The great Vincelleo liked being an
artist. It gave him an excuse to
turn the universe topsy turvy.
_Apocalyptical flights of fancy are not unusual in science fiction.
But when a writer with Philip José Farmer's gift of laughter
embarks on one the outcome may be impossible to predict. He may
turn your comfortable world of breakfast, lunch and dinner into
some incredible rabbit warren in space, where you'll be served
vitamin pills by March hares which would have made Alice blush. Or
you may simply meet the great Vincelleo himself._
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Fantastic Universe July 1954.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
The arrogance with which B. T. Revanche strode through the outer
office of Bioid Electronic was enough to convince anyone that he was
a V.V.I.P. His weasel eyes straying neither to left nor right, long
fat cigar stabbed straight ahead, quill-like hair bristling in all
directions, he was a stout little porcupine of a man. And like that
spear-backed creature, he knew that no one would stop him. If they did,
they'd regret it--so help them!
Very few people ever paced so fearlessly through the waiting rooms
of Bioid. Most persons sat a long time on the "heel-cooling" chairs,
and when they were summoned to enter the Sanctum Sanctorum, they were
seldom escorted by a Bioid treacher.
But B. T. Revanche--contrary to rumor, the initials did not stand for
Blood Thirsty--walked into the skyscraper that overlooked the free
city of Messina, and did not bother to announce himself. Taking it
for granted that he'd be recognized wherever he went, he did not even
switch off his personal anti-espionage field.
Such a gesture of simple courtesy would have seemed to him an affront
to his prestige.
He brushed aside those who looked as if they might get in his way,
stepped into an anti-gravity elevator, and was whisked up fifty stories
to the immense suit of Bioid's GHQ. There a gold-plated treacher picked
him up and preceded him, barking out his name with flattering precision.
"Make way for Signor Revanche! One side or a leg off, please! Lo, he
cometh!"
Revanche frowned, and bit down on his cigar. He didn't like the
slightest suspicion of levity in regard to himself.
Despite a twinge of annoyance, however, he was impressed by the
offices. Blazing slogans hung along the walls: _Bioid is more than skin
deep! Our trinity: Art & Science & Da Vincelleo! Perfect both inside
and out! For the Gods--and Da Vincelleo!_
Diagrams and sketches of the great Messinan's works hung here and
there--drawings of the human body in various positions, along with
pictures of Bioid robots in corresponding postures.
Poised on plastiglass were germanium brains, startlingly life-like
statues that breathed, and a mounted gorilla, last of his species, shot
by the great Da Vincelleo himself. If you stepped on a plate set in the
floor while admiring it, it would reach out for you--reach out and roar
loud enough to scare the shorts off you.
B. T. Revanche paused for an instant before one of the statues,
and manipulated a dial at its base. It was that of an attractive
woman clothed in a simple tunic of green-gold gauze, her limbs
gazelle-slender in the glare.
"Speak to me, baby," he said, rather coarsely.
The plastiskin woman spoke, her lips arching in a seductive smile.
"Good afternoon, man of culture. I am not alive, but there is grace and
beauty in all of Da Vincelleo's creations, and when you look at them
you forget that you have come here to pass an idle hour.
"The veils of the artificial are stripped away, and for a moment you
gaze upon beauty naked and unadorned. Would you not like to take me
into your arms?"
"I sure would, baby!" Revanche whispered.
He knew, of course, that the statue could not hear him. But by timing
his questions to correspond with its disk-recorded utterances an
illusion of conversation could be maintained. To imagine even for a
brief instant that he could bend so lovely a creature to his will
brought out all of the latent sadism in his nature.
"I'm not interested in you as a work of art, baby," he said. "I guess
you know that."
"Pass on, man of culture," the statue said. "You linger too long here.
If you look about you, you will find others more beautiful than I!"
Abruptly the illusion snapped. Scowling, feeling outrageously cheated,
Revanche swung about, and resumed his arrogant stride.
There were many vivoil paintings of scenes that gave the illusion, if
you looked at them obliquely, of leaves fluttering, birds flying, women
walking, and water flowing. All were signed with the name of the famed
poet-scientist-financier-engineer-architect-painter-sculptor-cyberneticist
and lover of the Second Italian Renaissance--Benangelo Michelardo Da
Vincelleo.
There was only one man on Earth who was more widely known, more
powerful. It was a measure of B. T. Revanche's importance that no
practical jokes were played on _him_.
* * * * *
Da Vincelleo was famous for his complicated, rubegoldbergish, and
sometimes morbid sense of humor. Visitors had to have strong nerves if
they cared to see him--and survive.
It was not unusual for trap-doors to open beneath their feet and
drop them, kicking and screaming, down a two-story shaft before they
were eased by anti-grav to a slow stop. Or for a visitor to find the
doorknob to the master's office had turned into a shriveled plastic
head. Or to step into what he thought was the office, and find himself
neck-deep in water, or some less acceptable fluid.
If the enraged victim stalked off, Da Vincelleo howled with glee. And
if a lawsuit followed, he had ways of scaring the unhappy wretch into
withdrawing it.
The office help--including the thirty vice-presidents--earned big
salaries largely because they boasted iron nerves and ulcer-resistant
stomachs. After their initiation into Da Vincelleo's extraordinary
humor, many of them became quite sedate about the embarrassing noises
and odors they seemingly made when they sat down on their chairs.
They even regarded with the classic calm of the clam's eye the
lightbulbs that exploded and flew apart, the mechanical mice, the
cockroaches that jumped out of opened drawers, and the water-faucets
that straightened out, and squirted them in the face. The few who
couldn't take it ceased drawing fabulous salaries, and retired to rest
homes.
As it was, none of these disturbing things interfered with Revanche's
progress. He didn't even pause on entering the Sanctum Sanctorum itself.