by Con Pederson
Produced by Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net
THE GENIUS
By Con Pederson
Illustrated by Paul Orban
[Transcriber Note: This etext was produced from IF Worlds of ScienceFiction May 1954. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence thatthe U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
[Sidenote: _Sethos was a great artist, a talented man, quite possiblythe most famous man of his time and world. But, alas!--there were otherworlds. And is not the grass always greener...?_]
Sethos entered the park. Brown autumn leaves crumpled sharply beneathhis feet, the green grass sank. The sun was nearly gone, and the last ofthe children passed him, chattering as they faded into the twilight.Only one other person remained in the park, and she was waiting forSethos.
"Ela," he said. "Have you been here long?"
She touched his cheek with hers in greeting.
"Not at all. I'm in no hurry." She handed him a cigarette as they walkedtogether, then lit her own and breathed deeply of the scented fumes."Nothing special about Matya's parties--unless she has that intriguingman there again. What's his name? You know--"
"You must mean Andian, the sculptor. The man who built North Square, tohear him talk. What about him?"
Ela laughed. "He'd never heard of my fluid porcelain. Isn't that silly?After everyone in West has been overwhelmed with the color effects, heturns up, a perfect innocent. I showed him pliables."
Smiling, Sethos recalled it was Ela's enthusiasm that had firstattracted him, as it had most of the males in their clique. Then too,she was beautiful, with startling gold hair and a delicate round facethat always aroused flattery. Tonight he felt especially aware of herbeside him, and the quick beat of her sandals on the pavement.
The lights of Matya's hillhouse gleamed before them, enticing all whowandered through West Park this evening. The party had started, asparties always did, at that unknown instant shortly before the firstguest's arrival. It was thriving now, for the colors behind thecontoured glass facade throbbed as though underwater, and people satalong the terraced hillside, talking and inhaling the elegant smoke fromsmoldering chalices that stood around the entrance.
They climbed the flagstone path toward the low, pale yellow building.Luxuriant plants grew thick along the walls, creating a jungle thatextended even to the inner rooms of the house.
"Sethos, my friend!" said an unsteady voice.
The old man was seated in shadow by the house, a glass of sparklingliquor on the arm of his chair. Against the green background of giantplants, his frail, pink face resembled a huge bud that would open whendaylight came.
"How are you, Paton?" Sethos asked warmly. "I remember you fromsomewhere in East. It must be years.... Weren't you gardening with Ana?Of course--developing a perfect Lyocanthia. What a welcome sight you areamong these woodcutters!"
"You're a fellow greensman now, they say," beamed Paton happily, seizinghis glass and leaning forward. "Such an honor to us. You work withsucculents--right?"
Sethos smiled. He watched Ela disappear into the interior of thesprawling hillhouse, heard her distant laugh become part of themachinery of voices. People drifted to and fro across the broad lawns.
"Yes," answered Sethos, drawing up a chair. "Succulents are my latestjoy. One must specialize. I like to work with growing things, yet I'dfeel like a mechanoid if I got involved in crystal sculpture, like mycharming Ela there."
"Perhaps--but who else gets such _color_, starts so many new directionsas she? My flowers blush before her crystals." Paton's glass was empty,and with an automatic gesture, Sethos refilled it from a tall flaskstanding nearby, and poured one for himself.
"Speaking of mechanoids," Paton continued genially, "I had a moststimulating conversation with Mr. First himself a few days ago. He cameto see me."
Sethos blinked. That was unusual--mechanoids seldom mingled with humans,especially those of the primary levels.
"He's very intelligent about flowers," Paton went on, waving his glassin animation. "We talked about common hedge roses. Did you know heraises them?"
"Amazing!" Sethos drank deeply of the fiery liquor. Now the driftingplumes of smoke from the chalices performed fantasies with his vision,and his body felt light again, as it had so often in the evenings of thepast few years.
"Of course I was flattered, having a visit from the _most_ primemechanoid. He could have called me, but they are somewhat conscious ofbeing mechanical as it is, and try to be cordial as possible."
Sethos leaned forward eagerly. "Did he say anything about--theiractivities?"
"Well, that's not too interesting to me, because it's always just onechange after another outside. He did say there is a new earth-bridgebetween the continents. Doesn't it seem incredible that they should wantto go to all that trouble? But then, that's a mechanoid for you. Alwaysmaking things bigger. That's why I enjoy seeing Mr. First take upflowers. Maybe he sees things our way himself."
"I don't suppose you've ever been out there, have you?"
"Out there? You mean, where the mechanoids live? Why, now that youmention it, I believe I was, once. But a long time ago--I must have beenstill living with my elders. It's not very enjoyable. Too big to callhome, after all." With a short laugh, Paton emptied his glass again.
Sethos frowned. The idea that the world was so large fascinated him. Ashis contemporaries and their ancestors for unknown generations, Sethoshad passed from dreamy childhood directly into the dream of adult life.He could barely recall the days of education, when drugged smoke andliquor were withheld, and life consisted of a different fairy world. Howhe had loved the gay mechanoid nurses, with their tinkling arms andbright colors! But of their world, the vast reaches of the planetoutside the tiny circle of men, he knew very little. One fact was plainto him: it was unthinkably huge.
Sudden music poured from the house, gay and fast.
"Ha! The dancers!" exclaimed Paton, seeing the rows of gyrating figuresbeyond a pink translucent wall. "You must excuse me. I promised Matya Iwould watch her dance tonight."
Paton hurried away, leaving Sethos to wander along the dimly lightedterrace. The party had lightened his senses as expected, yet histhoughts were heavy. He remembered the library, and the strange legendsin the books. Legends of ancient cities of men, over all the earth, andof the prehistoric machines used by men to travel great distances. Andalways in the old legends men were very much like the industriousmechanoids--ever building, ever moving....
How he wished he might live in those days! He knew the pleasure ofcreating, for he had been acclaimed a genius in music before he wastwenty, and his mastery of painting and architecture had won theadmiration of all the human zone. Still, he was not satisfied, and oftenlay awake in the early hours of morning after a stirring party, dreamingof those long-gone days of empire, when he could have ridden with theancients through the sky on their winged craft, see their cities risetoward the clouds, experience the exciting pace of that life. Whatremarkable ambitions they must have had!
* * * * *
As Sethos reached the end of the terrace, he was hailed by a garmenternamed Brin, standing with a group of men around a light projector. Thecolors sprayed up about their faces, matching the gaudy orange of Brin'strousers and the blue of his little plumed hat.
"Greetings, Sethos! How are the crops up North? Still live with Ela?"
"They're fine, Brin. Live with Ela? No more than anyone else thesedays."
Brin chuckled. "A neat remark, Seth--I must remember it to your truelove the next time I have reason to see her."
The men laughed appreciatively, the colors wheeling in rhythm a
crosstheir grinning faces.
Suddenly three young women converged on the group, having spied Sethosfrom inside.
"Oh, Sethos!" one cried. "How wonderful you're here!"
"Are you still composing that _magnificent_ diphonic music?" askedanother breathlessly.
Grimly, he realized he was trapped again. Every party brought onsomething like this. How could he explain to these well-meaning girlsthat he was trying to forget the past, that it bored him, that his musicwas trite and his painting insipid? Still they would clamor for it.
"Excuse me," muttered Sethos, walking away. His ears rang with theiradulation, but it always sickened him. Efforts he considered nothing atall were worshiped by the others. It was demoralizing.
Following the path
