textfiles/magazines/FOL/fol0203.txt

                              FICTION-ONLINE

                       An Internet Literary Magazine
                            Volume 2, Number 3
                              May-June, 1995



EDITOR'S NOTES:
     
     FICTION-ONLINE is a literary magazine published
electronically through e-mail and the internet on a bimonthly
basis.  The contents include short stories, play scripts or
excerpts, excerpts of novels or serialized novels, and poems. 
Some contributors to the magazine are members of the Northwest
Fiction Group of Washington, DC, a group affiliated with
Washington Independent Writers.  However, the magazine is an
independent entity and solicits and publishes material from the
public.
     To subscribe or unsubscribe or for more information, please
e-mail a brief request to 
                    ngwazi@clark.net  
To submit manuscripts for consideration, please e-mail to the
same address.  Back issues of the magazine may be obtained by e-
mail from the editor or by anonymous ftp (or gopher) from         
            ftp.etext.org  
where issues are filed in the directory /pub/Zines.  AOL users
will find back issues under "Writer's Club E-Zines."  

     COPYRIGHT NOTICE: The copyright for each piece of material
published is retained by its author.  Each subscriber is licensed
to possess one electronic copy and to make one hard copy for
personal reading use only.  All other rights, including rights to
copy or publish in whole or in part in any form or medium, to
give readings or to stage performances or filmings or video
recording, or for any other use not explicitly licensed, are
reserved.

                                   William Ramsay, Editor
                                   ngwazi@clark.net

================================================================= 
                               CONTRIBUTORS

CLAUDIA BOWER is the pseudonym of a prominent Washington
legal consultant and former District of Columbia government
official.

OTHO ESKIN, former diplomat and consultant on international
affairs, has had numerous plays read and produced in Washington. 
His play "Duet" was recently produced at the Elizabethan Theater
at the Folger Library.  

WILLIAM RAMSAY is a physicist and consultant on Third World
energy problems.  He is also a writer and the co-ordinator of the
Northwest Fiction Group.

SUNG J. WOO is an assistant editor at IAEE Transaction and editor
of the electronic magazine "Whirlwind."
============================================================== 

                                 CONTENTS

     Editor's Note

     Contributors

     "Stone, Gold, Water," poems
          Claudia Bower

     "The Picture's Past," fiction
          Sung J. Woo

     "Hieronmyus," an excerpt (chapter 6) from the novel "In      
         Search of Mozart" 
          William Ramsay

     "State of the Art," short story
          Otho Eskin

================================================================= 
                                   
                                    
                            STONE, GOLD, WATER
     
                          by Claudia Bower


               STONE

Stone has weight, and heft.
It matters.
It can glitter too, and shine.
When wet -- a moon or planet, red or yellow.
It can have a molten core that hardens
to a galaxy of stars.
It thrusts to mountains.
It shatters too, and wears away
to prairie, meadow, beach or ocean floor.

Stone knows the score
but cannot breathe a word of this
lest mountains fall or
oceans drop away.
It bears its inborn secret with still dignity
and only hints on certain sunlit days
or under hidden waterfalls
the breadth of its discoveries.


               GOLD

Gold bubbles up among mariposite and quartz
in cauldrons of geologic lust and heat
to harden green, translucent gray and gold.

The gold pops up in veins that bend or fork,
Not placid rock or sleepy undisturbed beds.
The gold appears in fossil streams of change.


               WATER

Wet black gleaming road --
Moons of streetlamps --
Stars of water dancing:
We also shine in darkness --
and gleam and glow and dance
in raining splendor.

================================================================= 


                       THE PICTURE'S PAST

                         by Sung J. Woo


     The first time I saw him, he was sitting down on the ground,
his legs pulled close to his chest, in the middle of the soccer
field, alone.  Normally somebody, usually Bo Mercer and his crew,
was playing soccer or football, but not that day.  Nobody was
playing anything, so the new kid in school sat down by himself
and looked at all of us through his two midnight eyes, eyes as
dark as mine.
     "He's new," Gavin told me.  There were three new kids coming
into the third grade, and he was one of them.
     I was happy to see him because he looked like me.  He had
black hair like me, he had black eyes like me.  Although our
features did not exactly match up, before this new kid there was
nobody else in all of Wayside Elementary who even vaguely
resembled my Korean face, for I was the only Asian in the entire
school.
     During that recess period, I played on the swings with
Gavin.  Gavin was my neighbor; his dad and my dad went bowling
once a week, although it was Gavin's father who won the
occasional trophies, never mine.  Because Cindy Minkoff and
Barbara DeLeon were each commandeering their own swings, Gavin
and I had to take turns in one swing.
     But I didn't mind because when Gavin was swinging, I stared
at the new kid.  Even though I was too far away, I knew that he
was looking at me, too, one pair of black eyes connecting with
another.
                              * * *
     My parents ran a restaurant, a Chinese-Korean-Japanese-
Vietnamese restaurant, although they only knew how to cook
Chinese and Korean dishes.  They didn't care; nobody knew one
dish from another, and it was better for business.  Besides,
there wasn't Asian cuisine for a radius of one hundred miles from
our restaurant, so my parents had a monopoly when it came to
Eastern cooking.
     My father insisted that I worked.  He was big into that,
making his kid work.  If I had known about child labor laws, I
would have gladly informed him of his torturous ways, but of
course, I was too young and too foolish to know any better but to
obey.
     When the yellow bus dropped me off in front of my house at
three-thirty, my father would take me to the restaurant in his
sedan every day, five days a week.  I didn't do anything,
really -- I mostly I hung out in the kitchen with my father and
my mother.  My only job was to set up the tables when the busboys
took away the finished meals and cleaned off the tables.  Four
plates, four napkins, eight forks, eight spoons, and sixteen
chopsticks.  When it came to chopsticks, we didn't use the bamboo
kind; instead we used fancy lacquered ones with designs and
Chinese letterings.  They were such a hit that during our grand
opening, everyone who came in bought a set.  It made my father
very happy.
                              * * *
     When school was over that day, when I was dropped off at the
bus stop, my father was of course waiting for me in the car.  I
got in.
     I told him about the new kid in school, how he looked like
me.
     "Can you describe him, son?" he asked, so I did.  "But he
didn't look like you or me, right," he said, not a question. 
Then he thought about it for a bit and said, "He sounds like an
Indian."
     That's what he looked like, and I felt stupid for not
realizing it myself.  "Like the ones on TV, in those cowboy
movies, right?"
     He nodded his head and kept his eyes on the road.
     It was going to be another boring night at the restaurant,
setting up places after places for the customers.  At least
that's what I thought.
     For the second time that day, I saw the new kid at school,
the Indian.  He was wearing the same clothes he wore for school,
a gray sweatshirt with a hood and a pair of jeans.  With him were
his parents, I guessed.  His father had long black hair that was
braided a few twists at the end, tied together with a thin red
band of cloth.  His hair was longer than my mother's hair, which
hung a shade below her armpits.  The new kid's mother also had
long hair, but she let hers flow all the way down to the small of
her back.  She also carried a baby in her arms, wrapped up in a
white blanket.  It was crying in little bursts when she came in,
but she hushed it by rocking it to sleep.
     My mother led them to the far end of the restaurant.  A few
adults snatched little glances at them as they walked past them
while the kids my age stared at them.  They sat down and ordered
dumplings, General Tsao's chicken, and beef lo mein.
     "It's him," I told my mother in the kitchen.  "He's the new
student in school."
     "Cute baby boy they have," she said.  "They seem like nice
people.  If he's smart, make him your friend."  That was my
mother's big thing, that I should only have smart friends.  She
drilled that into my head, that I could learn nothing from stupid
friends, nothing that matters, anyway.  I thought she was wrong,
but of course I never said anything.  She was very adept at
making me feel guilty whenever I disagreed with her.
     I stood at the front desk and looked at them.  They were
like I've never seen before, they were Indians.  I only saw them
on TV, in those John Wayne movies where he would sometimes beat
them up with his bare white fists.  In those movies they never
had a shirt on and they always had streaks of red paint on their
cheeks -- and they were always howling some wild rebel yell on
their untamed, fiery horses.
     Again, our eyes met, black to black.  He was small for his
age, I thought.  I wasn't exactly King Kong, but I was considered
a normal-sized third grader.  His shoulders were delicately
narrow, his face missing the remnants of baby fat.  He looked
older for his age yet small for his age, a queer kind of
combination that made you wonder.
     When they were leaving, I waved him goodbye, and he waved
back.
                              * * *
     I don't know how kids become friends, but I think that's
exactly what we became.  I invited him to play second base in
kickball in recess, and he agreed, although a bit reluctantly. 
He was quick to throw the ball and even with that small frame, he
could kick a ton.
     We were assigned the same teacher, so we spent a lot of time
together.  His name was Simon, which didn't seem like an Indian
name to me, but then again, my name was Martin, so I really
didn't have a leg to stand on.  We were both a little surprised
to have American names, I guess.  Maybe I was expecting Sitting
Bull and he was expecting a name that sounded like a wind chime.  
   He was a phenomenal artist.  When I was still trying to
understand the idea of perspective, he was plotting against it,
subverting it.  It was like comparing a bicycle to an airplane;
Simon literally flew while everyone else waved at him on the
ground.  I can still remember the portrait he drew of one of his
ancestors, a Mohawk warrior named Red Cloud.  It scared the hell
out of me because the man wasn't screaming and his mouth was
closed and rigid and he had no warpaint on his cheeks and no
outrageous feathers sticking out of his head but he scared me
because he was just a person and he looked like, he was, a
warrior.
     But the reason why I really liked Simon because he wasn't a
very good student.  While the thought of not doing homework never
crossed my mind, Simon sometimes came into class without it. 
When Mrs. Reitmeyer asked him about these missing assignments, he
simply told her that he didn't do them, and that was it.  What
else was there?  He didn't have an excuse, he simply didn't do
them.  I guess she called his parents, maybe, but nothing ever
happened to him.  He did some homework, didn't do other homework. 
    After a while, I realized that most of the homeworks he
skipped were in History.
                              * * *
     "My father tells me that the history we learn in class is
not fair to our people," Simon said.
     I told him that I didn't understand.
     "He tells me that the Europeans, the English, all the white
people didn't understand our way of life."
     I still didn't understand, but I nodded.
     "Even though we live here, this really isn't our home
anymore."
     So I thought about my situation.  My parents moved from
South Korea when I was three.  Then they settled here, in the
United States of America.
     But they weren't thrown out of their land.  They left
willingly, because they wanted to.  That was not the case with
Simon's people.
     Although we had the color of our eyes and our hair in
common, that's where our river of similarities ended and the vast
valley of differences began.
                              * * *
     He was the most generous person I'd ever encountered, and
the person most in tune with nature.  Even in third grade, I
realized that there was something special in his ways.
     If he liked you, he would give you anything you needed. 
Even when it came to simple things like sharing cookies or
letting someone else play a game.
     Monopoly was one game that I never wanted to play with
Simon.  He, myself, and Gavin played once, and only once.
     He did very well for his first time playing the game, buying
up all the utilities and many houses.  He did so well in fact
that I went bankrupt much sooner than expected.
     "I guess I'm out," I said sheepishly.  "You're really good
at this, Simon."
     "No, you're not out," he said with a smile.  "Take some of
my money.  Let's keep playing."
     I've had many people do the same, even my own mother when we
as a family played.  But she would sacrifice herself to make her
son happy.  I didn't feel anything like that here, not at all. 
Simon simply gave because that was his way and he didn't know
otherwise.  That was how he was taught to live.  He didn't give
me the money to make me happy or to make himself happy, a kind of
a self-gratification.  He simply gave because that was how it was
always done with friends.
     That attitude also reached into the world of animals.  One
time, we were outside in one late autumn afternoon, the leaves in
that transient stage between turning to that last color and
falling to the ground.
     "Look at that squirrel," I said, pointing at the little
furry thing with a bushy tail running frantically gathering nuts. 
    "He's preparing for the winter," Simon said, and rolled a nut
that was near his foot to the squirrel.
     At the time, it didn't seem like a big deal, but even as a
dumb kid in third grade, I had felt the difference.  Of course,
there were people who would have done the same, but not because
they considered the squirrel a friend.  That was the feeling I
got when he said those words and rolled that nut, that Simon
considered the squirrel a friend.
     Years later, I was to witness an animal-rights rally. 
Although I didn't participate, I watched.  And the more I
watched, the more I realized the difference in ideal between what
Simon believed and what these people believed.  Simon put the
animals at the same level as himself, that the animals deserved
respect and kindness because we were a part of them and they a
part of us.  But even that is my own interpretation.  When it
came down to it, there were no levels between animals and humans
in Simon's eyes.  Like his concept of giving, he was simply
raised to believe that there are no levels separating living
beings.
     I did not get that feeling from those animal activists.  How
could you when they had pickets with sayings like "Animals are
People Too"?
                              * * *
     There were days when I just listened to him, listened to him
talk about the stories his father told him.  During recess,
instead of playing kickball or throwing a frisbee around, he
would tell me about some Mohawk legend that was passed to him. 
Although I found these stories to be boring, I was fascinated by
his storytelling ability.  His voice would change when he was
talking through a different character.  He would delay saying
some things to create a sense of drama and melodrama; he would
ham it up, he would tone it down.  A lot of the stories were
about nature and sharing and praying to various gods.  Some were
about the World-Maker.  I didn't really care what he was saying
as long as he was saying it.  For all I cared, Simon could have
been talking about the significance of shoe sizes and I would
have still listened.
     I wasn't the only one who listened, either.  It wasn't long
until other people, even stupid girls like Cindy Minkoff and
Barbara DeLeon came to listen instead of swinging on their
selfish swings.  And instead of the increasing crowd making him
tense or nervous, Simon seemed to get more energetic, more
fantastic in his tales, as if he was receiving and giving back
the spiritual force of those involved.
     But something else happened, too.  I was jealous of him
knowing so much about his past while I knew nothing.  There were
over five millennia of South Korean history and my father had
told me none of it.
                              * * *
     "Dad," I said.
     "Hmmm," he said, his eyes still glued to the newspaper
pages.
     "Dad, I want to know about South Korea," I said.
     "What's there to know, son?  You were born there, left when
you were three."
     "No no no," I said.  "I want to know about the five thousand
years of history."
     "All tonight.  You want to know all of it tonight."
     "Yes," I said.
     He folded his paper and looked at me.  I didn't know if it
was admiration for my thirst for knowledge or realization of his
son's horrendous stupidity, but he smiled at me and told me a few
old tales.
     I was never sorrier in my life.  My father may have been a
provider, a dad, and a husband for my mother, but a storyteller
he was not.  It was like listening to some voiceover of a PBS
documentary on rice paddies.
                              * * *
     Why Bo Mercer never picked on me was something I never could
understand.  I always did better than him in third grade, I ran
faster than he could, I did everything better than he could ever
hope to.  And, I was different.  I looked different than anybody
else, which by itself should have given the class bully something
to chew on.
     But he never touched me, physically or mentally.  He wasn't
buddy-buddy with me, either, but it was as if he and I were
living in a different level, that I was invisible to him and he
was invisible to me.
     Unlike the classic bullies, he picked on anybody he felt
like picking on.  It wasn't always the smaller guy or the geeky
guy, it was anybody.
     And one day, just out of the blue, he set his sights on
Simon.
     There was something fierce about Mercer, the way his fine
blond hair would fall over his face, or the way he would strut
around in recess.  When he and his crew decided to pick on you,
it made your life very hard.  I knew because Gavin had been one
of those people, and they broke him down to tears on several
occasions.
     It was a relentless type of bullying treatment that he gave
to Simon.  He would push him and trip him, sprawled him on the
ground.  He would throw his books across the hall.  He would call
him names like "Chief Pow-Wow" and "Injun Joe."
     But Simon never fought back.
                              * * *
     It was the first day of December.  Christmas seemed to be
approaching us in light-speed, and winter vacation, too, for that
matter.  We were in third grade; we were young enough to still
appreciate the magical qualities Christmas and winter vacation
promised, young enough to feel instead of understand.
     I got off the bus and started for the school doors.  But
when I looked, I saw Bo Mercer and his gang run up to Simon and
smack the books out of his arm.  The pencils and erasers from
Simon's bag also broke, spilling everywhere.
     I walked up to him and began to pick up the things silently. 
I didn't know why Simon didn't fight back.  Mercer looked mean,
but I had a feeling that if Simon got serious, he could maul him
into submission.  The way he kicked those kickballs, I could
easily see Mercer doubled up on the ground, holding onto his
stomach in pain.
     I wanted to help him, but fighting someone else's battle was
worse than not fighting at all.  At least that's what I told
myself -- and it was true to an extent.  Every boy or man is
supposed to fight his own battles, and it was really none of my
business to come between Mercer and Simon.  But there was also
the selfish undercurrent of fear that ran through my own youthful
subconscious.  What if Mercer were to come after me when he got
through with Simon?  If I were to intervene, wouldn't our secret
and silent pact of mutual nonrecognition be null and void?     
So I said nothing and helped Simon pick up the rest of the stuff. 
He also brought in a whole bag full of crayons and other art
material that day, and all those had spilled, too.
     "Why did you bring the crayons?" I asked.  "We just finished
that art homework yesterday."
     "I'm going to draw something in recess outside," he said.    
     "Outside?  It's cold," I said.
     "It's going to get warm today, much warmer than now," Simon
said, putting the last few things in his bag.  "You should help." 
    I shook my head.  "You know I'm not really good at art."     
"Who cares?  I'm going to be drawing, and I wish you would help
me."
     I shrugged.  If he wanted his masterpiece to have a blemish,
so be it, I thought.
                              * * *
     So it was Indian summer; Simon couldn't have been more
right.  After the initial chill of the morning, the day was
warming up.  I took off my sweater and went outside in my
t-shirt, and everyone else did the same.  We all thought that the
kickball had retired for the year, but it wasn't so.  Gavin and I
went into the gymnasium and got the red rubber ball to play.  I
looked around for Simon, but he was nowhere to be found.
     It felt good to play outside again.  Ever since the middle
of November, not too many people left the school indoors. 
Everyone was smiling with warmth and freedom on their minds.     
Then, in the distance, almost like that very first day that I saw
him, Simon was at the opposite side of the school.  He was
standing in front of the west wall of Wayside Elementary, which
curiously had a long, white sheet of paper running across it.     
We all stopped playing and looked.  I was the first to leave the
field to approach him.  Soon everyone else followed.
     This was what Simon was talking about earlier, which I had
completely forgotten until I saw it.  The white sheet, which was
actually cloth, ran the entire length of the wall.
     "Was this what you were talking about?" I asked him.
     "Yep.  It's for the Holiday Fair.  The school asked me if I
wanted to paint something for it, so I said yes, but only if
everyone was allowed to do it with me."  Sitting near him was a
huge box filled with crayons, markers, and other items in the
artistic arsenal, certainly enough things that we could all
simultaneously participate.
     Then he started to draw with black chalk some outlines.  In
the beginning I had no idea what he was drawing.  We were all
mystified, a bunch of little kids surrounding one little kid,
looking and searching for the picture's meaning.  Simon drew fast
and furious, his small hands moving around and over, and then
someone in the crowd realized something very peculiar about the
picture.
     "That looks like our town," he said, "but it's not our town,
is it?"
     "It is our town," Simon said.
     "Then what are those really long houses?  Those aren't there
now," a girl said.
     "That's what this town used to look like hundreds of years
ago, before George Washington and everyone else," Simon said,
still intently drawing.  It was going to be a glorious picture.  
Drawn from the view of the town from Dickson Hill, the painting
spawned these grandiose, long houses with the rolling hills and
faraway mountains stabilizing the background.
     "There were only Indians before George Washington," the girl
said again, "and they lived in tepees."  Some other people
giggled at that, probably conjuring up images of the John Wayne
Indian, complete with warpaint and wild shrieks of fury.
     "My people lived in long houses like these," Simon said. 
"We called ourselves Haudenosaunee, People of the Longhouse.  We
didn't live in tepees."
     "Ho-do-nee what?" someone said.
     "Hau-de-no-sau-nee," Simon said, more slowly.  "I need some
animals on the ends of this thing.  Does anybody want to do it?"  
   "But it's your drawing," the tepee girl said.  "I don't want
to mess it up."
     "You're not going to mess it up," he said, and gave her a
bunch of crayons.
     Slowly, one by one, we took up our instruments of art.  It
wasn't long until everyone had a chalk, pastel, or crayon in
their hands, drawing animals and other stuff.  In my little
corner, I drew a pink flower and the South Korean flag.
     "What's that?" Simon asked, peering at my feeble attempts at
drawing.  His face was full of energy, he seemed to radiate a
kind of a glow.  That's how he always was whenever he was doing
anything related to painting.
     "It's the Korean flag," I said.  "And the national flower
under it.  It's pronounced moo-goong-hwa in Korean.  It's called
the rose of Sharon in English."
     He smiled at me and said, "That's great!"  He then went back
to work.
     We were at it for the entire period of recess, it seemed
like.  And we still weren't done when the bell rang.
                              * * *
     Simon and I were walking side by side as we were dismissed
from school, but before we could go too far, someone stopped us. 
He stopped Simon and told him to look at what someone did to
their mural.
     Someone had written in thick black marker the words "I HATE
INDIANS" all across the mural.  There were other nasty writings,
too, but that one stood out the most.  It was Bo Mercer, no
doubt.  Who else would do something so cruel?
     Simon walked up to the mural and stared at it, and that's
when he came from the side and shoved Simon hard to the ground. 
Mercer.
     "Come on, Indian, why don't you scalp me?  Huh?" he said,
his eyes sparkling.
     When Simon got to his feet, he pushed him down again, but
Simon didn't go down this time.  He kept his balance and stood
his ground.  He looked at him without saying a single word.     
Then Mercer just exploded.  He started with a punch to Simon's
stomach but didn't stop there.  He was throwing punches and slaps
-- but Simon still didn't go down.
     It only angered Mercer.  He tackled him, and they were both
on the ground.  Mercer got on top of him and sat down and started
slapping him and punching him.  Simon tried to block the blows,
but Mercer didn't care.  He threw his punches wild, and some of
them connected.  I saw blood coming out of Simon's nose.
     And nobody did anything.  Someone eventually got Mrs.
Reitmeyer, who got Principal Williams, but it seemed like
forever.  It seemed like Mercer was beating on Simon for hours,
and nobody, including myself, did anything but watch.
     When Principal Williams took hold of Mercer and led him
away, everyone else left as well.  School buses were lined up and
waiting to take them home.
     I didn't go home.  Father was going to have to go to the
restaurant without me that day.
     Mrs. Reitmeyer asked Simon if he was okay, to which he
nodded.  She then went to get the nurse.
     Why didn't I kick Mercer in the head when he was on top of
Simon?  Why didn't I get my books and slam him on the head with
them?  I felt like a total coward, and I didn't want to meet
Simon's eyes.
     But then I looked up -- at the wall, at the mural -- and it
was gone.  There was no wall.  There was no Wayside Elementary
School.  The entire building was gone.
     Instead, a long house was in its place, made out of infinite
logs, stretching for miles onward.  I couldn't see the end of the
house.  It just ended, it seemed, to a point on the horizon.     
Standing in front of one of the doors was Red Cloud, his arms
crossed, the muscles in his arms stone-cut, like his face.  He
looked even more menacing in person.
     And sitting in front of him was Simon, who was fine, not a
scratch.
     I sat down next to him.  I had to sit down.
     "You look worse than me," Simon said, smiling.

================================================================= 
 
                                HIERONYMUS

      [An excerpt from "In Search of Mozart," a novel: chapter 6] 
                            by William Ramsay
 
 
     The old Prince-Archbishop of Salzburg, Sigismund, was dead. 
Long live Fuerst-Erzbischof Hieronymus, Count Colloredo, formerly
Bishop of Gurk, the new monarch of the small independent
archbishopric.  The new ruler was his father's new boss and now
Wolfgang's boss too: he was given his own position.
"Concertmaster" to the court, at a measly salary of 150 gulden a
year -- about the cost of a two new silk moire suits.  And His
Grace deigned to commission an opera from him -- "Il sogno di
Scipio."
     "He's a stupid know-nothing!" he said to his father.
     "He may be," said his father.  "But you'd better be both
honored and grateful."
     "'The Dream of Scipio'!  No, 'Mozart's Nightmare.'"
     His father made a face.  Wolfgang put his feet up on the new
red wool hassock in front of the fire.  It was a cold March in
Salzburg, there was dirty slush on the ground, and their shoes
had become soaked in the walk over to the Residenz.  He took off
his wig and began idly to twirl several stray locks of his golden
hair.  "He's a grim-looking fellow, isn't he?"
     "Yes, not much sense of humor, I'd say."
     "Maybe I'll tweak his nose a little with this one."
     "Not when we need the money.  Keep it inoffensive."
     "How could you offend anyone with a Metastasio libretto?"    
     "Not easily," said his father, smiling.
     "Not unless the shepherds drop the shepherdesses and take
out after the sheep!"
     "Wolferl!"  His father's eyes widened. "I'm surprised at
you!"  But his father had to bite his lip to hold back a smile. 
"Maybe," he said, "that's why the shepherds wear those fluffy
white periwigs!"
     Wolfgang smacked the uneven wooden table with his hand. 
"Currying favor with the ba-ba set!"
     His father tittered and pressed his lips together.
     "The Dream Of Scipio" was well-received.  And the following
autumn, the Archduke Ferdinand commissioned another opera from
him for the Milan carnival season.  "Lucio Silla" turned out to
be a success -- naturally, thought Wolfgang.  The impresario made
a good deal of money out of it.  Good for him!  He himself got a
new gold watch from the untidy hands of Count Carlo di Firmian. 
Add it to the collection in the closet upstairs.  Shit!  Besides,
when he had returned from Milan, guess who had a new boyfriend? 
Right!  Barbara von Moelk.
     It was spring now again, and he was seventeen years old.  He
sat on the pierced stool in the privy thinking.  God, it was
cold.  He'd even lost his morning hard-on in the chill. 
Meanwhile Papa was driving him crazy pushing him to find a new
position, a real job, not like being a junior hanger-on at the
brilliant court of the Fart-Assbishop of Salzburg, prince of the
ignoramuses, tone-deaf patron of the musical arts!
                                    ***
     In his book-lined study on the second floor of the
thirty-room baroque Residenz, Prince-Archbishop Hieronymus was
talking to Count Felix Arco.  The Archbishop, with his slender,
wrinkled face, sat in a tall-backed chair, gazing with a brooding
expression down at the sloping mound of his belly.  He looked
first up, at the Rottmyer ceiling frescos of prancing horses, and
then across the table at his chamberlain, Count Arco, whose face
feigned polite expectation.
     "I'm a churchman, Felix," said the Archbishop.  "And, I
admit it, perforce a politician.  I'm not a genius, I never said
I was.  I'm not even that proud of the little scholarship I
possess.  I know my place -- it's a humble but an honorable one." 
    Count Arco, sixty-one, was a large, globular man, with a
prominent belly and gigantic arms and legs that bulged over the
tops of his breeches and stockings.  He said "Of course, nobody
would ever question that, Your Grace."
     "Then tell me, why am I faced with all these problems with
this Mozart boy?  He's a pleasant enough fellow sometimes, when
he wants to be, but you can't tell him anything.  Spoiled rotten. 
Arrogant.  Is his music all that wonderful?  I wouldn't know,
people tell me it is."
     The Count raised his eyebrows.  "He's very imaginative, full
of ideas, always has been," said the Count.  "I've known him
since he was a baby."
     "'Baby,' indeed.  'Baby'!  I don't care how wonderful he's
supposed to be!  'Baby' had better learn some manners."
     "I'll say a word to Bullinger, Your Grace, maybe he can talk
to little Wolferl."
     "'Little Wolferl!'  Ugh!  Everybody still treats him like a
pampered infant around here.  And I'm sick of it, do you hear,
Felix, sick of 'geniuses'!" 
     Count Felix Arco looked resigned.  "Yes, Your Highness. 
Many people around here have been getting sick of Kapellmeister
Mozart and his patented litlle genius for some time now."         
                             ***
     A few days later, Wolfgang was walking through the Domplatz
when abbe Bullinger stopped him and told him what they had been
saying about him at the Residenz.
     "What, me, arrogant, Abbe?" said Wolfgang.  "I take people
as they come, I pride myself on it."
     "Wolferl, be honest, how about the remark you made yesterday
to Brunetti from the Court Orchestra?"
     "Oh," said Wolfgang.  He lowered his head.  "But I only said
something to him about keeping the tempo, it wasn't anything
about the Archbishop." 
     "Apparently you said, 'Those were all lovely tempos -- why
don't you try picking out one of them and see if you can hold
onto it?'" 
     Wolfgang laughed.
     "Really funny, Wolferl.  And then you added something like,
'That bunch up at the Residenz has enough trouble with one tempo,
we don't want to tax them unnecessarily with two or three.'"     
Oh, well, what the hell."
     "Be careful, Wolferl.  This is a small town, these things
get around."
     "I suppose." 
     Oh God, Salzburg.  Small town is right! 
     Arrogance?
     What else is keeping me sane? 
     After sitting on the Empress' lap and being knighted by the
Pope, is this finally the dungheap of my destiny that Padre
Martini described so poetically to me?
     That night as they sat at the table after dinner, he talked
to his father about the conversation with Bullinger.  His father
made a face and poured himself another glass of port.  "I've been
aware of the problem," his father said, his face grim.  The next
morning his father told him to pack his things for a trip to
Vienna -- the Archbishop had just left for a visit to Rome and it 
gave them the opportunity to make a desperation attempt at a
position for Wolfgang at the court of the Hapsburgs.
                                    ***
     Two weeks later, on a hot day in August 1773, a small,
elegant coach bearing the arms of the family of Hapsburg-Lorraine
moved at a slow trot through the lindens, pines, and oaks of the
Vienna Woods.  The day was bright and warm.  The shade of the
trees felt good to the Emperor Joseph after the hot ride from
Schoenbrunn Palace.  He tapped on the roof of the coach to signal
the coachman to slow down.  As the driver reined in, the front
left horse stumbled.  The coach lurched.  His mother caught at
him to support herself.
      "Are you all right, Mother?"
     "Yes, fine.  That wasn't anything.  I've been through much
more than that in my life, son.  Besides, I've got so much
padding these days," she said, pointing to her stomach, "that I'd
probably just bounce if anything happened to the coach."
     "Nothing ever frightens you, Mother."
     "Well," she said, raising her double chins high, "I try not
to let the little things bother me.  And I have my son and
co-regent to help me with the big things." 
     "Of course, of course."  He looked out the window as he saw
a young doe, still partially spotted, flash from behind a thicket
and down into a grove of spruce trees. 
     "I'm so glad you were able to join me today," his mother
said.  "It means so much to me.  Next week, it will be eight
years since he left us."
     "Yes, it seems like yesterday."  He pushed aside a wave of
sadness, and instead thought about how his father had enjoyed
cutting him down to size.
     "Your father was a good man.  Not a good politician, but he
had a good heart."
     Which he gave to a good many other women, thought Joseph. 
His mother passed her hand over her brow.  She smiled, and for an
instant looked much younger than her fifty-five years.  "You've
been much more energetic than he could have been, but of course
that wasn't his job, it was my job to govern, and I did."
     "And you did well.  You saved the Empire."
     "Yes.  Palffy and Kaunitz -- they and I -- saved it from
that man.  And now, son, we've stooped to acting in league with
Frederick -- and that unspeakably vicious woman in St. Petersburg
-- to rob our neighbors of their territory."  Joseph started to
speak.  She waved away his objection.  "I'm sorry, I know I
agreed, it was necessary, but I've never felt quite right about 
it!"  Maria Theresa clasped her arms across her large bosom and
frowned.
     "It was either going in with them on the partition -- or
letting Russia and Prussia take everything."
     "I know, I know.  But two wrongs has never made a right."    
     "Maman, the Polish government has gone downhill so badly,
Galicia is better off in Austrian hands."
     "'Austrian hands'!  Yes, Austrian, and Hungarian and
Bohemian and Croatian and Italian -- and now we'll have Polish
and Russian 'hands' as part of this empire.  Hands, all stretched
out for money and special privileges.  God help Austria."
     Joseph felt his stomach was becoming upset.  "Times have
changed, Maman."
     "Right and wrong haven't changed, robbing your neighbors
isn't right, leaguing up with scoundrels and whores like
Frederick and Catherine will never do us any good.  Never!  Look
what has happened.  We have a new province.  Wonderful.  But look
at what we also have.  Instead of a single weak Polish state on
our northern frontier, we have one even weaker Poland plus two
new strong neighbors."  She sighed.  "And to think that for this
I had to ask Toni to speak a courteous word to Louis' whore, that
du Barry woman.  Everybody assured me that we needed French
support in the Polish partition, and I told her it was her
patriotic duty.  My poor girl should have disobeyed me."
     "Toni will be queen of France someday."
     "Yes, poor girl, and she doesn't have the head for it.  Just
being stubborn won't do it.  I worry about her.  I worry about
all of you.  You too, Joseph.  You can't just say 'Let it be
done.'  Reforms mean you have to convince people.  You have to
lead them Joseph, not just order them." 
     "I know that, Mother."
     "Joseph, when I had to go before the Hungarian Diet in 1742
and beg for their help to save Vienna from the French, that's
when I learned about ruling.  What it is and what it isn't."     
"I will lead, Mother, don't worry, I will lead."
     "Son, you've been raised to the purple.  Growing up Crown
Prince has its advantages, solid advantages -- but sometimes it
makes it difficult to understand people. Even good people can be
devious.  Listen to Kaunitz, he knows.  The others, they tell you
what you want to hear, listen to Kaunitz."
     "I know that Kaunitz is a remarkable man.  A politician, but
sensitive.  How he loves music!"
     "Yes, I asked him to come to the audience for the Mozarts
this afternoon.  But he can't.  Can you come?"
     "No, I'd like to, but the Jesuit problem, you know."
     She frowned.  "It's so painful to me when the Church is
divided against itself.  I want to defend the Church.  But when
the Pope is fighting the Jesuits, what can we do?"
     He laughed, harshly.  "I don't know.  But at least we can
make sure that the Crown, not the Pope, ends up with the
possessions of the Order."
     She crossed herself.  "Don't jest about the Church!"  The
coach was coming out onto the flat ground again.  Houses were
appearing on the side of the road.  "It's a pretty day, isn't it
Joseph?"
     "Yes, Mother."
     She thought a minute.  "Can we do anything for the Mozart
boy?"
     He sighed.
     "Never mind, I won't bother you with it.  Thanks for today,
it meant a great deal to me at this time."  She took his hand."   
  He kissed her hand.  "We all miss him.  He was a good husband
and father."
     "And yet," she said, "he had too little to do.  That was
bad."
     "He was a good man," he said, thinking of his father's
constant visits to the dark-haired, svelte Princesse d'Ausperg. 
"I'd like to think that I'm like him in some ways."
     "You are, and I love you.  But listen to Kaunitz.  Please. 
And keep me informed.  If I have to hear again about what's going
on from that fool Baron von Stein, I'm going to try to put you
over my knee as I did thirty years ago."
      He laughed and pressed her hand.
     "You may laugh, but I mean it."
     "I know you do, Mother.  You always do."
     She frowned at him but then relaxed into a smile.  "My Sepp,
baby."
     "Please, Mother!"  His eyes bugged out, he turned bright red
and looked out the window.
     Her face convulsed and her mouth opened in a roar of
laughter.  She bent over, leaned back again and, holding her
stomach, kept laughing, tears falling down along the furrows of
her cheeks.
     Did she have to carry on like that?  It wasn't that funny!   
                                    ***
     Wolfgang stood gazing around the Grand Salon in the
Schoenbrunn as his father made a flowery speech to the Empress. 
He sneaked a look at the ceiling, with its pale blue skies and
cherubs blowing golden horns, while saints in brown and reddish
robes gazed at the Virgin and Child.  He remembered when he was
five years old and that ceiling had seemed the most wonderful
thing in the world to him.  And when he had wanted to be a prince
himself.  Now his ambitions had been reduced to just making a
decent living -- if he could.
     "And I'm so happy to see you again, young Herr Mozart," said
the Empress.
     "It's been many years since you sat on my lap."
     "I am most honored, Your Imperial Majesty."  God, she's
gotten awfully fat.
     "How you've grown!  How old are you now?"
     "Seventeen, Your Majesty."
     "My son has told me about the success of your operas in
Milan."
     Son?  Oh, she meant Ferdinand, not the Emperor.  "Thank you,
Your Imperial Majesty."
     His father reminisced with the Empress about her younger
days, when she herself would sing roles in operas, especially
once in "Ipermestra."  Then he brought up the possibility of a
position at court for Wolfgang.
     "Well, Herr Mozart.  I admire your son's playing
tremendously, I always have."
     "Your Majesty was responsible for the first encouragement
given to his career."
     She smiled.  "But the Emperor and I would like you to take
this up with Signor Affligio.  You understand, we have to keep
the musical program organized."
     "Yes, Your Majesty," said his father.
     She turned to Wolfgang.  "Young man, remember that it's a
large world.  There are many things to do and places to go."     
"Yes, Your Majesty."
     "Try to be grateful to God for what he has given you."  Her
blue eyes sparkled at him from beneath her heavy lids.  "You have
so much talent.  As long as you have faith, you will prevail.  If
not here in Vienna, then elsewhere."  She coughed.  "I mean, of
course, faith in God.  I hope you're a good Catholic," she said,
frowning at him.
     "Yes, Your Majesty," said his father, "he attends mass
regularly and takes communion every Sunday."
     "Good," she said.  "Good.  I take communion daily. 
Confession keeps the heart young."  She gestured to indicate that
the audience was over.  "One must do right," she muttered, "at
all costs."
     They bowed their way out.  As they were leaving the palace,
he said,  "Confession may have kept her heart young, but it
hasn't kept the rest of her from aging."
     "Hush," said his father, crossing himself.
     "Does she do anything now, or does the Emperor run the
place?" he asked.
      His father shrugged.  "Everybody calls him Joseph the
Bighead, and they say the two of them quarrel over everything."   
  "Evidently they don't quarrel over us.  They're both equally
indifferent."
      "And Gluck has the Emperor's ear, they say," said his
father.
      "And do you know what Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart says to all
that?" 
     "What?"  His father smiled.
     "Chevalier Gluck is welcome to the ear of the Emp-ty-roar
Joseph -- and to his asskissing courtiers and his low-class
lackey jobs!"
     His father shook his head.
     His father had kissed too many asses himself.  But Wolfgang
Amadeus Mozart wasn't going to spend the rest of his life as a
lickspittle!  Not for all the Josephs in Europe.                  
                                    ***
   The hardwoods on the upper slopes of the Moenchsberg were
beginning to turn, making faint yellow patterns among the dark
green of the conifers.  All the old thoughts about money, about
his son, about a dowry for his daughter, were coming back to him
now that he was home again in Salzburg.  His worries cast a
melancholy shadowing onto the bright sunlight that warmed him as
he came out of the darkness of the tall houses along the
Getreidegasse and into the open square.  He tried to clear away
the gloomy thoughts, like cobwebs with a broom, by thinking of
all the good things he had in his life -- his family, his work,
his religion.
     "Hello, Leo, how was Vienna?" Abbe Bullinger fell in beside
him as they met at the corner of the Domplatz.
     He shook Bullinger's hand.  The big paw enveloped his
warmly.  "Nothing, I'm afraid."
     "Ah," said the priest, adjusting the tiny black skullcap on
his immense square head.
     "I was hoping you would run across some new opportunities
there."
     "Salzburg isn't the worst place in the world, I suppose."    
     They walked along, across the square toward the
Residenzplatz.
     "I don't want to worry you, but if you and Wolferl are
planning to stay in Salzburg, Leo, it might be a good idea to
mend a few fences here."
     Leopold stopped at the entrance to the Residenzplatz.  A
sausage seller was setting up his stand for the noontime rush. 
"Oh?"
     "That idiot Kremer and one of the other clerks were telling
the Archbishop the other day that if people always think of
Wolfgang as Mozart of Milan or Munich or Vienna, what good does
that do His Grace?  All he has is a young man, who -- I'm sorry,
Leo, but it's what people are saying -- who thinks he's too good
for this place."
     "But Sepp, what do they want of him?  They won't give him
suitable work, do they want him to stop accepting outside
commissions from people who do recognize his genius?"
     "I don't know, Leo, but it wouldn't surprise me if they
did."  The tall, husky Abbe nodded his head profoundly.
     "But what if the Empress should make a request or if the
Elector of Bavaria wants Wolfgang to compose another opera, say? 
Will he dare say no to them?"
     "Any Prince-Archbishop of Salzburg will have to get along
with his neighbors."  The Abbe looked closely at the sausages,
leaning down to sniff.  "But this particular Archbishop also
wants his own way.  Badly."
     "He can't expect someone like Wolfgang to stay here forever,
writing routine choral music, with a theatrical sop like 'Scipio'
thrown in once in a while!"  Leopold gripped the edge of the
sausage seller's wagon.
     "No point in talking to me about it, Leo.  Talk to Firmian,
talk to your friend Count Arco, talk to the Archbishop himself. 
Reassure them."
     Leopold expelled a deep breath, the air was filled with the
aroma of roasting fat.  "I don't believe it.  What pigheaded,
uncultured idiots."  He shook his head.  "Maybe good old
Sigismund wasn't so bad after all."
     "He was a good man, and a good Prince-Archbishop." said
Bullinger.  "May his soul rest in peace."
     "In the realm where there is no selfishness, envy, or
spite." said Leopold.  "There's only one thing left to do, Sepp." 
    "What, Leo?"
     Leopold gazed at the sausage cart.  "It should be obvious."  
     "What, Leo?"
     He smiled.  "Let's have a sausage!"
     As they ate, leaning over to keep the juice from dripping on
their coat fronts, Leopold Mozart said,"Why don't you arrange an
appointment for me with Count Firmian?"
     "Really, Leo?  What are you going to say?"
     "Whatever I have to to get Wolferl permission to take
outside commissions.  It's bad enough to have him stuck here in
the Archbishop's service -- but if he doesn't get away at times,
he'll die.  Or stop composing -- which is about the same thing!"  
   "Or maybe marry that red-haired Zimmerman girl?" said
Bullinger.
     "God forbid!" said Leopold.
                                    ***
     The weather was unseasonably cold, and he scrunched his cold
feet up under the down comforter as the night watchman called out
midnight on the Getreidegasse.  How was the weather in Guyana? 
Or in Constantinople?  He remembered the sun-dazzled day on the
boat in the Bay of Naples, the wind seeming to sweep away the
stink of all the Dreck of terra firma.  Anything seemed possible
that day.  Now nothing seemed possible -- he was in a prison
called Salzburg.  The search for the meaning of his life seemed
to be ending up at the blank wall of a mediocre job in he service
of a tone-deaf petty tyrant.
     He rubbed one foot against the other.  And such a goddamned
cold prison too!
===============================================================

                            STATE OF THE ART
                                       
                            by Otho E. Eskin

     A paper cup is pressed against my lips. I sip gratefully.
Now I remember -- I've lost my mind.
     I don't mean I'm going crazy. I don't have hallucinations. I
don't hear voices.  I mean I'm literally losing my mind.  Pieces
of me are vanishing.
     I've spoken about this to Dr. Praetorius.  He tells me it's
perfectly natural.
     But I'm diminished. Soon there will be nothing left.        
Try and remember.
     The ad read:

          WANTED: Experienced popular fiction writer to
          assist in preparation of manuscript. Generous
          remuneration. Interview Monday, May 2 at 10:00 a.m.     
     
This was followed by an address in midtown Manhattan.
     I've been going through a rough spell recently. It would be
months before I received the next check from my publisher and my
latest book was not selling well. So the following Monday I
appeared at Blackthorn Tower.  You know -- that bronze and white
building on Sixth Avenue. When I arrived at the 28th floor, I was
disheartened to see a large waiting room filled with people --
all clutching small cartons and Manila folders tied with string. 
The receptionist gave me an application to fill out and told me
to take a seat.
     After almost an hour, I was escorted to a small office with
a single desk.  Behind the desk sat a sallow man with narrow
shoulders and a weak chin.
     "Sit down," he said, without enthusiasm.  "Your application,
please."
     He glanced at it and pursed his lips.
     "You're Nesbit Crane?" he asked.
     "That's right."
     "And you're the author of all of these stories?"
     "Some are novels.  Yes."
     The man picked up the phone on the desk and pushed three
buttons.
     "Dr. Praetorius, I have in my office a man who says he's
Nesbit Crane."  There was a long silence.  Then the man replaced
the receiver and said: "Come with me."
     We took me to an immense office on the 40th floor where a
man with a neatly-trimmed beard sat behind a desk waiting for us.
He wore glasses tinted blue so I could not see his eyes. The
narrow-shouldered man placed my application reverently on the
desk and retreated from the room.
     "You're Nesbit Crane?" the man in the blue glasses demanded. 
    "Yes."
     "You're the author of The Riders of the Dawn?"
     "Yes."
     "You're the author of Moon Stalker?"
     "Yes.  Have you read my novels?"
     The man looked at me as if I had asked whether he picked his
nose in church.
     "I am Dr. Praetorius."  He did not sound as if he was
particularly happy to make my acquaintance.  "Mr. Crane, you
appear to have the qualifications we're looking for."
     "That's great," I said.
     "If you accept, you will be taken to our research facility
at Winterhaven where you will stay for approximately sixteen
weeks. For this, you will be paid $50,000."
     "Sounds fine to me," I said, trying to keep my voice from
trembling. "I have one question."
     I could feel the eyes studying me carefully from behind the
blue glasses.
     "What am I supposed to do?" I asked.
     "We need your expert assistance."
     "I'm no expert."
     "Oh, yes you are, Mr. Crane."
     At nine in the morning the following Monday, a man dressed
in a black chauffeur's uniform was waiting for me in front of my
co-op building. He took my suitcase and escorted me to a
gleaming, stretch limousine.  As we drove over the George
Washington Bridge and up the New York State Thruway, I tried to
make conversation but my comments and questions were answered by
grunts or monosyllables -- or by silence. I gave up finally and
occupied myself by looking out the car window at the small towns
and farms we passed.
     Late in the afternoon we drove through massive security
gates monitored by television cameras and manned by armed guards. 
As we followed a winding, tree-lined drive, bands of roving guard
dogs ran beside the car, their barking muted by the thick glass
of the car windows, their wild eyes rolling, red tongues
flicking. A few minutes later, the car glided to a stop in front
of a large building with steel mesh over the windows.  Two men in
white smocks and little black name tags opened the car door for
me. One held a clipboard in his hand.
     "Welcome to Winterhaven, Mr. Crane," one of them said. The
tag on his breast pocket read 'Dr. Lewis'.  The other -- the one
with the clipboard -- took my bag and they led me into the
building. Dr. Lewis asked whether I had a good trip as we walked
through corridors painted shades of pastel.  We stopped before a
pale chartreuse door.
     "This will be your home for a while, Mr. Crane," Dr. Lewis
said politely. He opened the door and I stepped into a small but
clean room with a bed and a dresser. Sun streamed through a
single, barred window. 
     "Could you guys tell me what this is all about?" I asked.    
 Dr. Lewis glanced at the man with the clipboard. "Everything
will all be explained to you." The two men in white smocks smiled
and, before I could ask anything more, they left. I felt nervous.
I looked out the window for a while but all I saw were other men
in white smocks. After a while, I lay down on the bed and tried
to sleep.  I was awakened by a knock on the door.
     "Come in," I said groggily. Outside, it was already dark.    
 The door opened and Dr. Praetorius entered. He switched on the
room light and the fluorescent bulb in the ceiling fixture was
reflected in the blue lenses of his glasses.
     "Please come with me, Mr. Crane," he said.
     I followed Dr. Praetorius up several flights of steps and
into a part of the building I had not seen before. We entered a
room paneled in dark wood. Several leather chairs were set around
a large fireplace in which a fire was burning brightly. Along one
wall were book shelves which extended from floor to ceiling.     
The door at the far end of the room opened and a tiny, old man
with thin, white hair entered. Although I had never met him, I
immediately recognized Justin Blackthorn, the third richest man
in the world.
     "Mr. Crane," the old man said, holding out his hand, "I'm
delighted to meet you."  His voice was high-pitched and fluty.    
 We sat in the leather chairs before the fire. Blackthorn seemed
even smaller up close.  His feet barely touched the floor and his
neck seemed too thin for his shirt collar.
     "When Dr. Praetorius told me you'd answered our
advertisement I was thrilled, Mr. Crane.  Not just because you
would provide the skills we need for our little project but also
because it would give me the pleasure of meeting you at last."    
 "You're familiar with my work?" I asked.
     "My dear fellow, I've read everything you've published. I'm
a great fan of yours, Mr. Crane.  A great fan."  Blackthorn's
eyes twinkled. 
     "I'm going to tell you a secret." The old man leaned forward
and spoke in a conspiratorial whisper. "I'm a frustrated writer."
He sat back and watched me, his eyebrows raised into two little
peaks. "What do you think of that?"
     This was the payoff, I thought. I had guessed from the
beginning -- from that day I read the ad in the paper.
     "I've been successful in everything I've ever tried,"
Blackthorn went on. "I've created dozens of companies, made
billions of dollars, done everything I wanted in my life --
except that which I have wanted most: to see my stories
published.  I've written dozens of them, you know. Sent them to
magazines. Always they've been rejected."
     "There can be great satisfaction in just writing a good
story.  Having it published isn't everything," I said lamely.     
"Poppycock.  Having it published is everything. Of course, I'm
wealthy enough to have bought any number of magazines, or
established my own publishing company if I wished.  But I didn't
want it that way.  My work must be accepted on its own merits." 
He paused and looked reflectively into the fire. "I have a dream,
Mr. Crane.  To write a story -- just one story -- and see that
story in print.  That's all I ask.  That's all the immortality I
crave."
     "And you want my help in preparing your manuscripts for
publication?"
     "I wish it were that simple.  I've studied all the great
masters, such as you.  And I still can't do it. I've come to the
realization that I have no talent."
     "Don't give up, sir," I urged, alarmed that my gold mine was
about to have a crisis of confidence.  "I'm sure with help you
would be able to write very well."
     "I think," Blackthorn said, "the time has come to explain
why you are here."  He glanced at Dr. Praetorius, then back to
me.  "You are no doubt aware that, among my properties, I own the
world's leading developer of computer software. Two years ago my
people here at Winterhaven began development of the most
sophisticated and complex applications program ever conceived --
a program to write fiction. We've incorporated all the latest
advances in writing, grammar and editing programs.  Our
specialists have analyzed over a thousand award-winning stories
to determine what formulas are successful. They also studied all
of your works, even though they have, unaccountably, not received
any awards.  All of this has been put into the program."
     "How does it work?"
     "It's very simple, really," Blackthorn said.  "The would-be
author calls up the program on his computer.  He first chooses
from a menu of story genres -- adventure, gothic, science fiction
and so forth -- then choose a writing style --  mainstream, magic
realism, experimental, minimalist, etc. The author then selects a
core story -- our knowledge engineers have identified sixty-three
basic story types. The author follows this procedure through
seventeen additional menus. He can pick from one hundred and
thirty-three character descriptions -- all market tested. 
Finally, the program will draw on its memory of thousands of
rules of composition to help create the story."
     "I'm very impressed, Mr. Blackthorn.  I'd never have
believed such a thing could work."
     "That's just the problem, Mr. Crane.  It doesn't. It
produces stories, complete with plot, characters and description,
but they lack life. That's where you come in. Do you know what
artificial intelligence is?" 
     "Vaguely," I lied.
     "It's a computer program based on the analysis of how
experts deal with a problem -- the intuitive process that the
creative mind actually uses.  Mr. Crane, with your help, we will
now complete the final phase of our program development.  We are
going to analyze you in detail, learn everything about you.  Dr.
Praetorius and I are going to find out how you do it, Mr. Crane." 
                                   ***
     I must remember. Keep what is left. Except that there is so
little from before I came to Winterhaven.  Was there a before?    
 I must ask Dr. Praetorius.  He will know.
     The next day Dr. Lewis escorted me to what he described as
the Neurosphere -- a small room with concave steel walls in the
middle of which was a chair padded in cushioned leather and
attached by webs of wiring to a panel on the wall behind. Dr.
Praetorius was waiting for us.
     "You will be spending most of your time in this room," Dr.
Praetorius explained, gesturing for me to sit in the chair.      
"Please do not be alarmed, Mr. Crane.  The procedure is entirely
painless."
     Two technicians attached steel clips to my wrists and
ankles, strapped sensors to my arms and legs and placed a kind of
metal apparatus with earphones over my head.
     "Now I want you to relax," Dr. Praetorius said in a voice
meant to be reassuring.
      Dr. Praetorius and the technicians left the Neurosphere and
closed the door behind them. The lights dimmed and I could see
nothing except the pale, pearl sheen of the curved wall.
     The voice in the earphones was a gentle and soothing
contralto. It asked questions about my work, my life, my friends,
about my parents and my childhood. At first I was hesitant --
self-conscious and uncomfortable -- but after a time I began to
talk freely, even enjoyed talking about myself -- about what I
liked to read, about my ex-wife, my trip To Puerto Rico last
summer. After several hours, the door was opened and I was taken
back to my room. I was exhausted and, after a light supper, I
went to bed and slept soundly. The next day Dr. Lewis brought me
again to the Neurosphere and I went through the same procedure. 
This went on day after day. The experience wasn't unpleasant at
all. The questioner seemed so interested, so understanding --
sympathetic and caring. Soon I was speaking of things I never
told anybody; things I never told myself. I came to look forward
to each session.  
     It wasn't until the second or third week that I began to
sense that something was wrong. I could never recall what the
previous day's session had been about. I didn't worry about that
at first but I knew the situation was serious when I stopped
dreaming. It was then I became frightened and demanded to know
what they were doing to me.  Dr. Praetorius talked about
transient neural effects and ephemeral dislocations. For several
days I refused to enter the Neurosphere. Once I even tried to
leave Winterhaven but was frightened by the dogs.  Now I have
given up.  Even if I could get out, where would I go?  I don't
know where I am.  
                                    ***
     "How are you this morning?" the man in blue glasses asks. I
know I've seen him before. 
     "I don't think I'm well at all," I say.
     "Why is that?"
     "This morning, when I woke up, I had a strange experience."  
   "What was that?"
     "I didn't know who I was."
     "You have forgotten your name?"
     "It's as if I were empty inside.  Like there's a void. 
Where have I gone?"
     The man in the blue glasses rubs his beard and studies me
carefully.  He turns and walks away.  I try to remember who I was
talking to.
     "Good morning, Mr. Crane."
     When I open my eyes, two strange men are looking at me.  One
wears blue glasses and has a small beard.  The other is an old
man with white hair.
     "Do you remember who I am?" the old man asks.
     I shake my head.
     "We've reached the final stage, Mr. Blackthorn," the man in
the blue glasses says. "He won't last through another session."   
  "Can he understand what we're saying?" the old man asks.     
"The cerebral cortex functions are largely intact but he can't
relate what you say to him.  Because there is no him there left
to relate to."
     "I want to talk with him -- the real him -- before the final
session."
     "I don't see the point."
     "Nevertheless, prepare him."
     There is more discussion but I soon loose interest.  Someone
rolls up my sleeve and gives me an injection.  My body tingles
and my mouth feels dry.
     "Would you like something to drink?" someone asks.
     I nod and a paper cup is pressed against my lips and I take
a grateful sip.  Memories I've been searching for come flooding
back.
     "This will partially reconstitute the psyche but the effect
will last only a very brief time," someone says. "And we won't be
able to do this again.  We are losing him by the minute."
     "Feeling better, Mr. Crane?"
     I struggle to focus my eyes.
     "What's happening?" I ask  "Please tell me what's happening
to me."
     "Surely you must have guessed already."
     Dr. Praetorius pushes forward a chair that rides on silent
casters and Blackthorn sits near me and begins to talk.
     "I have too much regard for your talent to let you go
without telling you the truth."
     "What truth?" I ask. My voice shakes.
     "In developing the writing program we discovered we needed
more than a simple expert system.  It was not enough to know the
tricks and formulas that writers use. To make the program work,
we had to replicate the creative human quality. We had to analyze
the psyche of one writer, delve into the innermost recesses of
his mind, into the millions of memories that make each person a
singularity.  We needed to know what formed you as a person."     
"You aren't interested in my writing techniques  -- you want my
soul."
     "Dr. Praetorius has developed a system to read the synapses
of the brain through a three-dimensional laser mapping device and
to replicate digitally the billions of neural pathways which make
up the subconscious -- and indeed constitute the human
personality. The information is analyzed and stored, ready to be
processed and reconstituted as needed."
     "Everything that's me is now in the computer?"
     "Almost. We've taken what we need from the temporal lobes
and the limbic system. Everything worthwhile. Unfortunately,
there are still a few bugs in the system. The techniques we
employ to explore your mind have the unfortunate effect of
altering those parts of the mind we're most interested in."     
"You've destroyed my brain?"
     "Not at all. Your higher nervous system still functions.
What we've been forced to do is dissolve the synaptic connections
built up over your lifetime.  A regrettable intrusion -- but
necessary."
     I strain at the steel manacles around my wrists.
     "Give me back," I scream. "I want me back."
     Blackthorn smiles sadly.  "Please Mr. Crane, do not agitate
yourself.  The drug we've given you will last only a few minutes. 
When its effects wear off, you will fall into a state of non-
consciousness. I wished to explain to you..."
     "Don't explain anything!" I yell.  "Just get me out of here.
Get me to a hospital..."
     I feel my mind going.
     "Don't be angry with me," Blackthorn goes on. "What is
happening to you, Mr. Crane, happens to us all -- sooner or
later.  We all lose our identities eventually. For some, it comes
in a moment of sharp, breathtaking pain.  For others, less
fortunate, it slips away over months and years until there's
nothing left but an empty room.  You will be spared that. You
will live forever -- those memories and experiences that make you
different from anybody else on earth have been preserved for
eternity in the computer. I'm giving you what every writer dreams
of.  I'm giving you immortality."
     I have a hard time hearing Blackthorn as there is a loud
noise in the room which I come to realize is me, sobbing. "Please
don't do this." 
     "This is our final session. Today, the last of your psyche
will be stripped away and stored, the few remaining worthwhile
fragments of your subconscious will be removed. Then the writing
program will be complete."
     I struggle to keep my mind intact.
     "Why did you pick me? I'm a second-rate hack. And even if
the program works, all the stories you write with it will sound
like me, not you."
     "That's a drawback to the system, I'll admit.  I'm prepared
to live with that."
     "But I won't develop as a person and therefore not as a
writer."
     "Face it, Mr. Crane, you stopped developing as a writer
years ago." 
     "You're destroying me so you can write one story and get it
published? You're insane," I scream.
     "Dr. Praetorius and I have often discussed that possibility.
There are two schools of thought.  According to one, I'm a
genuine psychopath.  According to the second, I'm simply very
mean.  I tend to subscribe to the former view. Dr. Praetorius,
here, favors the latter. I doubt whether we can resolve the
matter today. In any case, this program will not be for me alone.
Of course I would not keep you to myself.  I plan to market this
program.  Within a year, thousands of aspiring writers will be at
their kitchen tables or in their basements using your talent to
create new works.  Just think of it, Mr. Crane. You will write
forever and in a million different places. You'll never suffer
from fatigue or from self-doubt. You'll never again experience
writer's block. You'll never again know the pain of rejection.
You will go on forever."
     I start to say something but discover I forget how to speak. 
    I dissolve into the glittering harmonies of the Program.     
It's wonderful to be here, it's certainly a thrill...the Germans
wore gray. You wore blue...to the last I grapple with thee...he
heard the snow falling faintly through the universe ...made it,
ma. Top of the world...oh oh Spaghettio...no, he had never
written about Paris... where have all the flowers gone...I
promise, Mr. Astin...it's Howdy Doody time...please! please!...
who was that masked man?...the Shadow knows...Shazam!...is daddy
ever coming home?...twelve full ounces, that's a lot....th--
that's all, folks... goodbyemoon...jackbenimblejackbequick..
mamamamamaaa.
                                    ***
     I am free.  Free of the weight of muscle and bone, of thick
clotting blood and rasping breath. Free of pain and weariness and
the shadow of my own mortality. Free of false love, of empty
hope. I used to be the banks of a river, brown and clayey, full
of rocks and gnarled roots. Now I am the river. 
                                    ***
     STATEART 1.0
     Please select story genre by placing the cursor against the
menu item and pressing ENTER.
     PLEASE WAIT
     BEGIN STORY
     A paper cup is pressed against my lips. I sip gratefully.
Now I remember -- I've lost my mind.


                                  THE END
=================================================================