Read Online To THE LAND OF THE ELECTRIC ANGEL: Hugo and Nebula Award Finalist Author (The Frontiers Saga) by William Rotsler - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: William Rotsler
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Voss. "This tomb of yours, Jean-Michel, where is it to be built?"
Voss waved a finger at him. "That is my secret. The pharaohs made a big mistake advertising their whereabouts. No one will really know where it is, not even the workmen."
"Are you going to kill them as the Egyptian kings did?" Kimsey asked.
Voss smiled slightly. "No, just confuse them. Sealed aircars with computer pilots, misdirection, false reports, that sort of thing."
"It sounds like a midnight holodrama," said one of the one-name girls down the table.
"It is, Fionna, it is." Voss laughed, and glanced at Blake with amusement. "Don't be afraid, my friend. Holograms of the interior will be spread all over the world, to Luna, even perhaps to Mars. Everyone will know of the glory of my tomb and your part in it. They just won't know where it is."
"In what manner are you planning this wonder of the ages, Mr. Mason?" the count asked.
Several people looked at Blake expectantly.
"In no manner, Count Marco, just in a unity."
The count took his rebuff with bad humor and held up his glass imperiously for a servant to refill it.
From far down the table a man spoke and Blake leaned forward to see. It was Rex Crawley, a well-known landscape painter of Earth's few colonies on Luna and Mars and a favorite of the jet set. "Are you going to use Caruthers? His "Man" series of sensatrons is really superb."
"No," Voss said, answering quickly for Blake. "Nothing electronic. Everything ageless – so it can be seen exactly as it is now a thousand years id the future, perhaps two thousand."
Blake leaned forward and addressed Crawley. "It doesn't matter what medium an artist uses. The art is what counts. It doesn't matter how long it took him, or how difficult the situation. Only the art counts. It doesn't even matter how long it lasts, except that more people can experience it. The art of Booth, Bernhardt, and much of Caruso is lost. But it once existed, and that is what counts. Mr. Voss wants the art of his tomb to be ageless, and so it shall be."
Voss smiled at Blake Mason. "Make certain they use the best materials. No cost cutting. Everything to last as long as possible. Have Permaplastics send samples of their inert protectives."
Blake nodded and said, "I've already thought of investigating a new spray sealant that Plastics Age reported on favorably."
At the end of the table, Rio rose. "Enough technical talk, please, Jean-Michel. The art is what is important, not the method."
As they rose Blake said, "The end justifies the means," and grinned.
Rio laughed silently and said, "Touché, Monsieur Mason."
There was the rustle of snowsilk and the whisper of colorquick panels as everyone pushed back his chair and moved away. Caren took her hand off Blake's thigh and stood up, ready for the evening's fun.
Lizette's metal-link dress tinkled as she spun on the count's arm, laughing gaily at something he said. Kresadlova drained his glass and let two of the girls lead him away. Rio and Blake exchanged looks down the length of the table and he read a hundred meanings into the glance.
"Where was your lovely sister tonight?" Kimsey asked Voss as they returned to the main hall.
"In her rooms. I'm afraid she finds some of my dinners too heavily burdened with business talk." Voss smiled perfunctorily, and Blake wondered about the brother-sister relationship.
In the main hall the tape of a current quiver group had been hooked into quadrapod color organs, filling the room with shifting masses of brilliant color shot through with the threads of muted shades and pockets of darkness. Everything shifted and changed with the rapid, humming, quivering quality of the music.
Two of the girls had already shed some of their panels and were standing atop a low table, quivering in the maelstrom of light and shapes. Two others were coaxing a vice-president to undress, overcoming his middle; aged modesty with laughs and caresses.
Voss came up to Blake, his arm around the darkly clad Rio,
Voss waved a finger at him. "That is my secret. The pharaohs made a big mistake advertising their whereabouts. No one will really know where it is, not even the workmen."
"Are you going to kill them as the Egyptian kings did?" Kimsey asked.
Voss smiled slightly. "No, just confuse them. Sealed aircars with computer pilots, misdirection, false reports, that sort of thing."
"It sounds like a midnight holodrama," said one of the one-name girls down the table.
"It is, Fionna, it is." Voss laughed, and glanced at Blake with amusement. "Don't be afraid, my friend. Holograms of the interior will be spread all over the world, to Luna, even perhaps to Mars. Everyone will know of the glory of my tomb and your part in it. They just won't know where it is."
"In what manner are you planning this wonder of the ages, Mr. Mason?" the count asked.
Several people looked at Blake expectantly.
"In no manner, Count Marco, just in a unity."
The count took his rebuff with bad humor and held up his glass imperiously for a servant to refill it.
From far down the table a man spoke and Blake leaned forward to see. It was Rex Crawley, a well-known landscape painter of Earth's few colonies on Luna and Mars and a favorite of the jet set. "Are you going to use Caruthers? His "Man" series of sensatrons is really superb."
"No," Voss said, answering quickly for Blake. "Nothing electronic. Everything ageless – so it can be seen exactly as it is now a thousand years id the future, perhaps two thousand."
Blake leaned forward and addressed Crawley. "It doesn't matter what medium an artist uses. The art is what counts. It doesn't matter how long it took him, or how difficult the situation. Only the art counts. It doesn't even matter how long it lasts, except that more people can experience it. The art of Booth, Bernhardt, and much of Caruso is lost. But it once existed, and that is what counts. Mr. Voss wants the art of his tomb to be ageless, and so it shall be."
Voss smiled at Blake Mason. "Make certain they use the best materials. No cost cutting. Everything to last as long as possible. Have Permaplastics send samples of their inert protectives."
Blake nodded and said, "I've already thought of investigating a new spray sealant that Plastics Age reported on favorably."
At the end of the table, Rio rose. "Enough technical talk, please, Jean-Michel. The art is what is important, not the method."
As they rose Blake said, "The end justifies the means," and grinned.
Rio laughed silently and said, "Touché, Monsieur Mason."
There was the rustle of snowsilk and the whisper of colorquick panels as everyone pushed back his chair and moved away. Caren took her hand off Blake's thigh and stood up, ready for the evening's fun.
Lizette's metal-link dress tinkled as she spun on the count's arm, laughing gaily at something he said. Kresadlova drained his glass and let two of the girls lead him away. Rio and Blake exchanged looks down the length of the table and he read a hundred meanings into the glance.
"Where was your lovely sister tonight?" Kimsey asked Voss as they returned to the main hall.
"In her rooms. I'm afraid she finds some of my dinners too heavily burdened with business talk." Voss smiled perfunctorily, and Blake wondered about the brother-sister relationship.
In the main hall the tape of a current quiver group had been hooked into quadrapod color organs, filling the room with shifting masses of brilliant color shot through with the threads of muted shades and pockets of darkness. Everything shifted and changed with the rapid, humming, quivering quality of the music.
Two of the girls had already shed some of their panels and were standing atop a low table, quivering in the maelstrom of light and shapes. Two others were coaxing a vice-president to undress, overcoming his middle; aged modesty with laughs and caresses.
Voss came up to Blake, his arm around the darkly clad Rio,
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