THE FIRST MIXED LOAD Of permanent colonists arrived on Mars; six of theseventeen survivors of the twenty~thtee originals retumed to Earth.
Prospective colonists trained in Peru at sixteen thousand feet. The presidentof Argentina moved one night to Montevideo, taking with him such portablesas could be stuffed into two suitcases, and the new Presidente started anextradition procesS before the high Court to yank him back, or at least thetwo suitcases. Last rites for Alice Douglas were held privately in the NationalCathedral with less than two thousand attending, and editorialists and stereocomentators alike praised the dignified fortitude with which the SecretaryGeneral took his bereavement. A three-year-old named Inflation, carrying126 pounds with Jinx Jenkins Up, won the Kentucky Derby, paying fifty-fourfor one, and two guests of the Colony Airotel, Louisville, Kentucky,discorporated, one voluntarily, the other by heart failure.
Another bootleg edition of the (unauthorized) biography The Devil andReverend Foster appeared simultaneously on news stands throughout theUnited States; by nightfall every copy had been burned and the platesdestroyed, along with incidental damage to other chattels and to real estate,plus a certain amount of mayhem, maiming, and simple assault. The BritishMuseum was rumored to possess a copy of the first edition (untrue), and alsothe Vatican Library (true, but available only to certain church scholars).
In the Tennessee legislature a bill was again introduced to make the ratio piexactly equal to three; it was reported out by the committee on publiceducation and morals, passed with no objection by the lower house and diedin conimittee in the upper house. An interchurch fundamentalist groupopened offices in Van Buren, Arkansas, for the purpose of soliciting funds tosend missionaries to the Martians; Dr. Jubal Harshaw happily sent them alavish donation, but took the precaution of sending it in the name (and withthe address) of the editor of the New Humanist, a rabid atheist and his closefriend.
Other than that, Jubal had very little to feel amused about_there had beentoo much news about Mike lately, and all of it depressing. He had treasuredthe occasional visits home of Jill and Mike and had been most interested inMike’s progress, especially after Mike developed a sense of humor. But theycame home less frequently now and Jubal did not relish the latestdevelopments.
It bad not troubled Jubal when Mike was run out of Union TheologicalSeminary, hotly pursued in spirit by a pack of enraged theologians, some ofwhom were angry because they believed in God and others because they didnot-but all united in detesting the Man from Mars. Jubal honestly evaluedanything that happened to a theologian short of breaking him on the wheelwas no more than meet-and the experience was good for the boy; he’d knowbetter next time.
Nor had he been troubled when Mike (with the help of Douglas) had enlistedunder an assumed name in the Federation armed forces. He had been quitesure (through private knowledge) that no sergeant could cause Mike anypermanent distress, and contrariwise, Jubal was not troubled by what mighthappen to sergeants or other ranks-an unreconciled old reactionary, Jubalhad burned his own honorable discharge and all that went with it on the daythat the United States had ceased having its own armed forces.
Actually, Jubal had been surprised at how little shambles Mike had createdas .Private Jones“ and how long be had lasted-almost three weeks. He hadcrowned his military career the day that be had seized on the question periodfollowing an orientation lecture to hold forth on the utter uselessness of forceand violence under any circumstances (with some side continents on thedesirability of reducing surplus population through cannibalism) and hadoffered himself as a test animal for any weapon of any nature to prove tothem that force was not only unnecessary but literally impossible whenattempted against a self-disciplined person.
They had not taken his offer; they had kicked him out.
But there had been a little more to it than that, Douglas had allowed Jubal tosee a top-level super secret eyes-only numbered-one-of-three report aftercautioning Jubal that no one, not even the Supreme Chief of staff, knew that.Private Jones“ was the Man from Mars. Jubal had merely scanned theexhibits, which bad been mostly highly conflicting reports of eye witnesses asto what had happened at various times when .Jones“ had been .trained“ inthe uses of various weapons; the only surprising thing to Jubal about themwas that some witnesses bad the courage and self-confidence to state underoath that they bad seen weapons disappear. .Jones“ had also been placedon the report three times for losing weapons, same being accountableproperty of the Federation.
The end of the report was all that Jubal had bothered to read carefullyenough to remember: .Conclusion: Subject man is an extremely talentednatural hypnotist and, as such, could conceivably be useful in intelligencework, although he is totally unfitted for any combat branch. However, his lowintelligence quotient (moron), his extremely low general classification score,and his paranoid tendencies (delusions of grandeur) make it inadvisable toattempt to exploit his idiot-savant talent. Recommendation: Discharge,Inaptitude-no pension credit, no benefits.“Such little romps were good for the boy and Jubal had greatly enjoyed Mike’singlorious career as a soldier because Jill had spent the time at home. WhenMike had come home for a few days after it was over, he hadn’t seemed hurtby it-he had boasted to Jubal that he had obeyed Jill’s wishes exactly andhadn’t disappeared anybody merely a few dead things . . . although, as Mikegrokked it, there had been several times when Earth could have been madea better place if Jill didn’t have this queasy weakness. Jubal didn’t argue it;he had a lengthy-though inactive, .Better Dead“ list himself.
But apparently Mike had managed to have fun, too. During parade on his lastday as a soldier, the commanding General and his entire staff had suddenlylost their trousers as Mike’s platoon was passing in review-and the topsergeant of Mike’s company fell fiat on his face when his shoes momentarilyfroze to the ground. Jubal decided that, in acquiring a sense of humor, Mikebad developed an atrocious taste in practical jokes-but what the hell? the kidwas going through a delayed boyhood; he needed to dump over a fewprivies. Jubal recalled with pleasure an incident in medical school involving acadaver and the Dean-Jubal had worn rubber gloves for that caper, and agood thing, too!
Mike’s unique ways of growing up were all right; Mike was unique.
But this last thing-.The Reverend Dr. Valentine M. Smith, AS., D.D., Ph.D.,“founder and pastor of the Church of All Worlds, inc.-gad! It was bad enoughthat the boy had decided to be a Holy Joe, instead of leaving other people’ssouls alone, as a gentleman should. But those diploma-mill degrees he hadtacked onto his name-Jubal wanted to throw up.
The worst of it was that Mike had told him that he had gotten the whole ideafrom something he had heard Jubal say, about what a church was and whatit could do. Jubal was forced to admit that it was something he could havesaid, although he did not recall it; it was little consolation that the boy knewso much law that he might have arrived at the same end on his own.
But Jubal did concede that Mike had been cagy about the operation- someactual months of residence at a very small, very poor (in all senses) sectariancollege, a bachelor’s degree awarded by examination, a .call“ to their ministryfollowed by ordination in this recognized though flat-headed sect, a doctor’sdissertation on comparative religion which was a marvel of scholarship whileducking any real conclusions (Mike had brought it to Jubal for literarycriticism, Jubal had added some weasel words himself through conditionedreflex), the award of the .earned“ doctorate coinciding with an endowment(anonymous) to this very hungry school, the second doctorate (honorary)right on top of it for .contributions to interplanetary knowledge“ from adistinguished university that should have known better, when Mike let it beknown that such was his price for showing up as the drawing card at aconference on solar system studies. The one and only Man from Mars hadturned down everybody from CalTech to the Kaiser Wilhelm Institute in thepast; Harvard University could hardly be blamed for swallowing the bait.
Well, they were probably as crimson as their banner now, Jubal thoughtcynically. Mike had then put in a few weeks as assistant chaplain at hischurch-mouse alma mater-then had broken with the sect in a schism andfounded his own church. Completely kosher, legally airtight, as venerable inprecedent as Martin Luther . . . and as nauseating as last week’s garbage.
Jubal was called out of his sour daydream by Miriam. .Boss! Company!“Jubal looked up to see a car about to land and ruminated that he had notrealized what a blessing that S.S. patrol cap had been until it was withdrawn.
.Larry, fetch my shotgun-I promised myself that I would shoot the next doltwho landed on the rose bushes.“.He’s landing on the grass, Boss.“.Well, tell him to try again. We’ll get him on the next pass.“.Looks like Ben Caxton.“.So it is. We’ll let him live-this time. Hi, Ben! What’ll you drink?“.Nothing, this early in the day, you professional bad influence. Need totalk to you, Jubal.“.You’re doing it. Dorcas, fetch Ben a glass of warm milk; he’s sick.“.Without too much soda,“ amended Ben, .and milk the bottle with the threedimples in it. Private talk, Jubal.“.All right, up to my study-although if you think you can keep anything from thekids around here, let me in on your method.“ After Ben finished greetingproperly (and somewhat unsanitarily, in three cases) the members of thefamily, they moseyed upstairs.
Ben said, .What the deuce? Am I lost?“.Oh. You haven’t seen the alterations, have you? A new wing on the north,which gives us two more bedrooms and another bath downstairs- and uphere, my gallery.“.Enough statues to fill a graveyard!“.Please, Ben. .Statues’ are dead politicians at boulevard intersections. Whatyou see is .sculpture.’ And please speak in a low, reverent tone lest I becomeviolent . . . for here we have exact replicas of some of the greatest sculpturethis naughty globe has produced.“.Well, that hideous thing I’ve seen before ... but when did you acquire the restof this ballast?“Jubal ignored him and spoke quietly to the replica of La Belle Heaulmière.
.Do not listen to him, ma petite chere-he is a barbarian and knows no better.“He put his hand to her beautiful raaged cheek, then gently touched oneempty, shrunken dug. .I know just how you feel but it can’t be very muchlonger. Patience, my lovely.“He turned back to Caxton and said briskly, .Ben, I don’t know what you haveon your mind but it will have to wait while I give you a lesson in how to look atsculpture-though it’s probably as useless as trying to teach a dog toappreciate the violin. But you’ve just been rude to a lady and I don’t toleratethat.“.Huh? Don’t be silly, Jubal; you’re rude to ladies-live ones-a dozen times aday. And you know which ones I mean.“Jubal shouted, .Anne! Upstairs! Wear your cloak!“.You know I wouldn’t be rude to the old woman who posed for that. Never.
What I can’t understand is a so-called artist having the gall to posesomebody’s great grandmother in her skin . . . and you having the bad tasteto want it around.“Anne came in, cloaked, said nothing. Jubal said to her, .Anne have I everbeen rude to you? Or to any of the girls?“.That calls for an opinion.“.That’s what I’m asking for. Your opinion. You’re not in court-.
.You have never at any time been rude to any of us, Jubal.“.Have you ever known me to be rude to a lady?“.I have seen you be intentionally rude to a woman. I have never seen yoube rude to a lady.“.That’s all. No, one more opinion. What do you think of this bronze?“Anne looked carefully at Rodin’s masterpiece, then said slowly, .When I firstsaw it, I thought it was horrible. But I have come to the conclusion that it maybe the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.“.Thanks. That’s all.“ She left. .Do you want to argue it, Ben?“.Huh? When I argue with Anne, that’s the day I turn in my suit.“ Ben looked atit. .But I don’t get it.“.All right, Ben. Attend me. Anybody can look at a pretty girl and see a prettygirl. An artist can look at a pretty girl and see the old woman she will become.
A better artist can look at an old woman and see the pretty girl that she usedto be. But a great artist-a master-and that is what Auguste Rodin was-canlook at an old woman, portray her exactly as she is . . . and force the viewerto see the pretty girl she used to be . . . and more than that, he can makeanyone with the sensitivity of an armadillo, or even you, see that this lovelyyoung girl is still alive, not old and ugly at all, but simply prisoned inside herruined body. He can make you feel the quiet, endless tragedy that there wasnever a girl born who ever grew older than eighteen in her heart . . . nomatter what the merciless hours have done to her. Look at her, Ben. Growingold doesn’t matter to you and me; we were never meant to be admired-but itdoes to them. Look at her!“Ben looked at her. Presently Jubal said gruffly, .All right, blow your nose andwipe your eyes-she accepts your apology. Come on and sit down. That’senough for one lesson.“.No,“ Caxton answered, .I want to know about these others. How about thisone? It doesn’t bother me as much . . . I can see it’s a young girl, right off.
But why tie her up like a pretzel?“Jubal looked at the replica .Caryatid Who has Fallen under the Weight of herStone“ and smiled. .Call it a tour de force in empathy, Ben. I won’t expect youto appreciate the shapes and masses which make that figure much morethan a .pretzel’-but you can appreciate what Rodin was saying. Ben, what dopeople get out of looking at a crucifix?“.You know how much I go to church.“.’How little’ you mean. Still, you must know that, as craftsmanship, paintingsand sculpture of the Crucifixion are usually atrocious-and the painted,realistic ones often used in churches are the worst of all . . . the blood lookslike catsup and that ex-carpenter is usually portrayed as if he were a pansy . .
. which He certainly was not if there is any truth in the four Gospels at all. Hewas a hearty man, probably muscular and of rugged health. But despite thealmost uniformly poor portrayal in representations of the Crucifixion, a poorone is about as effective as a good one for most people. They don’t see thedefects; what they see is a symbol which inspires their deepest emotions; itrecalls to them the Agony and Sacrifice of God.“.Jubal, I thought you weren’t a Christian?“.What’s that got to do with it? Does that make me blind and deaf tofundamental human emotion? I was saying that the crummiest paintedplaster crucifix or the cheapest cardboard Christmas Crèche can be sufficientsymbol to evoke emotions in the human heart so strong that many have diedfor them and many more live for them. So the craftsmanship and artisticjudgment with which such a symbol is wrought are largely irrelevant. Nowhere we have another emotional symbol-wrought with exquisitecraftsmanship, but we won’t go into that, yet. Ben, for almost three thousandyears or longer, architects have designed buildings with columns shaped asfemale figures-it got to be such a habit that they did it as casually as a smallboy steps on an ant. After all those centuries it took Rodin to see that thiswas work too heavy for a girl. But he didn’t simply say, .Look, you jerks, if youmust design this way, make it a brawny male figure.’ No, he showed it . . .
and generalized the symbol. Here is this poor little caryatid who has tried-andfailed, fallen under the load. She’s a good girl-look at her face. Serious,unhappy at her fafrure, but not blaming anyone else, not even the gods . . .
and still trying to shoulder her load, after she’s crumpled under it.
.But she’s more than good art denouncing some very bad art; she’s a symbolfor every woman who has ever tried to shoulder a load that was too heavy forher-over half the female population of this planet, living and dead, I wouldguess. But not alone women-this symbol is sexless. It means every man andevery woman who ever lived who sweated out life in uncomplaining fortitude,whose courage wasn’t even noticed until they crumpled under their loads. It’scourage, Ben, and victory.“.’Victory?’“.Victory in defeat, there is none higher. She didn’t give up, Ben; she’s stilltrying to lift that stone after it has crushed her. She’s a father going down to adull office job while cancer is painfully eating away his insides, so as to bringhome one more pay check for the kids. She’s a twelve-yearold girl trying tomother her baby brothers and sisters because Mama had to go to Heaven.
She’s a switchboard operator sticking to her job while smoke is choking herand the fire is cutting off her escape. She’s all the unsung heroes whocouldn’t quite cut it but never quit. Come. Just salute as you pass her andcome see my Little Mermaid.“Ben took him precisely at his word; if Jubal was surprised, he made nocomment. .Now this one,“ he said, .is the only one Mike didn’t give to me. Butthere is no need to tell Mike why I got it . . . aside from the selfevident factthat it’s one of the most delightful compositions ever conceived and proudlyexecuted by the eye and hand of man.“.She’s that, all right. This one I don’t have to have explained-it’s just plainpretty!“.Yes. And that is excuse in itself, just as with kittens and butterflies. But thereis more to it than that . . . and she reminded me of Mike. She’s not quite amermaid-see?-and she’s not quite human. She sits on land, where she haschosen to stay . . . and she stares eternally out to sea, homesick and foreverlonely for what she left behind. You know the story?“.Hans Christian Andersen.“.Yes. She sits by the harbor of K.benhavn-Copenhagen was his home townandshe’s everybody who ever made a difficult choice. She doesn’t regret herchoice, but she must pay for it; every choice must be paid for. The cost to heris not only endless homesickness. She can never be quite human; when sheuses her dearly bought feet, every step is on sharp knives. Ben, I think thatMike must always walk on knives-but there is no need to tell him I said so. Idon’t think he knows this story or, at least, I don’t think he knows that Iconnect him with it.“.I won’t tell him.“ Ben looked at the replica. .I’d rather just look at her and notthink about the knives.“.She’s a little darling, isn’t she? How would you like to coax her into bed?
She would probably be lively, like a seal, and about as slippery.“.Cripes! You’re an evil old man, Jubal.“.And getting eviler and eviler by the year. Uh ... we won’t look at any others;three pieces of sculpture in an hour is more than enough- usually I don’t letmyself look at more than one in a day.“.Suits. I feel as if I had had three quick drinks on an empty stomach. Jubal,why isn’t there stuff like this around where a person can see it?“.Because the world has gone nutty and contemporary art always paints thespirit of its times. Rodin did his major work in the tail end of the nineteenthcentury and Hans Christian Andersen antedated him by only a few years.
Rodin died early in the twentieth century, about the time the world startedflipping its lid . . . and art along with it.
.Rodin’s successors noted the amazing things he had done with light andshadow and mass and composition-whether you see it or not-and theycopied that much. Oh, how they copied it! And extended it. What they failedto see was that every major work of the master told a story and laid bare thehuman heart. Instead, they got involved with .design’ and becamecontemptuous of any painting or sculpture that told a story- sneering, theydubbed such work .literary’-a dirty word. They went all out for abstractions,not deigning to paint or carve anything that resembled the human world.“Jubal shrugged. .Abstract design is all right-for wall paper or linoleum. But anis the process of evoking pity and terror, which is not abstract at all but veryhuman. What the self-styled modern artists are doing is a sort of unemotionalpseudo-intellectual masturbation . . . whereas creative art is more likeintercourse, in which the artist must seduce- render emotional-his audience,each time. These laddies who won’t deign to do that-and perhaps can’t-ofcourse lost the public. If they hadn’t lobbied for endless subsidies, they wouldhave starved or been forced to go to work long ago. Because the ordinarybloke will not voluntarily pay for .art’ that leaves him unmoved-if he does payfor it, the money has to be conned out of him, by taxes or such.“.You know, Jubal, I’ve always wondered why I didn’t give a hoot for paintingsor statues-but I thought it was something missing in me, like color blindness.“.Mmm, one does have to learn to look at art, just as you must know French toread a story printed in French. But in general it’s up to the artist to uselanguage that can be understood, not hide it in some privite code like Pepysand his diary. Most of these jokers don’t even want to use language you and Iknow or can learn . . . they would rather sneer at us and be smug, becausewe .fail’ to see what they are driving at. If indeed they are driving at anythingobscurityis usually the refuge of incompetence. Ben, would you call me anartist?“.Huh? Well, I’ve never thought about it. You write a pretty good stick.“.Thank you. .Artist’ is a word I avoid for the same reasons I hate to be called.Doctor.’ But I am an artist, albeit a minor one. Admittedly most of my stuff isfit to read only once . . . and not even once for a busy person who alreadyknows the little I have to say. But I am an honest artist, because what I writeis consciously intended to reach the customer-reach him and affect him, ifpossible with pity and terror . . . or, if not, at least to divert the tedium of hishours with a chuckle or an odd idea. But I am never trying to hide it from himin a private language, nor am I seeking the praise of other writers for.technique’ or other balderdash. I want the praise of the cash customer, givenin cash because I’ve reached him-or I don’t want anything. Support for thearts-merdel A government-supported artist is an incompetent whore! Damn it,you punched one of my buttons. Let me fill your glass, and you tell me whatis on your mind.“.Uh, Jubal, I’m unhappy.“.This is news?“.No. ............