Weissenbaum's Eye - Stetten

Weissenbaum's Eye - Stetten - Chapter 8

CHAPTER EIGHT

Sand could not refuse his father, although perhaps it was the lure of The View From The Hilltop that steered him once again to Holly's oceanside creation, where he had first met the famous artist.

This time Sand entered closer to the cliff, so he didn't need to make a path. As he approached, Holly was busy aiming streams of little birds out of his fingertips. He turned and without warning made the air tremble with his voice.

"You did not find Mara, and yet you come back to be my student? Why should I help you, if you are not useful to me?"

Sand at once regretted having come, and mumbled, "I could go back..."

"You will do that, and you will not let yourself be turned away this time. You are her son! Don't you understand? You must tell them. You must be proud!"

Sand was silent, not looking up. Holly just shook his head.

"And you want to be a great artist. You are a dilettante. Tell me something. Do you know who is fighting a war in Thirdworld?"

Sand fumbled with surprise.

"I...I don't know. They fight each other I suppose. How should I know?"

Holly's silence demanded more.

"We have Helmsmen for that sort of thing," said Sand. "The Helmsmen steer the Spaceship Earth."

Sand heard himself now. These last words had been recited.

"The Helmsmen are not wise," said Benjamin Holly. "You're thinking of the programs from The Helm Of The Earth, the wise men consulting with their experts, the writings of the bearded fathers."

Sand nodded in disbelief.

"The Helm Of The Earth was an interesting work," Holly mused. "I wasn't allowed to take any credit for it, naturally, since it was supposed to be historical. But I did learn from it, and I got to see just how wise the Helmsmen are. It doesn't take any wisdom to gain power. It takes ambition and friends. The Helmsmen," Holly chuckled, "are salesmen, actors. They are not experts."

Sand opened his mouth, tugged by these words, but had nothing to say.

"Actors, Sand. Beautiful impostors to soothe the public mind. We create their history, and they pay us well."

Holly looked around. The overlook was warm and breezy. "Consider the richness of this beauty, Sand. Consider the huge expense of so much detail. It must be paid for somehow."

Sand thought for a moment. "You mean, this is a bribe?"

"No, not this, Sand. If I depended on the Helmsmen I would end up at their mercy. Besides, the revolution holds far greater profit. But once I did work for the Helmsmen. Distiller of the Public Memory was my title, not one you're likely to have heard of."

Holly noticed Sand's expression.

"Come now, my young friend, you must try to picture how useful we artists can be. Ours is a very practical skill." For the first time, Holly smiled. "Did you really think that we were here just to enjoy ourselves?"

Holly looked at the clouds coming in over the cliff.

"When I was younger, I got a job most people wouldn't like. I helped build the labyrinth you live in. I mean build it, with my hands. I was one of the laborers who glued that sprawling mess together, converting the old apartments, building between them till there were no streets. Who needs streets when there is no need to travel? "The city somehow always called out for another room to be constructed. That thing we hatched knew just what it was after. It made us build without excitement or originality. We copied every detail of its plan, one cell after another, one hallway leading to the next, until each person had a room. But so few children are born today, and construction has long since stopped.

"Out of work, I had no savings, and my welfare gradually dwindled. I was poor, Sand, in a way that you can't understand." Holly paused, and Sand waited uncomfortably for him to continue.

"Then I was given a couch, along with the rest, but I was so poor that I could only afford the simplest programs. So rather than use other people's work, I spent long hours on the couch perfecting all my basic skills. I started to improve.

"My friends kept pressuring me to try selling my work. But I could never finish things. I saw myself as pure, surviving on a private self esteem. I wallowed in the same rut as you, but I had one advantage. I could not remain an undiscovered genius forever. I didn't have the trimmings of success to hide behind."

Sand wished that Holly would stop, but he kept right on going.

"I was not interested in getting rich, only surviving. I was forced to sell my work, and in the process was exposed to other people's work. It was humiliating at first, but I learned by seeing what the other artists did, by seeing what sold. I was amazed.

"The things they advertised! Pieces of grandeur so far beyond what I could afford that I burned with ambition to be practical, to be political, to really do it. I took my best piece, the only one that really was anything, and put it in an advertisement.

"The response was incredible. Most people would rather buy something than make their own. Soon, I didn't even need the advertisements. People wanted to be my audience. I was wealthier than in my wildest dreams.

"But in the process, the worldlier I got, the more I wondered about the world. Why is it so uniform? Where are the real lines of power? Who is the ultimate creator of the medium?

"So I began to use the news programs to learn about these things, and the more I explored, the more I found that no one really knows. It's all just stories and pretty art, and moreover, I can do it as well as anyone. Better, in fact.

"Think of the billions who use the news, Sand. The biggest single audience in the world, and all you have to do is pick the right side. My first history was for a minor Helmsman, but I always had a flair for patching up the past. Now it's the big ones who need me. Now I am the public eye, and the Helmsmen dare not counter me, even on their own ground, for I am threatening their very existence with The View From The Hilltop."

Sand released his breath and asked, "But what does this have to do with being an artist?"

Holly responded with strained patience.

"How much detail do you have, Sand, personally? Most people would consider you a fairly wealthy man just from your family."

Sand hesitated.

"How much?" Holly prodded.

"About thirty thousand blocks, but I don't touch it."

"Why not?" asked Holly. But before Sand could answer, Holly said, "No matter."

With a wave of his hand, a tiny clown faced doll appeared, and Holly addressed it. "How much is this place worth?"

"Twenty-seven billion blocks of detail," the doll intoned.

"And The View From The Hilltop, how much?"

"Sixty-three trillion blocks of detail."

"Thank you. You may go."

The doll seemed to catch Sand's eye with its metallic gaze, but then it looked straight through him, turned and vanished.

"Think of that, Sand. Sixty-three trillion blocks. The detail of human experience is expensive. Would you like a few billion to play with? Wealth is my strength, the arteries of my clenched fist. It is a big game, a very big game, and it is full of enemies you must respect and fear." At that moment, Sand could not imagine Benjamin Holly fearing anyone, but the artist's face went dark.

"Who?" asked Sand. "A Helmsman?"

"No, not a Helmsman," he replied. "There is one man whose power does not stem from within the medium. He is not an artist. When the children, the colonists, were escaping through Weissenbaum's Eye, this man put a toll gate in their way, and gained great power and wealth for himself. I thought we'd seen the last of him. We captured him when we took Backdoor. But it seems Don Andrews has escaped."

Now the wind began to blow, and the clouds blocked out the sun. Holly put his hand on Sand's shoulder and looked deep into the young man's eyes.

"We are allies, you and I. Someday we will face Don Andrews together. But first, you must find Mara, and learn what you can from her."

Sand would have asked more questions, but Holly was deep in thought, and the sky blew darker. "I will show you more of the art next time. For now, be patient."

With that, Sand's eyes were closed, and he was lying once more on his couch.

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