Sirens of Titan - Kurt Vonnegut [11]
Constant had inherited this famous art collection. The collection had been made by his father—or, rather, by agents of his father. It was scattered through museums all over the world, each piece plainly marked as a part of the Constant Collection. The collection had been made and then deployed in this manner on the recommendation of the Director of Public Relations of Magnum Opus, Incorporated, the corporation whose sole purpose was to manage the Constant affairs.
The purpose of the collection had been to prove how generous and useful and sensitive billionaires could be. The collection had turned out to be a perfectly gorgeous investment, as well.
"That takes care of art," said Rumfoord.
Constant was about to return the photograph of Miss Canal Zone to his billfold, when he felt that he held not one photograph but two. There was a photograph behind that of Miss Canal Zone. He supposed that that was a photograph of Miss Canal Zone’s predecessor, and he thought that he might as well show Rumfoord her, too—show Rumfoord what a celestial lulu he had given the gate to.
"There—there’s another one," said Constant, holding out the second photograph to Rumfoord.
Rumfoord made no move to take the photograph. He didn’t even bother to look at it. He looked instead into Constant’s eyes and grinned roguishly.
Constant looked down at the photograph that had been ignored. He found that it was not a photograph of Miss Canal Zone’s predecessor. It was a photograph that Rumfoord had slipped to him. It was no ordinary photograph, though its surface was glossy and its margins white.
Within the margins lay shimmering depths. The effect was much like that of a rectangular glass window in the surface of a clear, shallow, coral bay. At the bottom of that seeming coral bay were three women—one white, one gold, one brown. They looked up at Constant, begging him to come to them, to make them whole with love.
Their beauty was to the beauty of Miss Canal Zone as the glory of the Sun was to the glory of a lightning bug.
Constant sank into a wing chair again. He had to look away from all that beauty in order to keep from bursting into tears.
"You can keep that picture, if you like," said Rumfoord. "It’s wallet size."
Constant could think of nothing to say.
"My wife will still be with you when you get to Titan," said Rumfoord, "but she won’t interfere if you want to frolic with these three young ladies. Your son will be with you, too, but he’ll be quite as broad-minded as Beatrice."
"Son?" said Constant. He had no son.
"Yes—a fine boy named Chrono," said Rumfoord.
"Chrono?" said Constant.
"A Martian name," said Rumfoord. "He’s born on Mars—by you, out of Beatrice."
"Beatrice?" said Constant.
"My wife," said Rumfoord. He had become quite transparent. His voice was becoming tinny, too, as though coming from a cheap radio. "Things fly this way and that, my boy," he said, "with or without messages. It’s chaos, and no mistake, for the Universe is just being born. It’s the great becoming that makes the light and the heat and the motion, and bangs you from hither to yon.
"Predictions, predictions, predictions," said Rumfoord musingly. "Is there anything else I should tell you? Ohhhhh—yes, yes, yes. This child of yours, this boy named Chrono—
"Chrono will pick up a little strip of metal on Mars—" said Rumfoord, "and he will call it his ’good-luck piece.’ Keep your eye on that good-luck piece, Mr. Constant. It’s unbelievably important."
Winston Niles Rumfoord vanished slowly, beginning with the ends of his fingers, and ending with his grin. The grin remained some time after the rest of him had gone.
"See you on Titan," said the grin. And then it was gone.
"Is it all over, Moncrief?" Mrs. Winston Niles Rumfoord called down to the butler from the top of the spiral staircase.
"Yes, Mum—he’s left," said the butler, "and the dog, too."
"And that Mr. Constant?" said Mrs. Rumfbord— said Beatrice. She was behaving like an invalid—tottering, blinking hard, making her voice like wind in the treetops.