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diff --git a/26936.txt b/26936.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d320714 --- /dev/null +++ b/26936.txt @@ -0,0 +1,1213 @@ +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: 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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