Patron of the Arts

“mine” as much as she could belong to anyone. I realized that all my commissioning of art was, at the bottom, ego.

Make no mistake—I enjoyed the art I helped make possible, with a few mistakes that kept me alert. But I am a businessman. A very rich one, a very talented one, a very famous one, but no one will remember me beyond the memory of my few good friends.

But the art I help create will make me live on. I am not unique in that. Some people endow colleges, or create scholarships or build stadiums. Some build great houses, or even cause laws to be passed. These are not always acts of pure egotism, but the ego often enters into it, I’m certain, and especially if it is tax deductible. Over the years I have commissioned Vardi to do the Fates for the Terrace Garden of the General Anomaly complex, my financial base and main corporation. I pressed for Darrin to do the Rocky Mountain sculptures for United Motors. I talked Willoughby into doing his golden beast series at my home in Arizona. Caruthers did his “Man” series of cubes because of a commission from my Manpower company. The panels that are now in the Metropolitan were done for my Tahiti estate by Elinor Ellington. I gave the University of Pennsylvania the money to impregnate those hundreds of sandstone slab carvings on Mars and get them safely to Earth. I subsidized Eldundy for five years before he wrote his Martian Symphony. I sponsored the first air music concert at Sydney.

My ego has had a good working out.

I received a tape from Madelon the same day I had a call from the Pope, who wanted me to help him convince Mike to do his tomb sculptures. The new Reformed Church was once again involved in art patronage, a 2,100-year-old tradition.

But getting a tape from Madelon, instead of a call, where I could reply, hurt me. I half-suspected I had lost Madelon.

My armored layers of sophistication told me glibly that I had asked for it, even had intrigued to achieve it. But my beast-gut told me that I had been a fool. This time I had outsmarted myself. I dropped the tape in the playback. She was recording from a garden of martian lichen in Trumpet Valley, and the granite boulders behind her were covered with the rust and olive green and glossy black of the alien transplants. I arranged for Ecolco to give Tashura the grant that made the transfer from Mars possible. The subtle, subdued colors seemed a suitable background for her beauty, and her message.

“Brian, he’s fantastic. I’ve never met anyone like him.”

I died a little and was sad. Others had amused her, or pleased her lush golden body, or were momentarily mysterious to her, but this time . . . this time I knew it was different.

“He’s going to start the cube next week, in Rome. I’m very excited. I’ll be in touch.” I saw her punch the remote and the tape ended. I put my man Huo on the trace and found her in the Eternal City, looking radiant.

“How much does he want to do it?” I asked. Sometimes my businessman’s brain likes to keep things orderly and out front, before confusion and misunderstanding sets in. But this time I was abrupt, crass, and rather brutal, though my words were delivered in a normal, light tone. But all I had to offer was the wherewithal that could pay for the sensatron cube.

“Nothing,” she said. “He’s doing it for nothing. Because he wants to, Brian.”

“Nonsense. I commissioned him. Cubes cost money to make. He’s not that rich.”

“He told me to tell you he wants to do it without any money. He’s out now, getting new cilli nets.”

I felt cheated. I had caused the series of events that would end in the creation of a sensatron portrait of Madelon, but I was going to be cheated of my only contribution, my only connection. I had to salvage something.

“It . . . it should be an extraordinary cube. Would Mike object if I built a structure just for it?”

“I thought you wanted to put it in the new house on Battle Mountain.”

“I do, but I thought I might make a special small dome of spraystone. On the point, perhaps. Something extra nice for a Cilento masterpiece.”

“It sounds like a shrine.” Her face was quiet, her eyes looking into me.

“Yes,” I answered slowly, “perhaps it is.” Maybe people shouldn’t get to know you so well that they can read your mind when you cannot. I changed the subject and we talked for a few minutes of various friends. Steve on the Venus probe. A fashionable couturier who was showing a line based on the new Martian tablet finds. A new sculptor working in magnaplastics. Blake Mason’s designs for the Gardens of Babylon. A festival in Rio that Jules and Gina had invited us to. The Pope’s desire for Mike to do his tomb. In short, all the gossip, trivia, and things of importance between friends.

I talked of everything except what I wanted to talk about. When we parted Madelon told me with a sad, proud smile that she had never been so happy. I nodded and punched out, then stared sightlessly at the dark screen. For a long moment I hated Michael Cilento, and he was probably never so near death. But I loved