"Perfectly," said West.
"We must be very careful," Nevin pointed out. "So few would understand."
"So very few," said West.
Nevin stepped across the room and pulled a cord that hung along the
wall. One of the tapestries rolled smoothly back, fold on heavy fold.
West, watching, held his breath at what he saw.
A tree stood in the foreground, laden with golden fruit, fruit that
looked exactly like some of that in the bowl upon the table. As if
someone had just stepped into the painting and picked it fresh for
dinner.
Under the tree ran a path, coming up to the very edge of the canvas in
such detail that even the tiny pebbles strewn upon it were clear to the
eye. And from the tree the path ran back against a sweep of background,
climbing into wooded hills.
For the flicker of a passing second, West could have sworn that he
heard the whisper of wind in the leaves of the fruit-laden tree, that
he saw the leaves tremble in the wind, that he smelled the fragrance of
little flowers that bloomed along the path.
"Well, Mr. West?" Nevin asked, triumphantly.
"Why," said West, ears still cocked for the sound of wind in leaves
again. "Why, it almost seems as if one could step over and walk
straight down that path."
Nevin sucked in his breath with a sound that was neither gasp nor sigh,
but somewhere in between. Down at the end of the table, Cartwright was
choking on his wine, chuckling laughter bubbling out between his lips
despite all his efforts to keep it bottled up.
"Nevin," asked West, "have you ever thought of making another painting?"
"Perhaps," said Nevin. "Why do you ask?"
West smiled. Through his brain words were drumming, words that he
remembered, words a man had whispered just before he died.
"I was just thinking," said West, "of what might happen if you should
paint the wrong place sometime."
"By Lord," yelled Cartwright, "he's got you there, Nevin. The exact
words I've been telling you."
Nevin started to rise from the table, and even as he did the rustling
whisper of music filled the room. Music that relaxed Nevin's hands from
their grip upon the table's edge, music that swept the sudden chill
from between West's shoulderblades.
Music that told of keen-toothed space and the blaze of stars. Music
that had the whisper of rockets and the quietness of the void and the
somber arches of eternal night.
Rosie was singing.
* * * * *
West sat on the edge of his bed and knew that he had been lucky to
break away before there could be more questions asked. So far, he was
certain, he'd answered those they asked without arousing too much
suspicion, but the longer a thing like that went on the more likely a
man was to make some slight mistake.
Now he would have time to think, time to try to untangle and put
together some of the facts as they now appeared.
One of the minor monstrosities that infested the place climbed the
bedpost and perched upon it, wrapping its long tail about it many
times. It chittered at West and West looked at it and shuddered,
wondering if it were making a face at him or if it really looked that
way.
These slithery, chittering things ... he'd heard of them somewhere
before. He knew that. He'd even seen pictures of them at some time.
Some other time and place, very long ago. Things like Annabelle and the
creature Cartwright had dumped off the chair and the little satanic
being that perched upon the bedstead.
That was funny, the thing Nevin had said about them ... _they keep
sneaking through_ ... not sneaking in, but through.
Nothing added up. Not even Nevin and Cartwright. For there was about
them some subtle tinge of character not human in its texture.
They had been working with hormones when something had happened that
occasioned the warning sent to Earth. Or had there been a warning? Had
the warning been a fake? Was there something going on here the Solar
government didn't want anyone to know?
Why had they sent Stella to Earth? Why were they so pleased that
she was so well received? What was it Nevin had asked ... and _the
government, it does not suspect_? Why should the government suspect?
What was there for it to suspect? Just a mindless creature that sang
like the bells of heaven.
That hormone business, now. Hormones did funny things to people.