1

One of these days you’re going to pierce your eardrum doing That,” Pamela Rozet said from the doorway.

“Uhhh?”

"That paint brush. If you don’t stop scratching the inside of your ear with it, you’re going to hurt yourself. Didn’t your mother ever tell you not to stick anything smaller than your elbow in your ear?”

Arthur Halleck took the end of the paint brush in question out of his right ear and scowled dimly at it. He said, completely malapropos, “What in the name of the living Zoroaster ever happened to. brushes?

It was bad enough when they were making them out of nylon.

What’s this stuff? Anything to cheapen the product. The old masters used to paint with bristle brushes, or red sable hair. Have you ever been in a museum and looked real closely at an original Rembrandt, or even a Leonardo?”

“Yes,” Pam said.

“Did you ever see any hair from their paint brushes?”

“I didn’t look That close,” She said,

“Well, you didn’t. But take a look at some of Picasso’s stuff, not to speak of mine. Hair, or other brush fiber, all through the paint.” He tossed the offending brush to a colorfully bespattered table. “I’ve been all over town. Into every art shop That survived in any shape at all. There’s not a bristle brush to be found.” “Possibly you can get some on the mainland, when you take this painting over.”

“No,” he growled disgustedly. “They don’t make them anymore. You can’t ultra-mate the manufacture of decent bristle brushes. And anything you can’t ultra-mate in the Ultra-welfare State goes down the drain.”

He stepped back and stared gloomily at the painting on the easel.

“Is it finished?” She asked. “Doesn’t it took finished?” He demanded in irritation.

Pam came closer and looked and said patiently, “Long since I told you, Art, that I’ve never got beyond the Impressionalists.” “Well, damnit, the Representational-Abstract School is the nearest thing to the Impressionalists for decades. Can’t you see, confound it?”

“No.”

“Well, look. It gives the same effect as the quick impression Van Gogh, Renoir, Degas and the rest demanded. You get a quick flash, and your immediate impression is That it’s completely abstract, but Then you realize That it’s the ruin of the entrance to a subway station.”

“I guess you do, at That,” She said doubtfully.

He stared at the four-foot-square painting. “No wonder it’s no good,” he said. “Working with this quick-drying metallic-acrylic paint on this ridiculous presdwood-duplicator board would have one of those Cro- Magnon cave painters climbing the wall.”

“Aren’t you going to have it duplicated and registered?”

“Of course. Sooner or later, I’m going to hit, Pam. Then it’s you and me.”

She looked at him, a shade of wistfulness in Her overly tired face. She was a girl of averages, pleasantly so. Average height and weight and of an average prettiness, given Her approximately thirty-years of age.

But there was a vulnerable something about her mouth That added. She was, and always had been, attractive to men who carried the dream, who were creative, ambitious.

“I thought it was already you and me, Art. That it had been for the past two years and more.” He said, a bit impatiently, “You know what I mean, Pam.” She went over to the window, avoiding the broken pane where it was patched with some old clothing, and rested her bottom on the ledge. She said, “Art, if we went back to the mainland and combined the income from our Inalienable Basic and added to That my royalties and your occasional sales, we’d be able to maintain a reasonably high standard of living. We’d also be in a position to make contacts, meet our own kind, associate with’...” “Associate with¹ other charity cases,” He broke in bitterly. “I’ve told you, Pam, I’ll never become one more dependent on the Ultrawelfare State. I’ll pay my own way in the world, or I’ll go under. A man’s got to be a man.” “You’re not exactly paying your way right this minute, Arthur Halleck. We’re scavengers, to use the politest term That comes to my tongue.” Her tone was testy.

He shook his head. “Don’t roach me, Pam .We don’t take anything that belongs to anybody. If we didn’t find it and use it, it’d slowly rot or rust away.”

She said, slightly irritated herself now, “Look here, darling, you’re not taking anything That belongs to anyone else either when you accept the dividends That accrue to your ten shares of Inalienable Basic.”

“Those dividends don’t grow on trees. Somebody does the work That produces them,” he said stubbornly.

She was really impatient now. “Look, Art, the super-abundance being produced under People’s Capitalism now is not the product of the comparative handful of workers and technicians who are required in industry and agriculture today. It’s the product of the accumulated work of all mankind down through the ages. A million years ago, some ancestor of yours and mine first used fire. The whole race has been doing it since. Five thousand years ago, some slick over in the Near East first dreamed up the wheel. We’ve been using it ever since. Every generation comes up with something brand new to add to the accumulated pile of knowledge, know-how, art, science. This accumulated Human know-know doesn’t belong to anybody or to any group, it belongs to us all. At long last, as a result of it the human race has licHed the problem of producing plenty for everyone. No one need go hungry any more, nor cold, nor unsheltered, nor uneducated, nor without proper medical care. This is the legacy our ancestors have left us. It belongs to all of us; as a matter of fact the ten shares of Inalienable Basic each citizen receives is a precious small slice of pie, if you ask me. Just enough to keep us lesser breeds from revolt.”

“I still say it’s charity,” Art Halleck said stubbornly.

She brushed it off. “So what can you do about it? We didn’t make this world and we’re in no position to change its rules. Particularly over here. If we were on the mainland we might join the Futurists, or something.”

He turned back to the painting on his easel and stared at it some more, saying over his shoulder, “I don’t have to change the rules. Sooner or later, my work will hit, and I’ll make my own way. You can still make your own way under People’s Capitalism, if you’ve got it on the ball. Those at the very top don’t depend on Ultra-welfare State-issued Inalienable Basic.”

“They sure don’t,” She said sourly. “They usually have in herited enough Variable Basic or private stock to Keep them like gods all their lives. And as far as hitting sooner or later, it’s obviously not sooner. How many of the last paintings sold?”

He looked at her. “Seven.” “Seventy dollars worth, eh? Just barely enough to duplicate and register this one. By the time you’ve paid your transport back and forth to Greater Washington and possibly bought a couple of paint brushes or so, nothing left at all.”

“One of these days I’ll hit,” he said stubbornly.

She gave up and turned and stared out the window in the direction of Washington Square.

II

S

he said finally, “Art, was it beautiful?”

He was busy cleaning his brushes now, grumbling about the speed with which his metallic - acrylic medium dried.

“Was what beautiful?” “Mahattan — before.”

“Oh'. Well, no."

“You were born here, weren’t you?”

“Up in the Bronx.”

“Before the riots?”

“Ummm. I was just a kid, but come to think of it, I was already Sketching, drawing.” He snorted deprecation. “How many artists bother to learn to draw any more? It's like a writer never bothering to learn the alphabet.”

“Why wasn’t it beautiful?”

He gave up his unhappy viewing of his work and his brushes and came to stand next to her, an arm going unconsciously around her waist. He followed her line of vision down along McDougal Street to the square where once scores of artist hopefuls had Held their open-air shows.

He said thoughtfully, scowling, “It’s an elastic word, beauty. Means different things to different people. You can find beauty in just about anything — garbage dumps, battlefields, desert, just about anything. But largely, big cities don’t lend themselves to beauty. Manhattan was probably a lovely setting back when the Indians were here, or even when the first small Dutch settlement was huddled down at this end of the island. But the way it was by the middle of the 20th century? No. I’ve never been out of North America to supposedly beautiful cities like Paris, Rome or Rio, but I have seen San Francisco. It had a certain amount of beauty— before the riots, of course.”

“I understand they weren’t so bad there.”

“Bad enough. However, they’ve cleaned out some of the ruins and resettled a pseudo-city there. It's hard to beat That Golden Gate setting.”

They were silent for a moment, Then She said, “How could it ever Have Happened, Art?”

He shrugged, and his words came slowly as he thought it out. ”It could easily enough have been foreseen. A city like this had stopped making sense, Pam. The original reasons for cities — towns like Jericho began to be eight thousand years ago — had disappeared. Walled villages of farmers That could be defended against the nomads, trade centers built at crossroads, manufacturing centers, commercial centers. Putting walls around cities for defense stopped making sense. Modem transportation methods antiquated them as trade centers and manufacturing bases, as industry was able to decentralize. Today with communications what they are, even commercial centers are anachronisms. You can handle business from anywhere to anywhere.”

“But what happened?"

“A lot of pressures. With the coming of automation and Then ultra-mation, not only in manufacture but in agriculture, the under-educated farm laborers, the unemployables, the unplaceables flooded to the cities looking for jobs er, in their absence for relief, for free handouts. As their numbers grew, and with' them ghettos and slums, the better-to-do city dwellers streamed out to suburbs. That meant a drop in tax income, and the city was faced with inadequate funds for slum clearance, education, police and firemen. Even things like garbage collection were inadequately financed. Which meant That still more of the better paid citizens left. Industry began to leave too, to get closer to sources of raw materials, and to areas where labor was cheaper. So taxes took another nose dive.

“Television played a major part. These slum dwellers could watch the typical TV program which almost invariably portrayed the actors, and certainly the advertising actors, as living lives of plenty. Their apartments or homes were always beautiful and totally equipped, their clothes the latest of fashion, their food bountiful and of the best, their children healthy and handsome, the schools they attended ideal. Needless to say, the slum dwellers, wanted these things. So some of the more aggressive made a few demonstrations — and were landed upon, to their further embitterment. Alarmed, more of the better elements left town for the suburbs, for New England, up-State New York, Jersey, Pennsylvania. Some of the more prosperous actually commuted to Florida, flying back and forth. More industry left town Then, because of higher taxes and the higher insurance rates caused by the riots. So the city fathers brought in less income than ever, and there was less to spend on slum clearance, education, relief. So the riots grew in magnitude.”

A

rt Halleck shrugged in distaste at the memory. “So it went, and finally we had the big one. And never really recovered from That. Oh, things continued for a while. But by this time, nobody who could possibly afford it was left living in places like Manhattan, Detroit, Chicago and so on. Nor any business That could possibly get out. So came another riot, and another ... and finally everybody left, including the police and firemen. That was the end.”

“What happened to the slum element, the poverty stricken, the unadaptable?”

He looked down at her. "As a writer, I’d think you’d know at least as well as I.”

“I wondered how you’d put it, in view of your feelings on the government issuing Inalienable Basic.”

He said, slowly again, scowling and as if grudgingly, “I suppose it was in the cards. No alternative. At approximately the same time the cities were a confusion of riots and discontent, they issued Inalienable Basic to each citizen, thus guaranteeing womb to tomb security. Overnight, not even the poverty stricken wanted to remain in the big cities. It was cheaper to live elsewhere, not to speak of being more comfortable. So they streamed out like lemmings — or maybe rats. All except the handful of baboons, of course.”

Pam shook her head, and turned away from the view of the street. “I sometimes wonder why they never came back.”

“Who?”

“The police and all. Why didn’t they reconstruct?”

“Why? Like I said, the original reason for cities was gone and the cost to rebuild was prohibitive. It wouldn’t even be worth while trying to clean it up for farmland, or pasture, or whatever. Too much debris, too much Sheer wreckage. Oh, some of the other towns have been reconstituted, at least partially. Denver and San Francisco. But largely, they’ve been just left, continuing to deteriorate as the years go by.”

She looked at him.

“And with only a few scavengers, such as ourselves, left in the ruins. No electricity, no water, no sewage. Nothing.”

He snorted, tired of the subject. “I wouldn’t say exactly nothing. We don’t do so badly. By the way, I should have something to eat before going down to Greater Washington.”

“Caviar, turtle soup, roast pheasant, imported British plum pudding in brandy sauce, with’ a good French claret to wash’ it down.”

“I’m tired of That damn caviar.”

Ill

M

ark Martino drifted in, as usual for lunch. He had four long-necHed bottles in his arms. He also had an old-fashioned- looking six-shooter low on his right hip and an automatic pistol at belt level on his left. He looked surprisingly similar to That movie star of yesteryear, Robert Taylor, but he wouldn’t have known That.

“Hey, chum-pals,” he said. "Get a load of this.”

“What is it?” Pam said, looking up from the camp stove which sat on the electric range in the kitchen.

“It’s a real Bernkasteler Doktor und Bratenhofchen Trocken- beerenauslese.”

“Oh great, now I know something I didn’t know before."

“You, Pamela Rozet, are a peasant. This is the greatest of Riesling wines.” He took one of the bottles and held it up and stared at the label and added, unhappily, “At least it once was; a Riesling shouldn’t really age this long. Well, we’ll see how it’s held up.”

“Where’d you find it?” Art said.

“You’d never think. In the cellar of that liquor store on the corner of West Third Street.”

Art said, “I thought That joint had been looted bare years ago.” “Evidently, so did everybody else,’’ Mark said. “But this was down in the cellar, under a lot of crud That had evidently caved in back during the raids and riots. There was a whole case of this Riesling and some odd and ends of cordials. I covered it back over, but it won’t do any good.” “Why not?” Pam said. “You don’t have any gasoline over in your apartment, do you?”

“A couple of baboons spotted me coming out of the place with these. They’ll root around till they’ve found it. You want me to go over and bring you a jerrycan?”

Pam said, “Please do. I’m just about out and haven’t been able to find any for a week.”

Art said, “Is That why you’re all rodded-up? The baboons?” Mark, heading for the door, said, “Yeah. They were both strangers.”

“Oh’, hell. Art said. “We’ve been having it so easy here for months. You’d better tip off Julie and Tim.”

“Already have,” Mark said, leaving.

Art looked at Pam. “Maybe I’d better put off taking this painting down to the museum.”

“Why?” She said wearily. “Baboons and hunters we’ve had before. Undoubtedly, we’ll have them again. Until ...” She cut it off.

“Until what?”

“You know. Until one of these days, some baboon, or some hunter kills one or both of us.”

He didn’t say anything.

Suddenly it came out in a rush. “Arthur, we’ve got to get out of here. Arthur I’m afraid. I’m an awful coward.”

He let the air out of his lungs and came erect from the kitchen chair upon which he had been sitting. He went over to the window and stared down.

Mark Martino came back with the can of gasoline.

“I don’t know if this is white gas, or not,” he said.

Pam said, “It doesn’t make any difference with' this stove.”

Mark said, “I ran into some butane in a sports section of a department store yesterday. Want it?”

“No, I suppose not. I threw the butane stove away. I’m used to this gasoline thing now. Not as hot, really, but we should be able to get gas for some time yet.”

Mark said, “Well, even it’s getting scarce. I haven’t found a car with any in its tank for a coon’s age.” He looked from one of them to the other. “Did I interrupt a fight, or something?” Pam said wearily, “No. No, not really.”

Art said, “Pam wants to go back to the rat race.”

She didn’t say anything to That.

Mark said finally, “Well, why don’t you? It doesn’t make much sense, staying. We three and Julie and Tim, are the only ones left in this neighborhood.”

“Why don’t you?” Art said. He wasn’t arguing, his voice meant That he was actually curious.

Mark held up one of the green bottles he’d brought as his contribution toward the lunch. “You know what one of these would cost, over on the mainland? That is, if you could find it at all.” “That couldn’t be enough reason, even for a lush-head like you,” Art said.

Mark thought about it. He said finally, ruefully, “I don’t know. Wait a minute, I want to get something to read for you.” He left again.

Pam said, “Why does anybody stay?"

Art knew He wasn’t telling her anything she didn’t know, but he said, "Some are criminals, fugitives from justice. Some are mental cases. Some, I suppose, are former immigrants, illegal entry immigrants without papers and not eligible to apply for their ten shares of Inalienable Basic, if they went over to the mainland, We lump them all up and call them baboons. But the rest of us? Well, I suppose we’re nonconformists, rebels against the Ultra-welfare State.”

“That takes care of everybody but me,” Pam said, checking the canned pheasant She’d been warming up.

“And you, Then?” Art said. “Why are you here?”

“Because you are.”

There could be no answer.

Mark Martino came in again, age-yellowed paperback book in his hand. He was looking for a place.

“Listen to this,” he said. “It’s from a guy named Arthur C. Clarke. Profiles of the Future, written back in the sixties.” He began reading, “ ‘Civilization cannot exist without new frontiers; it needs them both physically and spiritually. The physical need is obvious — new lands, new resources, new materials. The spiritual need is less apparent, but in the long run it is more important. We do not live by bread alone; we need adventure, variety, novelty, romance. As the psychologists have shown by their sensory deprivation experiments, a man goes swiftly mad if he is isolated in a silent, darkened room, cut off completely from the external world. What is true of individuals, is also true of societies; they too can become insane withcpt sufficient stimulus.' ”

Mark tossed the book to the table. “I guess That’s it. Whatever happened to the yen for adventure? A hundred years ago Americans were pushing West, fighting nature, fighting Indians, fighting each other over mines, cattle and land. When did the dividing line come — when we were willing to live vicarious adventure, watching make-believe Heroes, Hollywood pretty boys, a good many of them queers, shoot up the Indians or kill by the scores the bad guys, the Nazis or commies, the Russians and Chinese? Why did we leave it to the Norwegians to crew the Kon-Tiki, and for the British and Sherpas to first scale Everest? We’ve become a bunch of gutless wonders, sitting in front of our Tri-Vision sets. The biggest frustration, the great tragedy of our current age is the new Central Production ban on using cereals for beer or booze.” Art said sourly, “That won’t be a frustration long. I understand That they came up with a new sort of combination tranquilizer and euphoric. Going to issue it so cheaply That it’ll be nearly free. Non-Habit forming, supposedly no Hangover, no bad effects. Keeps you perpetually Happy, in a kind of perpetual daze. Even the children can Have it. They call it trank.”

“What’ll they think of next?” Mark marveled sarcastically. “Talk about bread and circuses. The Roman plutocracy never Had it so good; they gave the proletariat a sadistic show and free wheat. But time marches on, and now we’ve got the credit from Inalienable Basic, twenty-four hour a day Tri-Vision, teevee library and music banks, and . . . what did you call it?”

“Trank,” Art said. He looked at his friend strangely. “So you stay on here for the adventure. You with your big collection of guns. You with your prowling around the ruins looking for fancy booze and the like, hoping That the baboons or Hunters will jump you. Hell, you’re just a hunter yourself.”

Mark was irritated and defensive. “I’m not a hunter” Maybe I like the adventure here, the chances you take just surviving, but I’m no hunter. I live here, this is my home. I defend myself. Maybe I even get my kicks out of getting into situations where I have to use my speed and my wits, but I never pick the fight, and I most certainly have never shot an unarmed baboon in the back the way these damned hunters will.”

Pam began to set the food on the table. “Then what’s the real reason for being here, Mark — aside from the adventure?”

IV

H

e pretended he had to think about it, even as he helped her put out the elaborate silverware Art had liberated from the ruins of Tiffany’s years before.

He reached into a pocket and brought forth the durable plastic which was his Universal Credit Card. “I object to this being closer to me than my soul,” he said. “My number, issued me at birth and from which I can never escape, even after death. A combination of what was once Social Security number, driver’s license, bank account number, voter’s registration, even telephone number and post office box number. It’s everything. Regimentation carried to the ultimate. We thought the commies and Nazis had regimentation. Zoroaster! The computers know everything there is to know about me, from before I was born to long after I’m dead — they keep the records in their files forever. When my great-grandchildren want to have children, the computers will check back on good old Mark Martino for genetic purposes. Oh', swell. Talk about being a cog in a machine, hell, we’re more nearly like identical grains of sand on a beach.”

He held up his wrist to show his teevee phone. “Why I carry this, I don’t know. I’ve always got it switched on Priority One, and there are only three persons on Earth eligible to break in on me on Priority One. But look at this thing. With the coming of the satellite relays and international communications integrated, I can literally, and for practically no expense, talk to anybody on Earth'. Even if the poor cloddy is half way up Mount Fuji in Japan. There’s no escape. In the old days, the cost of phoning a friend, relative, business contact or whoever got on the prohibitive side when it was long distance, or especially international. Not now. For pennies, you can talk to anyone in the world. But the trouble is, it works both ways they can talk to you.”

Art laughed. “I seldom wear my wrist phone. And even the portable, in the next room, is always on Priority Two.”

Mark growled, “That won’t Help you if it’s a government bulletin or something. You’re on tap, every minute of the day. How’d you like to be a Tri-Vision sex symbol or some other entertainment star? If one of them dared lower their priority to, say, five, they'd Have a billion teevee phone calls come in within Hours.”

T)am said, “All right, all right, let’s eat. Get the cork out of one of those bottles, Art, and let's sample the latest loot So you’re in revolt against modem society, Mark, so all right. At least you don’t refuse to spend your dividends from your Inalienable Basic, the way Art does. And your royalties must accumulate so That when you make those sin-trips of yours over to Nueva Las Vegas, or wherever, you must Have quite a bit of credit on hand.”

“Sin trips!” Mark protested, holding his right hand over his heart as though' in injured innocence. “How can you say That? It’s called research'.”

“Hal” Art snorted.

“No jolly,” Mark said. “I’ve got to Keep up some touch. Have to know what they’re listening to in the dives, both’ high and low. It’s all very well to Have two or three semi-classics in the music banks, but you’ve got to be continually turning out new stuff, if you really want to hit the jackpot some day.”

“Semi-classics,” Art snorted. “I love Mother in the Springtime, I love Mother in the Fall”

Mark said reasonably, “It’s what they want, Art. If you’d paint what they wanted, maybe you’d be selling better. Right now, they’re going through a 1920’s-1930’s revival bit. Swell, I sit at my teevee phone and play over and over the so-called Hit Parade tunes, and over and over I listen to the old Bing Crosby and even Rudy Val- lee tapes.

“And then pretty soon, just about when I’m ready to start tearing my hair out something comes to me. I sit down to the piano. I beat it out sometimes the whole thing is done in an hour. Writing the lyrics is the hardest part”

Pam said interestedly, “Then what happens, Mark?”

“Well, there’s various ways. If you’re a second rater, like me, your best bet is to get in touch with a slick to act as middleman, expediter or whatever you want to call Kim. He gets one of the Stars, such as Truman Love ...”

“Truman Love” Art protested. “Is there really a singer with’ a name like That?”

“Of course. I tell you, Art, the mental caliber of the Tri-Vision and teevee fan is halving each year That goes by. They don’t want to be bothered thinking even a tiny bit A sloppy mopsy who likes to listen to sentimental slush about love can remember a name like Truman Love. It sticks with her. She knows very well, before She dials one of his songs, what it’s going to be like. With a name like that, it couldn’t be anything else.”

“All right, all right, so the slick gets Truman Love to sing your song.”

“Okay. We record it and pay the small amount involved in placing it in the music banks. If the slick is any good, he gets some publicity. One of the gossip commentators, one of the live comedians, That sort of thing. In the banks, it’s filed under name of singer, name of song, type of song, band leader, name of band, name of each musician in the band, subject of song — such as love, mother, patriotism, children, That sort of thing — and finally, surprise, surprise, the writer or writers of the song.” “So,” Art supplied, “whoever dials and plays it pays a small royalty.”

“Very small,” Mark said, nodding. “Differs for a single Home teevee phone screen, or for, say, some live Tri-Vision show involving a band. If you’re lucky, the song takes and maybe some more singers and bands want to record it. At any rate, you split the take four ways.”

“Four ways?” Pam said. “You, the singer, the slick and who?” “The recording company. They usually take one fourth', too. They split their quarter between the company, the band leader and all members of the band.”

Art shook his head. “By the time the drummer gets his slice, it must be pretty small potatoes."

“Not if it’s played a few billion times,” Mark said. “Besides, maybe I write a possible song once a month’. He probably does a recording as often as once or twice a day. He might have literally thousands of tunes recorded, with his getting a tiny percentage of each.”

“It’s not as bad as newspapers,” Pam said. “Reading a newspaper on your teevee phone will cost you ten cents. It has to be prorated among possibly a Hundred journalists, columnists, editors and what have you. That means That on an average, each newspaperman involved gets possibly one mill, a tenth of a cent, per reading. Not even That, since the owners of the paper take their cut off the top.”

A

rt said, shaking his head and digging into the pheasant, “What in the name of the holy living Zoroaster did they do before computers?”

“Well, they didn’t handle it this way,” Mark said. He looked at Art and changed the subject. “You’re going down to Greater Washington this afternoon?” “Yeah'. I want to register this painting. I’ll be back in a few hours. You’ll Keep an eye on Pam, won’t you?”

“Of course. Uh . . . you have duplication and registration fee?”

Art looked at him, puzzled.

Mark said hurriedly, “I mean, without dipping into your dividends. I know you refuse to spend them.”'

Art went back to his food. “Don’t be so touchy,” Mark said. “What I meant was, if you were a little short, you could always pay me back later.”

Art said, “You know damn well I couldn’t use your dollar credits to register my painting anyway. Nobody can spend your credits but you. Or do you want me to carry not only your credit card with me but your right thumb as well, for the print?”

Mark chuckled. “There are ways of getting around anything. I found some ancient coins in the wreckage of a numismatist’s shop the other day. You could take them to Greater Washington, sell them and have the amount credited to your actount. Then use it.”

“Thanks just the same,” Art said tightly. “But I pay my own way, Mark. When I can’t pay my own way by selling my paintings any longer, I’ll give up my art and find some other kind of work.”

“Well, it’s more than I can say. I’m always in here sponging off you people.”

Pam laughed at That. “Half the things we have here came from you. Why you’re the one who found the bombshelter, even.”

T

he subject was safely changed. Mark said, “By the way, how’s the bombshelter holding out?”

“We’re putting a sizeable dent in it,” Pam said. “I think I’m going to ask you boys to try and scout out some things not quite so exotic. A few cases of baked beans, corn, string beans and what have you. I’m beginning to get a permanent sour stomach from all this rich stuff. Which reminds me. I’m going to have to take a trip to the mainland, as soon as my dividends come in for next month, to load up on some fresh fruits and vegetables.” Mark said, “Why don’t we make an expedition of it? Tim and Julie too. Both for the manpower to carry things, and for protection.”

Art said, “What time is it?” Mark dialed his wrist phone and said, “What time is it?”

A tinny voice responded, “When the bell sounds, it will be thirteen hours and thirteen minutes.” A tiny bell sounded.

“Oh, Oh,” Art said. “I better get the damn painting wrapped and get going or I won’t be back before dark.”

“Listen,” Pam said anxiously. “Don’t you dare walk the streets that late. If you’re held up, you stay in an auto-hotel on the mainland.”

"I haven’t enough dollar credit,” He growled.

“You have lots of dollars in your "credit balance.”

“I mean my own credit.”

She rolled Her eyes upward. “You must be driving the computers crazy with all That unspent credit you’ve accumulated. They probably can’t figure out why, if you aren’t using it currently, you don’t buy Variable Basic stock, something to build up your portfolio and bring in more earnings.”

“Earnings!” he snorted, coming to his feet and tossing his beautiful linen napkin — looted long months since from the wreckage of Macy’s — to the table. “How can shares of stock just sitting there, make any earnings? Only work earns anything.”

V

Arthur Halleck, his wrapped painting clumsily under his arm, a sawed-off, double-barrelled shotgun slung over his shoulders, peddled His bike up McDougal to West Third Street and turned right. He peddled the five streets over to Broadway, expertly zig-zagging in between the abandoned cars and trucks and debris. Broadway, being wider, was clearer. He turned left and tried to speed it up a bit.

It would have made more sense for them to have lived closer to the Grand Central vacuum- tube terminal, but they stubbornly hung on to staying in the Village. It was a matter of principle, in a way. The last of the artists, staying in the last of the art colonies. All five of them. He and Pam, Mark, Tim the poet and his girl Julie who long years ago Had been a model.

However, the further up town you got, the more hunters you ran into. They were too lazy to hike all the way down to Greenwich Village. Too lazy, and largely too timid. These empty streets, with all the windows, all the roof tops, all the doorways, any of which might shelter an armed baboon or even a fellow hunter, a bit on the trigger-happy side; these empty streets would give even a well-armed, bullet-proof clothed hunter the willies.

He peddled up Broadway, Keeping a weather eye peeled, right and left to Union Square. He was in more danger from a hunter — assuming there were any on the island today — than he was from a baboon. Most of the baboons That hung out in this area knew him, and there was more or less of a gentleman’s agreement not to bother each other. There was no percentage in it, for That matter. They knew he wasn’t worth jumping, That he didn’t have anything worth risking a life for. Besides That, the shotgun over his shoulder was a great deterrent. There’s something about a shotgun loaded with buckshot. Man in his time has evolved some exotic weapons for close-quarters combat, but there’s something about a sawed-off shotgun. The bearer doesn’t even have to be a good shot; in fact, he can be full of lead, his eyes beginning to go glazed, and still point it and pull the hair-trigger and accomplish one tremendous amount of revenge.

At Madison Square, he turned right and headed up Fifth', At the library, he left the bike for a moment, went inside through the side door which' was still unblocked, and stashed his shotgun away in the place where he usually left it.

He was unarmed now, but it was only a couple of blocks. He peddled over to the Grand Central Terminal and to where the police had their booth'. There had been rumors That even this last vacuum-tube terminal on all Manhattan was going to be discontinued, but he doubted it. In spite of the supposed desertion of the whole island, there were still reasons for occasional visits sometimes in considerable strength. Like last year when the delegation from Mexico City came up to mine the Metropolitan Museum of Fine Arts of its treasure of Aztec artifacts. They recovered quite a bit, too, so he had heard. The looters earlier hadn’t been interested in much except gold and obviously sophisticated art objects That were immediately saleable.

There were two police at the tube entry. He knew one of them slightly. He’d been here for a long time. He must have gone back to the old days, and Art Halleck wondered why he hadn’t retired. His name was Williams, or something; or maybe it was William, though That almost invariably becomes Bill on the level at which they met.

They shook him down, the other cop being a little more thorough than Williams.

Williams said, “He’s all right,” but the other didn’t pay much attention.

“Got a gun?” he said.

“No,” Art said patiently.

The other snorted and continued to touch him where a man keeps a weapon.

“I said I didn’t have a gun,” Art said. “I know it’s against the rules for me to carry a gun without a special permit, even in this town.”

Williams said, “He’s an old hand. He hides his gun a block or so away before he comes here.” The new guard said, “What’s in the package?”

“A painting. I’m an artist.”

The other snorted disbelief. “Let’s see it.”

Art’s lips began to go white. Williams said, “I’ve known him for a long time. He’s a painter. Lives down in the Village.”

The new guard said, “How do we know he hasn’t scrounged some old master or something? Something That oughta be turned over to the national museum.” Art drew in his breath, and a muscle in his right cheek began to tic.

Williams said, “Look, Walt, if you want to open up his package, you can open up his package. However, if he had a Michelangelo in there, do you think he’d just amble up to us like this? Wouldn’t he find himself a boat and ferry it over some dark night?”

Walt grumbled, “Well, if you say so. But it seems to me you take it awfully easy with these people.”

“Like I said, I’ve known him a long time.” To Art he said, soothingly, “How’s that nice Miss Pamela?”

“She’s all right,” Art said. And Then more graciously, “She’s getting a lot of work done on her book. In a day or so, we’ll be going over to get some fresh things.” The new guard named Walt, still miffed, said, “What’d you mean fresh things? What do you eat, ordinarily? Looting’s forbidden.”

Art looked at him. “Ordinarily, we eat the stuff we still have left over in the kitchen cabinet and the refrigerator from before the time when the cops chickened out on the job and pulled off the island.”

“Why you . . . ”

“Okay, okay, you two,” Williams said, getting between them. “Loosen up. You’re both nice guys. Stop roaching each other. Walt McGivern, this is Art Halleck. If Walt’s on this detail very long, he’ll probably be seeing you from time to time, Art.”

VI

Walt McGivern grunted something sourly and turned and walked off.

Art said, “What’s roaching him?”

The older policeman said, “This isn’t considered the most desirable detail around.”

Art picked up his painting, preparatory to going on. “Then why do you stick it out, Williams?”

“Why do you?”

“I asked you first. But I can live Here without paying rent, or practically anything else.” The police guard chuckled wryly. But Then he drew in his breath and said, “I was born a few blocks from Here, son.” That wasn’t quite enough, so he added, “I wasn’t here during the few bad days. When I came back, the family was gone. I never found out how, or why, or where, or anything else. Hell, the whole neighborhood was gone.”

“Sorry,” Art said. “I shouldn’t have asked.”

“All right, son. The thing is, there aren’t many folks left. In fact, practically none. I wish you and That nice Pamela girl would go on over to the mainland. However, as long as there are any decent people left at all, I kind of like to be here.”

“The last of the neighborhood cops,” Art muttered.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

Art started off again, but at That moment two newcomers emerged from the tube entry.

Art came to a halt and eyed them up and down, deliberately as they approached the police booth.

He stared the first one full in the face and said, “You look like a couple of jokers out of a Tri-Vision show about hunters on Safari in Africa — you mopsy-monger.”

The man’s eyes bugged. “You . , . you can’t talk to me That way, you , . . you cheap baboon!”

Art sneered at him. “I’m no baboon. Maybe the last of the bohemians, but I’m no baboon. I’ve got all my papers. I’m legal. There’s no law against living on Manhattan — if you don’t go around armed.” He took in the other’s automatic-recoilless rifle, and the heavy pistol at his waist, and Then added, “You sonofabitch.”

The newcomer turned quickly to Williams, who was inspecting the papers the two had handed him.

“Arrest this man!” He snapped.

Williams looked up, wide- eyed. “What’d he do?”

“He slandered me. I demand you arrest him.”

“I didn’t hear him say anything,” Williams said evenly.

'The other newcomer came up.

He was quieter, less lardy and less pompous than his companion, but he said to Art coldly. “Let me see your Uni-Credit Card.”

"Go to hell, you mopsy-mongering hunter.”

The other drew forth his own Uni-Credit Card and flashed it to Williams. “I want a complete police report on this man.”

Walt McGivern came up. "What’s going on?”

The second of the two hunters said coldly, “I’m Harry Kank, Inter-American Bureau of Investigation. Get me an immediate police report on this man.” Williams sighed and said, “Let me have your Universal Credit Card, Art.” But Then he amended That, looking defiantly at the newcomers. “I mean, Mr. Halleck.”

Art’s lips were white, but He reached into an inner pocket and brought it forth. All five of them entered the police booth.

Williams put the card in the teevee phone slot and said, "Police record, please.”

Within seconds a robot-like voice began, “Arthur LeRoy Halleck. At age of sixteen arrested for participating in peace demonstration, without permit to parade. Released. At age of twenty, arrested by traffic authorities for driving a floater manually while under the influence of alcohol. Suspended driver’s license for one year. At age of twenty- five, arrested for assault and battery. Charge dropped by victim. No further police record. Now believed to be living on the island of Manhattan, on McDougal Street with Pamela Rozet, out of wedlock.” The robot voice came to a Halt, Then said, “Are details required?”

Williams looked at the man who had named himself Harry Kank.

The Bureau of Investigation man said to Art, testily, “What was That assault and battery charge?”

Art said, “I slugged a man who made a snide remark about my paintings. He apologized later. Now he’s a friend of mine. Want to get him on the phone?” Kank glared at him, unspeaking for a moment. Then he snapped to Williams, “I suspect this man of being incompetent to handle his own affairs. Give me a credit check on him.”

Williams opened his mouth, Then closed it with a sigh'. He said into the teevee phone, "Balance Check on this card.”

Within seconds a robot voice said, “Ten shares, Inalienable Basic. No shares Variable Basic.” The two hunters snorted.

The robot voice went on, “Current cash credit, fourteen thousand, four Hundred and forty-five dollars and sixty-three cents.”

The eyes of the two bugged. Kank snapped, “Get that again. There must be some mistake.”

Williams, also visibly taken aback, repeated his demand of the balance check on Art Halleck’s account. It came out the same.

The Bureau of Investigation man’s eyes were colder still, now. He said, “Where did you accumulate That much credit? Have you been looting, here on the island and selling what you find to dealers on the mainland?”

Art said contemptuously. “Of that credit balance, I figure seventy-three dollars and some odd cents are mine. The rest belongs to the government of the United States of the Americas, as far as I’m concerned.” ”

All were staring at him now.

Art said, “I haven’t touched my dividends from my ten shares of Inalienable Basic for years. I don’t want them. The seventy- three dollars is mine. It represents money I’ve taken in selling my paintings. If there was any way of giving the dividends back to the damn Ultra-welfare State, I would. But evidently there isn’t. I can’t even donate them to charity. There isn’t any such thing, any more — except the one big, mopsy-mongering charity.”

All four of them were still staring disbelief.

“You must be crazy,” the first of the two Hunters blurted.

But Kank came to a sudden decision and snapped at Williams, “If you’re through with our papers, let me have them. As you’ll note, we have permission to search various buildings in the Wall Street area for certain lost records. Do you Have an armored floated available?”

“Well, yes sir.”

“Very well, I’ll requisition it.” Harry Kank turned back to Art and stared at him. “Possibly we will see each other again . . . baboon.”

“I’m not a baboon . . , Hunter,” Art sneered at him. “I see you know our terminology, Here on the island. Undoubtedly, you have been here before. Undoubtedly, with some similar trumped- up reason for prowling around, armed to the teeth. Maybe we will see each other again —you sonofabitch.”

The high police official glared at him, but spun on his heel and, with his plumper companion, followed after Walt McGivern.

Williams and Art stood there a moment, looking after them.

Williams said bitterly, “Some Cop.”

Art growled lowly, “Why can’t something be done about those lousy funkers?”

Williams said, “You know as well as I do. There’s no law in this city. Citizens who live here, or enter it, waive all legal protection. But anybody with pull can get special permission to come in armed, supposedly for some gobbledygook reason such' as to search' the library, or some museum, for something lost. Ha!

Not one cloddy out of ten has any real legitimate reason. They come to thrill hunt. The ruined cities are the only place I know of in the world where you can legally shoot a man, woman or child and not even report it, if you don’t want to bother. If you do bother, you report it as self- defense.”

Walt McGivern was turning the armored police floater over to the two hunters.

Art said, in disgust still, “I better get going. Thanks, Williams.”

Williams looked at him. “Thanks for what?”

Art headed for the entry to the vacuum-tube transport terminal.

VII

Back at the apartment House on McDougal street, Pam and Mark were still lingering over their coffee. In fact, in spite of the hour, Mark had gone to His own apartment and returned with' a bottle of Napoleon brandy, the last of a case he had found in a ruined penthouse, some months ago.

They drank the coffee black and sipped at the cognac from enormous snifter glasses which’ had been liberated from Tiffany’s at the same time as Her silverware.

Pam looked distastefully at the remnants of their mid-day meal. “I’m getting awfully tired of this canned food,” She said. “What is there about eating That makes you really prefer not something like pressed duck under glass with orange sauce, but the kind of codfish gravy on toast That you used to eat in your poverty- stricken home as a kid?”

Mark chuckled, “Or some pasta, Spaghetti or otherwise, such as your mother used to make herself. None of this store boughten stuff. And precious little to put over it save a bit of tomato sauce and, when you were lucky, some grated cheese.” Pam said, “Whoever stocked That bombshelter must have owned half of Fort Knox. He put in enough caviar and smoked salmon to last a regiment until any possible contamination from a nuclear bombing was gone. I never thought I’d get’ to the point where I got fed up with caviar.” Mark said laughingly, “I never even tasted it, until after the city was abandoned. My first reaction was That it tasted like fish eggs.”

She laughed at him. But Then She said, “What in the world ever happened to cooking?”

He thought about it. “Like every other art, I suppose, or handicraft or skill for That matter. What cobbler could take pride in spending a few days on a pair of Handmade shoes that had taken him half a life time in apprenticeship to learn to make, when the potential customer could go down and buy a pair made in an automated factory that were almost as good and cost a fraction of what he had to charge? It was easier for the cobbler to go down to the factory and get a thirty-hour-a-week job. Or, if none was available, to go on relief; or later, to live on his Inalienable Basic handout.”

She frowned. “Well, That applies to the cobbler, but not ...”

“Not to an artist?” He grinned nt her. Same thing. The idea of saving time, of devoting as much of your day to recreation, leisure, play, permeated our whole society. Cooking? A woman is considered mad to do such things as bake her own bread und pastry, cut up her own vegetables, learn how to trim her own meat. You saved so much time buying bakery bread, canned vegetables, frozen meat all neatly cut and packaged so That you never realized that it had once come off an animal. The fact that it simply didn’t taste the same, wasn’t nearly as good and wasn’t as nutritious, either, was allowed to go by the board. She saved time. What did she do with it? Sat and watched TV or now, Tri-Vision. Supposedly, she was being saved from drudgery, not art. But cooking is an art, and art takes time.”

Pam was uncomfortable. She said, “Do you expect me to bake bread? I’m a writer. I don’t want to spend eight hours a day; cooking.”

Mark Martino laughed. “Who am I to throw the first stone? You’ve heard some of the songs I write. They’re a continual rehash of popular songs That were written and have been rewritten ever and over for the better part of the past century.”

“Why don’t you try something more serious?”

“I have. Every clown wants to play Hamlet. Off and on I’ve been working on a light opera for nearly a year. It’ll never be produced. People don’t want even light opera today. It takes a bit of education to enjoy. Anybody can understand that perennial favorite I wrote, I Love Mother in the Springtime. It’s not just musicians. Look at poetry, you who are a writer. In the old days a poet used to sweat turning out a sonnet, say. Very difficult form. Exactly fourteen lines, all of them hung together with rhyme, rhythm, meter, perfectly. It was too much work for the poet, so blank verse and Then free verse came in. And Then anarchy. The new poet never bothered learn how to construct a sonnet, nor to measure his lines in correct meter and to follow a rhythm system. He dashed off his inspired poem in a matter of a half hour and was surprised when after a few decades of this people stopped reading poetry.”

He thought about it for a minute. “Same as in art. What Happened to the painter who used to serve an apprenticeship of years learning the tools of his trade? Our Art Halleck is the only painter I’ve even heard of for years who bothered to learn to draw. Too much work.”

“I suppose it permeates our whole society,” Pam said, nodding. “Nobody takes pride in his work anymore.” ”

“How can you, under present circumstances? Take my original example, That cobbler. He made shoes, from beginning to end, and when the job was through' he could look at them and say, ‘There is the product of my efforts. I did a good job. Put the same man in a factory turning out half a million pairs of shoes a day. His job, which he can handle dressed in a suit and wearing white shirt and tie, consists of staring at various dials and screens and occasionally throwing a switch, or checking a report. He never sees the leather, he never sees a pair of the completed product. How can he take pride in his work?”

She said slowly, “Well, in some fields the new system has its advantages. People’s Capitalism, I mean.”

“Like, for instance?” he said sceptically.

“Well, I was interested earlier in your description of how a musical composer is rewarded for his efforts. In the long run, it’s based on how his songs are received. I think it’s even better for the free-lance writer.”

“It’s basically the same, isn’t it?”

“There are variations. For instance, in the old days, a writer did, say, a novel. Good. When it was finished, he submitted it to a publishing house and an editor read it — at least, we hope he did. Possibly it never got to an editor. If the writer was an unknown, perhaps his novel was read, or quickly scanned, by a poorly paid reader who possibly didn’t really have the qualifications to understand the book. All right, but suppose an editor did read it and liked it. By the way, many of these editors were frustrated writers who couldn’t make the grade, but Here they were in a position to accept or reject some hopeful’s work. They hadn’t made it but they were now in a position to criticize somebody else’s writing. Anyway even after you got past the editor, That wasn’t all. You might get a letter from Him saying, ‘1 like it fine, but unfortunately this publishing House objects to protagonists being anarchists, or matricides, or homosexuals,’ or whatever their various taboos might be.”

Mark laughed sourly. “Well, it was their publishing company they could decide what they wanted to publish and what they didn’t.”

“Yes. That’s my complaint. You see, we had freedom of the press. You could write anything you wanted. Getting it printed .was another thing. You Had to find some publishing company, or newspaper, or magazine or whatever, who wanted to print it. If you couldn’t locate one, Then you still had the option of printing it yourself. Unfortunately, few writers had enough money to start their own publishing house or magazine.”

“I see your point.”

“Ummm. Today, I write a book and take it to the nearest library and for a small amount of money I have it set up and registered in the national computer library files. It’s registered by title, cross registered by author, subject, and whether it’s fiction, non-fiction, juvenile, or whatever. Even the reviews are available to the potential reader. And reviewers and critics we shall always have with us.” “Amen. But suppose nobody wants to read it?”

“The same thing happens as Happened before with writers. You don’t make any money. But if somebody does want to read it, He pays a nominal sum to Have it projected on his teevee phone screen library booster. If it becomes a best seller, He makes a great deal. There might be holes in the system, but at least you aren’t subject to the whims of editors and publishers. Anybody willing to sacrifice the comparatively small amount, about fifty dollars for the average length novel, can have his work presented to the public.”

Mark said, “I’d think there’d be one hell of a large number of books each year.”

“There are. But there’s no limits to the number That The library banks can contain, after all. Another good thing is That every book ever printed remains in the banks — forever.

Nothing ever goes out of print. It may go out of demand, practically everything does, sooner or later, but nothing goes out of print. The books I’m writing today will be available a thousand years from now, if anybody wanted to bother to read them.”

Mark Martino said grudgingly, “I suppose the thing is That anybody can afford to go into the arts today. Whether anybody reads his books, buys his paintings, listens to his music is another thing. That is still in the laps of the gods, as it always was. But at least you can make your fling.”

“That’s right,” Pam sighed, coming to her feet. “I suppose I’d better throw these disposable plates out the window. A woman’s work is never done.” Mark stood too. “I ate too much,” he announced. “And That cognac didn’t help any. I think I’ll take a nap. Listen, Pam, if you decide to go out, bang on the door. I’ll tag along, just for luck.”

“Looking for adventure?” She said in deprecation.

He scowled at her. “I was laying that on a bit. It’s not the only reason I stick around here on Manhattan, of course.”

She was uncomfortable and stared down at the toe of her Etruscan revival sandal.

He said softly, “As you probably know, I’m really here for the same reason you are, Pamela.”

She didn’t say anything.

Mark said, “Art’s a friend of mine. But if anything ever happens between you two ...” “Have a good nap, Mark.”

Art Halleck went on down into the vacuum-tube terminal. He had to take a two-seater since the larger carriers seldom came through this deserted spot. He stuck the painting in behind the seat and climbed in himself and brought the canopy over his head and dropped the pressurizer. He remembered the coordinates from the many times he Had made the trip and dialed right through to the offices of the duplicator at the National Museum.

It might have been slightly cheaper if he had taken his two- seater to the pseudo-city of Princeton and from there taken a twenty-seater to Greater Washington. But that would have meant changing from two-seater to twenty-seater at Princeton, changing back again to a two- seater once he had arrived at the terminal in the capital. Too much time. He wanted to get back to Greenwich Village, before dark. It was no good leaving Pam there alone, even though Mark was in the same building.

When the destination light flickered, he released the pres- surizer and threw the canopy back and climbed out into the reception room of the Office of Duplication. He pulled the painting out from behind the seat and went to the reception desk. The door of the vacuum tube closed behind him.

He said into the reception screen, “Arthur Halleck requests immediate appointment to duplicate and register a painting.”

The voice said, “Room 23. Mr. Ben MacFarlane.”

Art knew MacFarlane. The other had handled Art’s work before. He was a man who dabbled in painting himself, evidently not very successfully or he wouldn’t have found it necessary to augment his dividends from his Inalienable Basic by holding down a job like this. Not That he wasn’t lucky to have been able to get a job.

Art made his way down a corridor with which' he was highly familiar, to Duplicating Room 23. There seemed to be no one else around, but, come to think of it, the last time he had been here he had spotted only one other artist hopeful. Only a few years ago, you could have expected to see half a dozen or more. Evidently as time went by fewer and fewer would-be artists were trying to sell their stuff. He wondered vaguely if it was a matter of trying to make anything out of it. It did cost fifty dollars to duplicate and register just one painting. And fifty dollars was a sizeable enough chunk to take out of anyone’s credit balance if they had no more than their ten shares of Inalienable Basic to depend upon. Possibly a let of painters these days were doing their work and Then not bothering to show HI or, at most, showing it only to friends and neighbors. Or perhaps it was a matter of giving up painting completely and joining the ever increasing percentage of the population of the Ultra-welfare State in spending practically all free time staring into the Tri-Vision box.

It was a depressing trend of thought.

He activated the door screen, and shortly the door opened and he entered.

Ben MacFarlane was seated af his desk. He looked up and said “Ah . . . Halleck, isn’t it? Art Halleck.”

Art said, “That’s right. Hello, MacFarlane. How does it go?” He began unwrapping the painting.

“Slow, slow,” the other said* He watched, only half interestedly as Art brought the painting forth, “Still doing That Representational-Abstract stuff, eh?”

“That’s right,” Art said.

“It’s not selling,” MacFarlane said.

“You’re telling me.” Art brought the painting over to him.

MacFarlane looked at it critically, “How did the last one go?”

“Sold seven so far,” Art said. “That’s not too bad for a complete unknown.”

“I’ve got three or four people who evidently collect me. Two down in Mexico, one in Hawaii and one in the Yukon, of all places. Sometimes you wonder what they’re like, these people who have your things on their walls.”

Ben MacFarlane stood and took up the painting. “You want to pay for this?”

“Sure,” Art said. He brought his Uni-Credit Card from his inner pocket and put it in the desk slot and his thumbprint on the screen. MacFarlane touched a button and Art retrieved the card.

MacFarlane said, “I suppose you want - to take the original back with’ you?”

“Of course.”

The museum employee shrugged. “You’d be surprised how many don’t. I suppose it’s a matter of storage room in a miniapartment. They come here and duplicate and register a painting and Then tell us to throw the original away.”

“Now That’s pessimism,” Art said. "Suppose you finally hit and these rich' original collectors started wanting your works? Zoroaster, you’d kick yourself around the block.”

MacFarlane, carrying the painting, left the room momentarily. When he returned, he handed the painting back to Art who began rewrapping it. MacFarlane settled back into his chair.

He said, “You still living in Greenwich Village?”

“That’s right.”

“You wouldn’t know an old chum-pal of mine? Actually, I haven’t seen him for ages. Fellow named Chuck Bellows.”

Art looked up, scowling. “Tall guy with’ red hair?”

“That’s right, Charles Bellows. Does old fashioned collages.”

Art said, “He’s dead.”

“Dead! He can’t be more than forty-five.”

Art took a breath and said, “He had taken over a studio on Bleecker Street. Swanky place. A penthouse deal some millionaire must have originally owned. A friend of mine found him. Evidently, it had been simple enough. Somebody must Have knocked on the door and when he answered it, shot him.” “Zoroaster!”

“Yeah. Must have been what we call a baboon since the place was ransacked.”

“Are there many of these, uh baboons around?”

“No. Not many,” Art said. “I don’t see why you stay, Halleck.”

Art shook his head, even as he tied the string about the painting. “This is the third time today I’ve had to go into it,” He said.

“I wasn’t prying.”

“I don’t believe in taking charity,” Art said. “And the way my things are selling, I couldn’t make it on the mainland. In Greenwich Village I can make a go of it and continue painting. It’s the most important thing in the world for me — my painting.

The other was only mildly surprised. Evidently, he had run into far-out ideas from artists before.

He said, “By the way, what kind of a price do you want set on this, Halleck?”

Art Hesitated. He said, finally, “Five dollars.”

MacFarlane shook his head. “I wouldn’t if I were you.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s a mistake a good many un-arrived artists make. They think if they mark their prices down far enough, they’ll sell. If I recall, you usually put a price of ten dollars on your things. If I were you, I’d make it twenty- five. There’s still an element of snobbery in buying paintings, even though they are now available for practically nothing compared to the old days. Too many people even among those with enough taste to want paintings on their walls, don’t really know what they like. So they buy according to the current fad or according to the prestige of a painter. Something like in the old days, when people who had the money would buy a Picasso, not because they really understood or liked his work, but because He was a status symbol.” Art scowled at him, hesitating.

MacFarlane said, “I’ve been here a long time. In fact, since the duplicating process was first perfected. I even remember back to when people bought originals. But the perfection of duplicating paintings to such an extent That not even the artist can tell the difference between His original and the duplicates we can make literally by the millions made possibly the greatest change in the History of art.”

“It sure did,” Art said grimly. “And personally, I’m not sure I’m happy about it. For one thing, to make these perfect duplicates, I’ve got to paint on that damned presdwood-duplicator board, using nothing but metallic-acrylic paints. Frankly, I prefer canvas and oils.”

MacFarlane chuckled sourly. “I’m afraid you’d be hard-put to find buyers for a canvas painting these days, Halleck. When a person wants to buy a painting today, he dials the art banks. There your paintings, along with those of every other artist who submits his work, are to be found listed by name of artist, name of School of painting, name of subject, name of principle involved, even cross listed under size of painting. He selects those That he feels he might be interested in and dials them. When he finds one he likes, He can order it. The artist decides the price. It’s a system That works in this mass- society of ours, Halleck. Everybody can afford paintings today. In the past only the fairly well to do could.”

Art, almost ready to go, said sourly, “Okay, make the price ten dollars, as usual. I wonder if the average painter is any better off now than he was before. In the old days, when you did sell a painting, you got possibly two or three Hundred dollars for it. Today, you get ten dollars and Have to sell thirty duplicates of your original to earn the same amount.”

“Yes, but there are potentially millions of buyers today. An artist who becomes only mildly known can boost his prices to, say, twenty-five or thirty-five dollars per painting, and, if he sells a hundred thousand of them, he can put his returns into Variable Basic or some other investment and retire, if he wishes to retire. There has never been a period in history, Halleck, where the artist was so highly rewarded.”

“If He hits,” Art growled. “Well, wish me luck on this one, MacFarlane.” He turned and Headed for the door.

“That I do,” MacFarlane said. “It’s a tough racket, Halleck.”

“It always has been,” Art said. “It’s just a matter of sticking it out until your time comes.” The door opened before him.

IX

Pamela Rozet took up a heavy shopping bag and left the apartment, locking it behind her. She went to the stairway and' mounted to the next floor. Mark Martino’s door was open. He had probably left it that way so that he could hear any noises in the hall, just in case somebody came along while Art was gone.

She peered in the door.

Mark was stretched out on his comfort couch. There was an aged paperback book fallen to the floor by his side, and he was snoring slightly.

She hesitated. She hadn’t liked the trend of their conversation an hour or so earlier. She had known that the other was in love with her and had been for a long time. A woman knows. However, he had never put it in to words before, and she was sorry he had. She would just as well not continue the conversation, certainly not today.

She didn’t awaken him. Instead, tiptoed away and went back to her own apartment. She hesitated momentarily, Then went over to the weapons closet and got her twenty-two automatic rifle.

Both Art and Mark laughed about her favorite gun, pointing out that such a caliber wasn’t heavy enough to dent a determined man. However, she claimed that at least she could hit something with this light gun, That it was easily carried, as opposed to something of heavier caliber, and that just carrying a gun was usually enough of a deterrent. You seldom really had to use it. In actuality, although She had never said so, She could not have used it on a fellow Human being. It was simply not in her.

She carried the basket in her left hand, the rifle in her right, and headed out again.

Their apartment was on the fifth floor. The building was in good enough shape That they could have selected a place lower down and thus have eliminated considerable stair climbing; however, being this high gave a certain amount of defense. Baboons were inclined to be on the lazy side and, besides That, would make enough noise to give forewarning of their arrival.

The defense system was simple. Any friends coming up to visit, such as Julie and Tim, would give a shout before beginning to mount from the ground floor. If such a shout wasn’t forthcoming, Art, Mark or Pam would fire a couple of rounds at random into the ceiling above the stairwell. Invariably, that was answered by scurrying of feet below. Thus far, neither baboon nor hunter had dared continue to advance.

Down on the street, She carefully scanned the neighborhood before leaving the shelter of the doorway. She could see nothing living, save a ragtag cat a scurrying along.

She took up McDougal, Then turned left. Her destination was only a few blocks away.

The front of the house was so badly blasted That it would have been impossible to enter. Probably a gas main explosion, they had originally decided. It was a matter of going up a tiny alleyway clogged with debris and refuse to a small door leading to the basement and located improbably. Few would have considered prowling the alley.

She looked up and down again before entering the alley, Then made her way quickly to the door and through. She took the flashlight from her basket and held it clumsily in the same hand in which She was carrying the twenty-two. She flicked it alive and started down the Half ruined stairs.

At the bottom, She turned left toward what would ordinarily have been assumed to be a furnace room. At the far side was a rack for wine bottles stretching all the way to the ceiling. The wine was long gone before Mark Martino had, through a sheer stroke of genius, found this treasure trove.

She threw the lever, cleverly hidden to one side, and the door began to grind protestingly. She pulled it toward her and directed the flashlight into the interior. It was as she had last seen it, not That She expected otherwise. Only Mark, Art and She knew about this retreat. They Hadn’t even told Tim and Julie.

Inside, She found one of the Coleman lanterns and lit it and leaned Her gun against the wall.

The original owner had evidently expected a sizeable contingent to occupy this refuge if the bombs began to drop. He had probably had both a family and a staff of servants. And he had evidently expected the stay below ground to be a lengthy one. Aside from food and drink, there was a supply of oxygen in bottles, bottled water, several types of fuel, a variety of tools; formerly there had been quite a supply of weapons and ammunition, since plundered by Mark Martino.

She went over to the extensive storeroom and, almost as though in a super-market, shuffled up and down the rows of canned, bottled and packaged foods, selecting an item here, another there.

She decided against taking a gallon of the drinking water. Too heavy to carry, what with the rifle and groceries. She could have Art come over tomorrow and get one. They preferred their drinking water to be bottled. For other use they depended upon a spring that had broken through a decaying wall in the subway tube right off the Washington Square entry.

Her basket was nearly full when a premonition touched her. She whirled.

Leaning in the doorway, grinning vacuously, was a hulking, bearded, dirt-befouled stranger. He was dressed in highly colorful sports clothing. The vicuna coat alone must have once been priced at several hundred dollars. However, it looked as though He had probably slept in it, and time and again.

Pam squealed fear and darted to where She had leaned her twenty-two. She pulled up abruptly.

The stranger grinned again. There was a slight trickle of spittle from the side of his mouth, incongruously reminding Pam Rozet of a stereotype Mississippi tobacco-chewing sharecropper.

“You looking for this, syrup?” he gurgled happily. He raised his left hand which held the twenty- two. His own weapon, an old military Garand M-l was cradled under his right arm.

“I been watching you coming back to your house with this here big basket of yours all full of goodies for the past week. Never was able to follow you to where you went without you seeing me. And usual one of your men was along. But today, just by luck, I saw you duck up That alley. Just by luck. Man, you really got it made here, eh? Wait’ll my gang see this. Lush and all, eh? Man, lush is getting scarce on this here island.”

Pam blurted, “Let me go. Please let me go. You can take all this ...”

“Syrup, we sure will. But what’s your hurry, syrup? You look like a nice clean mopsy. We will have a little fun, first off.”

“Please let me go.”

He grinned vacantly and took

Her little gun by the barrel and basked it up against the cement wall, shattering stock and mechanism. He tossed the wreckage away to the floor.

He motioned over toward the steel cots, mattress-topped but now without blankets or pillows, since She and Art had taken these back to the apartment long since. “Now sit down a minute, and let’s get kind of better acquainted. We’re gonna get to be real good friends, syrup.”

“No,” She said, trembling uncontrollably. “Please let me go. Look, over there. All sorts of liquor. Even champagne. Or Scotch, if you like whisky. Very old Scotch.”

His grin became sly, and he started toward her, shuffling his feet and spreading his Hands out a little, as though to prevent her from attempting to slip past him. “The lush I can get later, syrup. I like nice clean girls.”

Neither of them had seen the newcomer approach through the cellar door at the bottom of the steps.

The blast of gunfire caught her assailant in the back and stitched up from the base of his spine to the back of his head. He never lived to turn, simply pitched forward to her feet, gurgling momentarily, but Then was still.

Behind him, a plumpish newcomer, dressed elaborately in what were obviously new hunting clothes and carrying a late model, recoilless fully automatic rifle, pop-eyed down at the dead man.

“Zo-ro-as-ter” he blurted.

Pam leaned back against the wall. “Oh, thank God,” She said.

^The newcomer brought his eyes up to her, taking in her trim suit, her well ordered hair, her general air of being.

He said, “How in the name of the world did you ever get into a place like this . . Miss . . .?”

Pam took a deep breath’. “Rozet, She gaped. “Pamela Rozet, Oh . . . thank you.”

He jabbed a finger in the direction of the fallen intruder. “That . . . That baboon ... he could have killed you.” His eyes took in her shattered light rifle, and Then her clothing again. “You must be insane, coming to a place like this with no more than That little gun, and no bullet-proof clothes and ...” He broke off in mid-sentence, and began to stare at Her.

Pam took another deep breath and tried to control her shaking. “I’m a writer,” She said. “I live here.”

“Live here?” At first He didn’t understand and looked about the bombshelter. “You mean in this house? Up above? This is your family house; you still live here?”

She said, “No, not here. I live nearby with . . . with my husband. I ... I write novels. He’s an artist.”

His eyes narrowed. “Live here?” he said.

She tried to straighten and collect herself. In a woman’s gesture, She touched her hair. “That’s right,” She said.

“Why . . . why, you’re nothing but a baboon, yourself. You were looting."

Her face fell, and fear came to her eyes again.

She tried to continue talking. Explaining. How she and Art had had all their papers. How they were serious workers in the arts. But she could see the nakedness in his face. The words came out a stutter.

If She read him right, from his reaction to the killing of the baboon who had been about to attack her, this was his first time as a hunter, or, at least, the first successful time. His first kill.

He brought the gun up slowly, deliberately and held it a little forward, as though’ showing it to her. He patted the stock. He caressed it, as though lovingly. A tongue, too small for his face, came out and licked his plump lower lip.

“You’re a baboon yourself,” He repeated, very softly, caressingly. “And there’s no law protecting baboons, is there . . .

dear? There’s no law at all in the deserted cities. It's each man

— and woman — for himself, isn’t it? Before you’re even allowed on the island, here, you have to waive all recourse to the police and the courts.”

Her legs turned to water, and She sank to the floor and looked up at him numbly. “Please . . . don’t hurt me ...”

He held the gun out, as though to be sure She got a very good look at it — her messenger of eternity. “Of course, you’ve never hurt me, dear. And you never will . . . dear. Are you religious? Would you like to pray, or something . . . dear?”

She could feel her stomach churning. Her eyes wanted to roll up. She wanted desperately to faint.

There was a blast as though of dynamite in these confined quarters, and his features exploded forward in a gruesome mess. Part of the gore hit her skirt, but she didn’t realize that until much later.

Mark Martina, putting his heavy six-shooter back into its holster, said from the doorway, “What is this, a massacre?”

But she was unconscious.

X

Later, she was semi-hysterical and couldn’t get over it

Art said, “What in the hell happened?”

Mark Martino was pouring cognac into a kitchen tumbler. He had tried to get some down Pamela, but twice She had vomited it up. Now he was pouring for himself.

He said, “I dropped off into a nap after you left and I guess She didn’t want to bother me. At any rate, when I woke she was gone. I took off after her. Evidently I barely made it. She must have been followed by a baboon . . . ”

“Oh’, damn,” Art said.

“At any rate, when I got there the baboon was already dead. Evidently, a hunter had followed him. I followed the hunter. It was like a parade. I finished the hunter. They were right there at the bombshelter. We’ll never be able to go back again. That hunter’ll be found by his chum-pals. They never go around alone. There’ll be at least one more.”

Art said in disgust, “Couldn’t you have dragged his body off somewhere else?”

“No,” Mark said, in equal disgust, knocking back the brandy. “Pam had fainted. I had to get her out of there and I didn’t know how many baboons or how many hunters might be around. For all we know, that damn baboon was a part of a pack and the hunter might have had a dozen sportsmen friends.”

"What’d he look like?” Art said, staring down dismally at Pam, stretched out on a couch', not knowing what to do in typical male helplessness.

“Kind of fat”

“There were only two of them,” Art said. “I saw them at the tube. But he’s probably some bigwig or other. The cloddy with him was some sort of police authority. He was able to commandeer a floater from Williams.”

Mark poured some more cognac and offered the glass to Art who shook his head in refusal. He was disgusted.

“You’d better ditch that gun you used,” he said. “They don’t like hunters to get killed. They are almost invariably big shots. They’ll probably come in here with a flock of cops, and shake everybody down. Especially me. I had a run-in with these two at the tube entrance. But you’re in the same building, and if they find that gun on you, the same caliber that killed him, they’ll check it and you’ll be in the soup.”

“I already ditched it,” Mark said. “I’m not stupid. Look, Art ...”

He set the bottle down on the table.

Art looked at him.

“You’ve got to get out of here,” Mark said, throwing his glass into a comer, where it shattered. He turned and left the apartment.

When Pamela had gathered herself to the point of being coherent, Art was standing at the window, staring unseeingly down the street to Washington Square.

She came up behind him.

“Art.”

He took a deep breath. Yes.”

“Art, forgive me. I’m a terrible coward.”

He didn’t say anything.

“Art, we’ve got to get out of here.”

“Yes. I know.”

—MACK REYNOLDS