom, where the mirror used to be. + +But I can transpose to any of the copies of my portrait, anywhere. To +Aunt Matilda's sewing room, or to the museum, or to Lana's private +collection. The only thing is, it's almost impossible to tell when I +shift, or where I shift to. It just seems to happen. + +The reason for that is that my surroundings, no matter in what direction +I look, are exactly identical with my real surroundings. My physical +surroundings are duplicated exactly in all my portraits, just as Aunt +Matilda's are in the portrait of her that hangs on my study wall. She is +the invariant of each of her iconic Mantrams and her surroundings are +the variables that enter and leave the screen. I am the invariant in my +own portraits, wherever they are. So, except for the slight _twist_ in +my mind that takes place when I _shift_, that I have learned to +recognize from practice in front of my "mirror" each morning when I +shave, and except for the portrait of Aunt Matilda, I would never be +able to suspect what happens. + +If Lana had taken my picture without my knowing it and I had never seen +one of her collection of portraits, nor ever heard of an iconic Mantram, +I would have absolutely nothing to go on to suspect the truth that I +know. Except for one thing. + +I don't quite know how to explain it, except that I must actually +transfer to one of my portraits, and, transferring, I am more real +than--what shall I call it?--the photographic reproduction of my real +surroundings. Then, sometimes, the photographic reproduction, the iconic +illusion, that is my environment when I am _in_ one of the portraits of +me, fades just enough so that I can look "out" into the reality where my +portrait hangs, and see, and even hear the _watchers_, as ghosts in my +solid "reality." + + * * * * * + +Quite often I can only hear them, and then they are voices out of +nowhere, sometimes addressing me directly, just as often talking to one +another and ignoring my _presence_. But when I can see them too, they +appear as ghostly but sharply clear visions that seem to be present in +my solid-looking environment. There, but somewhat transparent. + +I have often seen and talked to Lana in this manner, in her far-off +world, where I am part of her private collection. In fact, I can almost +always tell when I _shift_ to my portrait in her gallery, because I am +suddenly exhilarated and remain so until I shift back, or to some other +portrait. That is so even when she is not there but out on one of her +many photographic expeditions. + +When she is there, and is watching me, and my thoughts are quiet and my +mind receptive, she becomes visible. A ghost in my study, or the lab +where I work, or--if I am asleep--in my dreams. Like an angel, or a +goddess. And we talk. + + * * * * * + +Back in the physical reality, of course, no one else can hear her voice. +My real body is going through its routine work almost automatically but +my mind, my consciousness, is focused into my portrait in Lana's +gallery, and we are talking. And of course in the real world I am +talking too, but my associates can't see who I'm talking to, and it +would be useless to try to explain to them. + +So I'm getting quite a reputation as a nut! Can you imagine that? + +But why should I mind? My reality has a much broader and more complex +scope than the limited reality of my associates. I might be fired, or +even sent to a state hospital, except for the fact that Lana foresees +such problems and teaches me enough things in my field that are unknown +to Earth, so that my employers consider me too valuable to lose. + +If this story were fiction the ending would have to be that I am in love +with Lana and she with me, and there would be a nice conclusive ending +where she comes back to Earth to marry me and carry me back to her +world, where we would live happily ever after. But the truth of the +matter is that I'm not in love with Lana, nor she with me. Sometimes I +think I am her favorite portrait, but nothing more. + +But really, everything is so interesting. Lana's gallery where I hang, +the museum where there are new faces each time I look out, and new +voices when I can't see out, Aunt Matilda's sewing room where she is at +the moment, and all Sumac as she goes about her normal pattern of +living. + +It is a rich, full life that I live, shifting here and there in +consciousness while my physical body goes about its necessary tasks, as +often unguided as not. (What a reputation I'm getting for +absent-mindedness, too!) + +And out of it all has come a perspective that, when I feel it strongly, +makes me feel almost like a god. In that perspective all my portraits +(and there are many now, on many worlds and in many places on this +world!) blend into one. That one is the stage of my life. But not a +stage, really. A show window. Yes, that is it. A show window, where the +_watchers_ pass. + +I live in a show window that opens out in many worlds and many places +that are hidden from me by a veil that sometimes grows thin, so I can +see through it. And from the other side of that veil, even when I cannot +see through it, come the voices of the watchers, as they pass by, or +pause to look at me. + +And I am not the only one! There are others. More and more of them, as +Lana comes back on her photographic expeditions for the museum. + +None that I have met understand what it is about as fully as I do. Some +have an insight into the true state of things, but very very few. + +But that is understandable. Lana can't give the same time to them that +she gives to me. There aren't that many hours in a day! And, you see, I +am her favorite. + +If I were not, she would never have permitted me to tell you all this, +so I must be her favorite! + +Doesn't that make sense? + +I _AM_ her favorite! + + +THE END + + + + +Transcriber's Note: + + This etext was produced from _Amazing Stories_ January 1959. + Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. + copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and + typographical errors have been corrected without note. + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Gallery, by Roger Phillips Graham + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GALLERY *** + +***** This file should be named 26936.txt or 26936.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/2/6/9/3/26936/ + +Produced by Greg Weeks, Stephen Blundell and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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