Engineman - Eric Brown [217]
"You almost sound sorry for him," I commented.
"Oh, I am, Richard. The man needs saving from himself."
I recalled the holo-cube of his daughter. As much as I found it hard to believe that Perry Bartholomew did indeed, as Ralph suggested, harbour human feelings in his heart, there was the memento of Elegy he kept on display in his lounge. I mentioned this. "I assumed it was merely to remind him of her intellect," I said.
"He purposefully gives that impression," Ralph said. "But believe me, he loves her. Why else would he agree to having her stay with him over her birthday?"
I was not totally convinced. "Because he wants to impress everyone with her genius?" I suggested.
Ralph smiled to himself. "We'll see," he said. "It should be quite an interesting few days."
He climbed from the chesterfield and moved to the balcony. I joined him. Across the sparkling expanse of the water, the concourse was thronged with a crowd of artists. Bartholomew's continuum-frame was the centre of attention. Ralph smiled to himself. "Will they ever learn?" he said.
I glanced at my watch. The sight of all the work arranged on the concourse reminded me that I had yet to exhibit my own piece. I would put the finishing touches to it that afternoon. "What are you doing this evening, Ralph?"
"Working, unfortunately. I have a few things I want to get ready for tomorrow."
We made arrangements to meet for breakfast the next day and I left for my dome. I took the long way around the oasis, so as to avoid the crowd and the malign aura that surrounded Perry Bartholomew's latest work of art.
Ralph was in good humour the following morning as we breakfasted on the patio overlooking the oasis. He buttered his toast lavishly, as if it were a palette, and gestured with it as he told me about a group of new artists whose work he admired. He was prone to mood swings, depending on how his work was progressing, and I could only assume that all was going well now.
Below us, on the concourse, a cover had been erected to protect the exhibits from the effects of the sun. People strolled down the aisles formed by the works, pausing occasionally to admire a piece more closely. Bartholomew's continuum-frame, huge and ungainly, looked out of place among the smaller crystals, sculptures and mobiles.
I was about to comment that the piece would be more at home in a breaker's yard when the artist himself rode up the escalator and crossed the patio. As he passed our table he inclined his head. "Gentlemen." He appeared rather frail this morning, his white suit hanging on his tall frame.
Ralph gestured, swallowed a bite of toast. "Perry, why not join us?"
Bartholomew paused, raised an eyebrow. "I think perhaps I might," he said. "Very kind of you."
He seated himself at the table and ordered breakfast - a single cup of black coffee. I felt uneasy in his presence. I recalled what Ralph had said yesterday about saving Bartholomew from himself, but wished that Ralph had waited until I was elsewhere to indulge his missionary streak.
Bartholomew nodded towards the exhibition. "When does the fun begin, Ralph?"
"This afternoon, when the judges arrive."
Bartholomew nodded. He had the ability to make his every gesture regal. "And who might they be?"
"Ah... can't tell you that. Utmost secrecy. Competition rules..."
Bartholomew smiled and sipped his coffee. His attitude suggested that he thought the result of the contest a foregone conclusion. "I see Delgardo's showing a crystal. I rather like his work."
Ralph didn't, and was usually vocal about the fact. "He has a certain technical expertise," he said.
They continued with this vein of light banter, and I ceased to listen. I moved my chair back and propped my feet on the balustrade, enjoying the sun.
I was the first to notice them - two small figures hurrying around the oasis towards the patio. They almost ran up the escalator, and this exertion, in an environment where a leisurely stroll was de rigueur, caused me to sit up. The two men