The automation of the arts is not a new prospect —indeed, in the fields of abstract painting and the popular song it is already a fact—and if the comic book is next to succumb, presumably nobody will mind very much. Accumulated experience as critic, editor, illustrator, novelist, and publisher suggests to Mr. Harrison, however, that no problem is made smaller simply by looking at it through the wrong end of the telescope, and that in the long run there is only one fluid into which the artist can dip his brush.

PORTRAIT OF THE ARTIST

by

Harry Harrison

ELEVEN A.M.!!! The note blared at him, pinned to the upper right-hand corner of his drawing board. MARTIN’S OFFICE!! He had lettered it himself with a number seven brush, funereal india ink on harsh yellow paper, big letters, big words.

Big end to everything. Pachs tried to make himself believe that this was just another one of Martin’s royal commands: a lecture, a chewing-out, a complaint. That’s what he had thought when he had knocked out the reminder for himself, before Miss Fink’s large, watery eyes had blinked at him and she had whispered hoarsely, “It’s on order, Mr. Pachs, coming today; I saw the receipt on his desk. A Mark IX.” She had blinked moistly again, rolled her eyes toward the closed door of Martin’s office, then scurried away.

A Mark IX. He knew that it would have to come someday, knew without wanting to admit it, and had only been kidding himself when he said they couldn’t do without him. His hands spread out on the board before him, old hands, networked wrinkles and dark liver spots, always stained a bit with ink and marked with a permanent callus on the inside of his index finger. How many years had he held a pencil or a brush there? He didn’t want to remember. Too many, perhaps… . He clasped his hands tightly together, making believe he didn’t see them shaking.

There was almost an hour left before he had to see Martin, plenty of time to finish up the story he was working on. He pulled the sheet of illustration board from the top of the pile and found the script. Page three of a thing called Prairie Love for the July issue of Real Rangeland Romances. Love books with their heavy copy were always a snap. By the time Miss Fink had typed in the endless captions and dialogue on her big flat-bed varityper, at least half of every panel was full. The script, panel one:

In house, Judy C/U cries and Robert in BG very angry.

A size-three head for Judy in the foreground; he quickly drew the right-size oval in blue pencil, then a stick figure for Robert in the background. Arm raised, fist closed, to show anger. The Mark VIII Robot Comic Artist would do all the rest. Pachs slipped the sheet into the machine’s holder, then quickly pulled it out again. He had forgotten the balloons. Sloppy, sloppy. He quickly blue-penciled their outlines and V’s for tails.

When he thumbed the switch, the machine hummed to life, electronic tubes glowing inside its dark case. He punched the control button for the heads, first the girl—GIRL HEAD, FULL FRONT, SIZE THREE, SAD HEROINE. Girls, of course, all had the same face in comic books; the HEROINE was just a note to the machine not to touch the hair. For a VILLAINESS it would be inked in black; all villainesses have black hair, just as all villains have mustaches as well as the black hair, to distinguish them from the hero. The machine buzzed and clattered to itself while it sorted through the stock cuts, then clicked and banged down a rubber stamp of the correct head over the blue circle he had drawn. MAN HEAD, FULL FRONT, SIZE SIX, SAD, HERO brought a smaller stamp banging down on the other circle that topped the stick figure. Of course, the script said angry, but that was what the raised fist was for, since there are only sad and happy faces in comics.

Life isn’t that simple, he thought to himself, a very unoriginal idea that he usually brought out at least once a day while sitting at the machine. MAN FIGURE, BUSINESS SUIT he set on the dial, then hit the DRAW button. The pen-tipped arm dropped instantly and began to ink in quickly a suited man’s figure over the blue direction lines he had put down. He blinked and watched it industriously knocking in a wrinkle pattern that hadn’t varied a stroke in fifty years, then a collar and tie and two swift neck lines to connect the neatly inked torso to the rubber-stamped head. The pen leaped out to the cuff end of the just-drawn sleeve and quivered there. A relay buzzed, and a dusty red panel flashed INSTRUCTIONS PLEASE at him. With a savage jab he pushed the button labeled FIST. The light went out and the flashing pen drew a neat fist at the end of the arm.

Pachs looked at the neatly drawn panel and sighed. The girl wasn’t unhappy enough; he dipped his crow-quill into the ink pot and knocked in two tears, one in the corner of each eye. Better. But the background was still pretty empty in spite of the small dictionary in each balloon. BALLOONS he punched automatically while he thought, and the machine pen darted down and inked the outlines of the balloons that held the lettering, ending each tail the correct distance from the speaker’s mouth. A little background—it needed a touch. He pressed code 473 which he knew from long experience stood for HOME WINDOW WITH LACE CURTAINS. It appeared on the paper quickly, automatically scaled by the machine to be in perspective with the man’s figure before it. Pachs picked up the script and read panel two:

Judy falls on couch Robert tries to console her mother rushes in angrily wearing apron.

There was a four-line caption in this panel, and after the three balloons had been lettered as well, the total space remaining was just about big enough for a single close-up, a small one. Pachs didn’t labor this panel, as he might have, but took the standard way out. He was feeling tired today, very tired. HOUSE, SMALL, FAMILY produced a small cottage from which emerged the tails of the three balloons, and let the damned reader figure out who was talking.

The story was finished just before eleven, and he stacked the pages neatly, put the script into the file, and cleaned the ink out of the pen in the Mark VIII; it always clogged if he left it to dry.

Then it was eleven and time to see Martin. Pachs fussed a bit, rolling down his sleeves and hanging his green eyeshade from the arm of his dazor lamp, yet the moment could not be avoided. Pulling his shoulders back a bit, he went out past Miss Fink hammering away industriously on the varityper, and walked in through the open door to Martin’s office.

“Come ON, Louis,” Martin wheedled into the phone in his most syrupy voice. “If it’s a matter of taking the word of some two-bit shoestring distributor in Kansas City or of taking my word, who you gonna doubt? … That’s right … okay … right, Louis. I’ll call you back in the morning… . Right, you too… . my best to Helen.” He banged the phone back onto the desk and glared up at Pachs with his hard beebee eyes.

“What do you want?”

“You told me you wanted to see me, Mr. Martin.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Martin mumbled half to himself. He scratched flakes of dandruff loose from the back of his head with the chewed end of a pencil and rocked from side to side in his chair.

“Business is business, Pachs, you know that, and expenses go up all the time. Paper—you know how much it costs a ton? So we gotta cut corners… .”

“If you’re thinking of cutting my salary again, Mr. Martin, I don’t think I could … Well, maybe not much …”

“I’m gonna have to let you go, Pachs. I’ve bought a Mark IX to cut expenses, and I already hired some kid to run it.”

“You don’t have to do that, Mr. Martin,” Pachs said hurriedly, aware that his words were tumbling one over the other and that he was pleading, but not caring. “I could run the machine, I’m sure, just give me a few days to catch on …”

“Outta the question. In the first place, I’m paying the kid beans because she’s just a kid and that’s the starting salary, and in the other place, she’s been to school about this thing and can really grind the stuff out. You know I’m no bastard, Pachs, but business is business. And I’ll tell you what, this is only Tuesday and I’ll pay you for the rest of the week. How’s that? And you can take off right now.”

“Very generous, particularly after eight years,” Pachs said, forcing his voice to be calm.

“That’s all right, it’s the least I could do.” Martin was congenitally immune to sarcasm.

The lost feeling hit Pachs then, a dropping away of his stomach, a sensation that everything was over. Martin was back on the phone again, and there was really nothing that Pachs could say. He walked out of the office, walking very straight, and behind him he heard the banging of Miss Fink’s machine halt for an instant. He did not want to see her, to face those tender and damp eyes, not now. Instead of turning to go back to the studio, where he would have to pass her desk, he opened the hall door and stepped out. He closed it slowly behind him and stood with his back to it for an instant, until he realized it was frosted glass and she could see his figure from the inside; he moved hurriedly away.

There was a cheap bar around the corner where he had a beer every payday, and he went there now. “Good morning and top of the morning to you … Mr. Pachs,” the robot bartender greeted him with recorded Celtic charm, hesitating slightly between the stock phrase and the search of the customer-tapes for his name. “And will you be having the usual?”

“No, I will not be having the usual, you plastic and gaspipe imitation of a cheap stage Irishman—I’ll be having a double whiskey.”

“Sure and you are the card, sir,” the electronically affable bartender nodded, horsehair spit curl bobbing, as it produced a glass and bottle and poured a carefully measured drink.

Pachs drank it in a gulp, and the unaccustomed warmth burned through the core of cold indifference that he had been holding onto. Christ, it was all over, all Over. They would get him now with their Senior Citizens’ Home and all the rest; he was good as dead.

There are some things that don’t bear thinking about. This was one. Another double whiskey followed the first; the money for this was no longer important because he would be earning no more after this week, and the unusual dose of alcohol blurred some of the pain. Now, before he started thinking about it too much, he had to get back to the office. Clean his personal junk out of the taboret and pick up his paycheck from Miss Fink. It would be ready; he knew that; when Martin was through with you, he liked to get you out of the way, quickly.

“Floor, please?” the voice questioned from the top of the elevator.

“Go straight to hell!” he blurted out. He had never before realized how many robots there were around. Oh, how he hated them today.

“I’m sorry, that firm is not in this building, have you consulted the registry?”

“Twenty-three,” he said, and his voice quavered, and he was glad he was alone in the elevator. The doors closed.

There was a hall entrance to the studio, and this door was standing open; he was halfway through it before he realized why—then it was too late to turn back. The Mark VIII that he had nursed along and used for so many years lay on its side in the corner, uprooted and very dusty on the side that had stood against the wall.

Good, he thought to himself, and at the same time knew it was stupid to hate a machine, but still relishing the thought that it was being discarded, too. In its place stood a columnar apparatus in a gray crackle cabinet. It reached almost to the ceiling arid appeared as ponderous as a safe.

“It’s all hooked up now, Mr. Martin, ready to go with a hundred percent lifetime guaranty, as you know. But I’ll just sort of preflight it for you and give you an idea just how versatile this versatile machine is.”

The speaker was dressed in gray coveralls of the exact same color as the machine’s finish, and was pointing at it with a gleaming screwdriver. Martin watched, frowning, and Miss Fink fluttered in the -background. There was someone else there, a thin young girl in a pink sweater who bovinely chewed at a cud of gum.

“Let’s give Mark IX here a real assignment, Mr. Martin. A cover for one of your magazines, something I bet you never thought a machine could tackle before, and normal machines can’t…”

“Fink!” Martin barked, and she scrambled over with a sheet of illustration board and a small color sketch.

“We got just one cover in the house to do, Mr. Martin,” she said weakly. “You okayed it for Mr. Pachs to do …”

“The hell with all that,” Martin growled, pulling it from her hand and looking at it closely. “This is for our best book, do you understand that, and we can’t have no hack horsing around with rubber stamps. Not on the cover of Fighting Real War Battle Aces.”

“You need not have the slightest worry, I assure you,” the man in the coveralls said, gently lifting the sketch from Martin’s fingers. “I’m going to show you the versatility of the Mark IX, something that you might find it impossible to believe until you see it in action. A trained operator can cut a Mark IX tape from a sketch of a description, and the results are always dramatic, to say the least.” He seated himself at a console with typewriter keys that projected from the side of the machine, and while he typed, a ribbon of punched tape collected in the basket at one side.

“Your new operator knows the machine code and breaks down any art concept into standard symbols, cut on tape. The tape can be examined or corrected, stored or modified and used over again if need be. There—I’ve recorded the essence of your sketch, and now I have one more question to ask you—in what style would you like it to be done?”

Martin made a porcine interrogative sound.

“Startled, aren’t you, sir—well, I thought you would be. The Mark IX contains style tapes of all the great masters of the Golden Age. You can have Kubert or Caniff, Giunta or Barry. For figure work you can use Raymond—for your romances capture the spirit of Drake.”

“How’s about Pachs?”

“I’m sorry, I’m afraid I don’t know of …”

“A joke. Let’s get going. Caniff, that’s what I want to see.”

Pachs felt himself go warm all over, then suddenly cold. Miss Fink looked over and caught his eye and looked down, away. He clenched his fists and shifted his feet to leave, but listened instead. He could not leave, not yet.

“… and the tape is fed into the machine, the illustration board centered on the impression table and the cycle button depressed. So simple, once a tape has been cut, that a child of three could operate it. A press on the button and just stand back. Within this genius of a machine the orders are being analyzed and a picture built up. Inside the memory circuits are bits and pieces of every object that man has ever imagined or seen and drawn for his own edification. These are assembled on the collator’s screen. When the final picture is complete, the all-clear light flashes—there it goes—and we can examine the completed picture on the screen here.”

Martin bent over and looked in through the hooded opening.

“Just perfect, isn’t it? But if for any reason the operator is dissatisfied, the image can be changed now in any manner desired by manipulation of the editorial controls. And when satisfied, the print button is depressed, the image is printed on a film of reusable plastic sheet, charged electrostatically in order to pick up the powdered ink, and then the picture is printed in a single stroke onto the paper below.”

A pneumatic groan echoed theatrically from the bowels of the machine as a rectangular box crept down on a shining plunger and pressed against the paper. It hissed and a trickle of vapor oozed out. The machine rose back to position, and the man in the coveralls held up the paper, smiling.

“Now, isn’t that a fine piece of art?”

Martin grunted.

Pachs looked at it and couldn’t take his eyes away; he was afraid he was going to be sick. The cover was not only good, it was good Caniff, just as the master might have drawn it himself. Yet the most horrible part was that it was Pachs’s cover, his own layout. Improved. He had never been what might be called a tremendous artist, but he wasn’t a bad artist. He did all right in comics, and during the good years he was on top of the pack. But the field kept shrinking, and when the machines came in, it went bust and there was almost no spot for an artist, just a job here and there as sort of layout boy and machine minder. He had taken that—how many years now?—because old and dated as his work was, he was still better than any machine that drew heads with a rubber stamp.

Not any more. He could not even pretend to himself any more that he was needed, or even useful.

The machine was better.

He realized then that he had been clenching his fists so tightly that his nails had sunk into the flesh of his palms. He opened and rubbed them together and knew that they were shaking badly. The Mark IX was turned off and they were all gone; he could hear Miss Fink’s machine talking away in the outer office. The little girl was telling Martin about the special supplies she would need to buy to operate the machine, and when Pachs closed the connecting door, he cut off the grumbling reply about extra expenses not being mentioned.

Pachs warmed his fingers in his armpits until the worst of the tremors stopped. Then he carefully pinned a sheet of paper onto his old drawing board and adjusted the light so it would not be in his eyes. With measured strokes he ruled out a standard comic page and separated it into six panels, making the sixth panel a big one, stretching the width of the page. He worked steadily at the penciling, stopping only once to stretch his back and walk over to the window and look out. Then he went back to the board, and as the afternoon light faded, he finished the inking. Very carefully he washed off his battered—but still favorite—Windsor & Newton brush and slipped it back into the spring holder.

There was a bustle in the outer office, and it sounded like Miss Fink getting ready to leave, or maybe it was the new girl coming back with the supplies. In any case it was late, and he had to go now.

Quickly, before he could change his mind, he ran full tilt at the window, his weight bursting through the glass, and hurtled the twenty-three stories to the street below.

Miss Fink heard the breaking glass and screamed, then screamed louder when she came into the room. Martin, complaining about the noise, followed her, but shut up when he saw what had happened. A bit of glass crunched under his shoes when he looked out of the window. The doll-like figure of Pachs was visible in the center of the gathering crowd, sprawled from sidewalk to street and bent at an awful angle as it followed the step of the curb.

“Oh, God, Mr. Martin! Oh, God, look at this… .” Miss Fink wailed.

Martin went and stood next to her in front of the drawing board and looked at the page still pinned there. It was neatly done, well drawn and carefully inked…

In the first panel was a self-portrait of Pachs working on a page, bent over this same drawing board. In the second panel he was sitting back and washing out his brush, in the third standing. In the fourth panel the artist stood before the window, nicely rendered in chiaroscuro with back lighting. Five was a forced perspective shot from above, down the vertical face of the building with the figure hurtling through the air toward the pavement below.

In the last panel, in clear and horrible detail, the old man was bent broken and bloody over the wrecked fender of the car that was parked there; the spectators looked on, horrified.

“Look at that, will you,” Martin said disgustedly, tapping the drawing with his thumb. “When he went out the window, he missed the car by a good two yards. Didn’t I always tell you he was no good on getting the details right?”

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