THE GALLERY By ROG PHILLIPS ILLUSTRATOR LLEWELLYN _Aunt Matilda needed him desperately, but when he arrived she did not want him and neither did anyone else in his home town. _ I was in the midst of the fourth draft of my doctorate thesis when AuntMatilda's telegram came. It could not have come at a worse time. Thedeadline for my thesis was four days away and there was a minimum offive days of hard work to do on it yet. I was working around the clock. If it had been a telegram informing me of her death I could not havetaken time out to attend the funeral. If it had been a telegram sayingshe was at death's door I'm very much afraid I would have had to callthe hospital and order them to keep her alive a few days longer. Instead, it was a tersely worded appeal. ARTHUR STOP COME AT ONCE STOPAM IN TERRIBLE TROUBLE STOP DO NOT PHONE STOP AUNT MATILDA. So there was nothing else for me to do. I laid the telegram aside andkept on working on my thesis. That is not as heartless as it might seem. I simply could not imagine Aunt Matilda in terrible trouble. The end ofthe world I could imagine, but not Aunt Matilda in trouble. [Illustration: Wherever he went Arthur felt the power behind the lens. ] She was the classic flat-chested ageless spinster living alone in themidst of her dustless bric-a-brac and Spode in a frame house of the samevintage as herself at the edge of the classic small town of Sumac, nearthe southwest corner of Wisconsin. I had visited her for two days over ayear ago, and she had looked exactly the same as she had when I stayedwith her when I was six all summer, and there was no question but whatshe would some day attend my funeral when I died of old age, and shewould still look the same as always. * * * * * There was no conceivable trouble of terrestrial origin that could touchher--or would want to. And, as it turned out, I was right in thatrespect. I was right in another respect too. By finishing my thesis I became aPh. D. On schedule, and if I had abandoned all that and rushed to Sumacthe moment I received the telegram it could not have materially alteredthe outcome of things. And Aunt Matilda, hanging on the wall of mystudy, knitting things for the Red Cross, will attest to that. You, of course, might argue about her being there. You might even insistthat I am hanging on her wall instead. And I would have to agree withyou, since it all depends on the point of view and as I sit here typingI can look up and see myself hanging on her wall. But perhaps I had better begin at the beginning when, with my thesisbehind me, I arrived on the 4:15 milk run, as they call the train thatstops on its way past Sumac. I was in a very disturbed state of mind, as anyone who has ever turnedin a doctorate thesis can well imagine. For the life of me I couldn't besure whether I had used _symbol_ or _token_ on line 7, sheet 23, of mythesis, and it was a bad habit of mine to unconsciously interchange themunpredictably, and I knew that Dr. Walters could very well vote againstacceptance of my thesis on that ground alone. Also, I had thought of amuch better opening sentence to my thesis, and was having to use willpower to keep from rushing back to the university to ask permission tochange it. I had practically no sleep during the fourteen-hour run, and what sleepI did have had been interrupted by violent starts of awaking with aconviction that this or that error in the initial draft of my thesis hadnot been corrected by the final draft. And then, of course, I would haveto think the thing through and recall when I had made the correction, before I could go back to sleep. So I was a wreck, mentally, if not physically, when I stepped off thetrain onto the wooden depot platform that had certainly been built inthe Pleistocene Era, with my oxblood two-suiter firmly clutched in myleft hand. With snorts of steam and the loud clanking of loose drives, the traingot under way again, its whistle wailing mournfully as the last emptycoach car sped past me and retreated into the distance. As I stood there, my brain tingling with weariness, and listened to theabsolute silence of the town triumph over the last distant wail of thetrain whistle, I became aware that something about Sumac was different. What it was, I didn't know. I stood where I was a moment longer, tryingto analyze it. In some indefinable way everything looked unreal. Thatwas as close as I could come to it, and of course having pinned it downthat far I at once dismissed it as a trick of the mind produced bytiredness. I began walking. The planks of the platform were certainly real enough. I circled the depot without going in, and started walking in thedirection of Aunt Matilda's, which was only a short eight blocks fromthe depot, as I had known since I was six. The feeling of the unreality of my surroundings persisted, and with itcame another feeling, of an invisible pressure against me. Almost aresentment. Not only from the people, but from the houses and even thetrees. * * * * * Slowly I began to realize that it couldn't be entirely my imagination. Most of the dozen or so people I passed knew me, and I rememberedsuddenly that every other time I had come to Aunt Matilda's they hadstopped to talk with me and I had had to make some excuse to escapethem. Now they were behaving differently. They would look at me absentlyas they might at any stranger walking from the direction of the depot, then their eyes would light up with recognition and they would opentheir lips to greet me with hearty welcome. Then, as though they just thought of something, they would change, andjust say, "Hello, Arthur, " and continue on past me. It didn't take me long to conclude that this strange behavior wasprobably caused by something in connection with Aunt Matilda. Had sheperhaps been named as corespondent in the divorce of the local minister?Had she, of all people, had a child out of wedlock? Things in a small town can be deadly serious, so by the time herfamiliar frame house came into view down the street I was ready to keepa straight face, no matter what, and reserve my chuckles for the privacyof her guest room. It would be a new experience, to find Aunt Matildaguilty of any human frailty. It was slightly impossible, but I hadprepared myself for it. And that first day her behavior convinced me I was right in myconclusion. She appeared in the doorway as I came up the front walk. She wasbreathing hard, as though she had been running, and there was a duststreak on the side of her thin face. "Hello, Arthur, " she said when I came up on the porch. She shook my handas limply as always, and gave me a reluctant duty peck on the cheek, then backed into the house to give me room to enter. I glanced around the familiar surroundings, waiting for her to blurt outthe cause of her telegram, and feeling a little guilty about not havingcome at once. I felt the loneliness inside her more than I ever had before. There wasa terror way back in her eyes. "You look tired, Arthur, " she said. "Yes, " I said, glad of the opportunity she had given me to explain. "Ihad to finish my thesis and get it in by last night. Two solid years ofhard work and it had to be done or the whole thing was for nothing. That's why I couldn't come four days ago. And you seemed quite insistentthat I shouldn't call. " I smiled to let her know that I remembered aboutparty lines in a small town. "It's just as well, " she said. And while I was trying to decide what theantecedent of her remark was she said, "You can go back on the morningtrain. " "You mean the trouble is over?" I said, relieved. "Yes, " she said. But she had hesitated. It was the first time I had ever seen her tell a lie. "You must be hungry, " she rushed on. "Put your suitcase in the room andwash up. " She turned her back to me and hurried into the kitchen. I was hungry. The memory of her homey cooking did it. I glanced aroundthe front room. Nothing had changed, I thought. Then I noticed theframed portrait of my father and his three brothers was hanging wherethe large print of a basket of fruit used to hang. The basket of fruitpicture was where the portrait should have been, and it was entirely toobig a picture for that spot. I would never have thought Aunt Matildacould tolerate anything out of proportion. And the darker area ofwallpaper where the fruit picture had prevented fading stood out like asore thumb. I looked around the room for other changes. The boat picture that hadhung to the right of the front door was not there. On the floor underwhere it should have been I caught the flash of light from a shard ofglass. Next to it, the drape framing the window was not hanging right. On impulse I went over and peeked behind the drape. There, leaningagainst the wall, was the boat picture with fragments of splinteredglass still in it. * * * * * From the evidence it appeared that Aunt Matilda had either been tryingto hang the picture where it belonged, or taking it down, and it hadslipped out of her hands and fallen, and she had hidden it behind thedrape and hastily swept up the broken glass. But why? Even granting that Aunt Matilda might behave in such an erraticfashion (which was obvious from the evidence), I couldn't imagine asensible reason. It occurred to me, facetiously, that she might have gone in for picturesof musclemen, and, seeing me coming up the street, she had rushed theminto hiding and brought out the old pictures. That could account for the evidence--except for one thing. I hadn'tdallied. She could not possibly have seen me earlier than sixty secondsbefore I came up the front walk. Still, the telegrapher at the depot could have called her and told her Iwas here when he saw me get off the train. I shrugged the matter off and went to the guest room. It too was thesame as always, except for one thing. A picture. It was a color photograph of the church, taken from the street. Thepicture was in a frame, but without glass over it, and was abouteighteen inches wide and thirty high. It was a very good picture. Very lifelike. There was a car parked at thecurb in front of the church, and someone inside the car smoking acigarette, and it was so real I would have sworn I could see thestreamer of smoke rising from the cigarette moving. The odor of good food came from the kitchen, reminding me to get busy. Iopened my two-suiter and took out my toilet kit and went to thebathroom. I shaved, brushed my teeth, and combed my hair. Afterward I popped intomy room just for a second to put my toilet kit on the dresser, andhurried to the dining room. Something nagged at the back of my mind all the time I was eating. Afterdinner Aunt Matilda suggested I'd better get some sleep. I couldn'targue. I was already asleep on my feet. Her fried chicken and creamedgravy and mashed potatoes had been an opiate. I didn't even bother to hang up my clothes. I slipped into the heaven ofcomfort of the bed and closed my eyes. And the next minute it wasmorning. Getting out of bed, I stopped in mid motion. The picture of the churchwas no longer on the wall. And as I stared at the blank spot where ithad been, the thing that had nagged me during dinner last night finallyleaped into consciousness. When I had dashed into the room and out again last night on the way tothe dining room I had glanced briefly at the picture and something hadbeen different about it. Now I knew what had been different. The car had no longer been in front of the church. * * * * * I lit a cigarette and sat on the edge of the bed. I thought about thatpicture, and simply could not bring myself to believe the accuracy ofthat fleeting impression. Aunt Matilda had slipped into my room and removed the picture while Islept. That was obvious. Why had she done that? The fleeting impressionthat I couldn't be positive about would give her a sensible reason. I studied my memory of that picture as I had closely studied it. It hadbeen a remarkable picture. The more I recalled its details the moreremarkable it became. I couldn't remember any surface gloss or grainingto it, but of course I had not been looking for such things. Only anexpert photographer would notice or recognize such technical details. My thoughts turned in the direction of Aunt Matilda--and her telegram. Her source of income, I knew, was her part of the estate of mygrandfather, and amounted to something like thirty thousand dollars. Iknew that she was terrified of touching one cent of the capital, andlived well within the income from good sound stocks. * * * * * I took her telegram out of the pocket of my coat which was hanging overthe back of a chair. COME AT ONCE STOP AM IN TERRIBLE TROUBLE . .. Theonly kind of terrible trouble Matilda could be in was if some swindlertalked her out of some of her capital! And that definitely would not beeasy to do. I grinned to myself at the recollection of her worryingherself sick once over what would happen to her if there was arevolution and the new government refused to honor the old governmentbonds. Things began to make sense. Her telegram, then those pictures movedaround in the front room, and the one she had forgotten to hide, in theguest room. If the other pictures were anything like it, I could see howAunt Matilda might cash in on part of her securities to invest in whatshe thought was a sure thing. But sure things are only as good as the people in control of them. Manya sure thing has been lost to the original investors by stupid decisionsleading to bankruptcy, and many a seemingly sure thing has fleeced a lotof innocent victims. Slowly, as I thought it out, I became sure that that was what hadhappened. Then why Aunt Matilda's about-face, hiding the pictures and telling meto go back to Chicago? Had she threatened whoever was behind this, andgotten her money back? Or had she again become convinced that herfinancial venture was sound? In either case, why was she trying to keep me from knowing about thepictures? I made up my mind. Whether Aunt Matilda liked it or not, I was going tostay until I got to the bottom of things. What Aunt Matilda evidentlydidn't realize was that no inventor who really had something would wastetime trying to find backing in a place like Sumac. Getting dressed, I decided that first on the agenda would be to findwhere Matilda had hidden those pictures, and get a good look at them. That was simpler than I expected it to be. When I came out of my room Istuck my head in the kitchen doorway and said good morning to her, andshe leaped to her feet to get some breakfast ready for me. It wasobvious that she was anxious to get me fed and out of the house. Then I simply took the two steps past the bathroom door to the door toher bedroom and went in. The pictures were stacked against the side ofher dresser. The one of the church was the first one. It was on itsside. With a silent whistle of amazement I bent down to watch it. The car wasnot parked at the curb in it, but there were several children walkingalong, obviously on their way to school. And they were walking. Moving. * * * * * I picked up the picture. It was as heavy as it should be, but not more. A faint whisper of sound seemed to come from it. I put my ear closer andheard children's voices. I explored with my ear close to the surface, and found that the voices were loudest when my ear was closest to theone talking, as though the voices came out of the picture directly fromthe images! All it needed to be perfect was a volume control somewhere. I searched, and found it behind the upper right corner of the picture. I twisted itvery slowly, and the voices became louder. I turned it back to theposition it had been in. The next picture was of the railroad depot. The telegrapher and baggageclerk were going around the side of the depot towards the tracks. Afreight train was rushing through the picture. Even as I watched it in the picture, I heard the wail of a train whistlein the distance, and it was coming from outside, across town. Thatfreight train was going through town _right now_. I put the pictures back the way they had been, and stole softly fromAunt Matilda's bedroom to the bathroom, and closed the door. "No wonder Aunt Matilda invested in this thing!" I said to my image inthe mirror as I shaved. Picture TV would make all other TV receivers obsolete! Full color TV atthat! And with some new principle in stereophonic sound! What about the fact that neither picture had been plugged into anoutlet? Probably run by batteries. What about the lack of weight? Obviously a new TV principle wasinvolved. Maybe it required fewer circuits and less power. What about the broadcasting end, the cameras? Permanently set up? Whatabout the broadcast channels? There had been ten or twelve pictures. I'd only looked at two. Was eacha different scene? Twelve different broadcasting stations in Sumac? It had me dizzy. Probably the new TV principle was so simple that allthat could be taken care of without millions of dollars worth ofequipment. A new respect for Aunt Matilda grew in me. She had latched on to a moneymaker! It didn't hurt to know that I was her favorite nephew, either. With my Ph. D. In physics, and my aunt as one of the stockholders, Icould probably land a good job with the company. What a deal! By the time I finished shaving I was whistling. I was still whistlingwhen I went into the kitchen for breakfast. "You'll have to hurry, Arthur, " Aunt Matilda said. "Your train leaves inforty-five minutes. " "I'm not leaving, " I said cheerfully. I went over to the bright breakfast nook and sat down, and took acautious sip of coffee. I grunted my approval of it and looked aroundtoward Aunt Matilda, smiling. She was staring at me with wide eyes. She looked as haggard as thoughshe had just heard she had a week to live. "But you must go!" she croaked as though my not going were unthinkable. "Nonsense, you old fox, " I said. "I know a good thing as well as you do. I want to get a job with that outfit. " She came toward me with a wild expression on her face. "Get out!" she screamed. "Get out of my house! I won't have it! Youcatch that train and get out of town. Do you hear?" "But, Aunt Matilda!" I protested. * * * * * In the end I had to get out or she would have had a stroke. She wasshaking like a leaf, her skin mottled and her eyes wild, as I went downthe front steps with my bag. "You get that train, do you hear?" was the last thing she screamed at meas I hurried toward Main Street. However, I had no intention of leaving town with Aunt Matilda upset thatway. I'd let her have time to cool off, then come back. Meanwhile I'dtry to get to the bottom of things. A thing as big as wall TV in fullcolor and stereophonic sound must be the talk of the town. I'd find outwhere they had their office and go talk with them. A career withsomething like that would be the best thing I could ever hope to find. And getting in on the ground floor! It surprised me that Aunt Matilda could be so insanely greedy. I shookmy head in wonder. It didn't figure. I had breakfast at the hotel cafe and made a point of telling thewaitress, who knew me, that it was my second breakfast, and that I hadintended to catch the morning train back to Chicago, but maybe Iwouldn't. After I finished eating I asked if it would be okay to leave my suitcasebehind the counter while I looked around a bit. She showed me where toput it so it would be out of the way. When I paid for my breakfast I half turned away, then turned backcasually. "Oh, by the way, " I said. "Where's this wall TV place?" "This what?" she said. "You know, " I said. "Color TV like a picture you hang on a wall. " All the color faded from her face. Her eyes went past me, staring. Iturned in the direction she was staring, and on the wall above theplateglass front of the cafe was a picture. That is, there was a picture frame and a pair of dark glasses that tookup most of the picture, with the lower part of a forehead and the upperpart of a nose. I had noticed it once while I was eating and had assumedit was a display ad for sun glasses. Now I looked at it more closely, but could detect no movement in it. It still looked like an ad for sunglasses. "I don't know what you're talking about, " I heard the waitress say, hervoice edged with fear. "Huh?" I said, turning my head back to look at her. "Oh. Well, nevermind. " I left the cafe with every outward appearance of casual innocence; butinside I was beginning to realize for the first time the possibilitiesand the danger that could lie in the use of this new TV development. That had been a Big-Brother-is-Watching-you setup back there in thecafe, except that it had been a girl instead of a man, judging from thestyle of sun glasses and the smoothness of the nose and forehead. I had wondered about the broadcasting end of things. Now I knew. Thathad been the TV "eye, " and somewhere there was a framed picture hangingon the wall, bringing in everything that took place in the cafe, including everything that was said. Everything _I_ had said, too. It wasan ominous feeling. Aunt Matilda had almost had a stroke trying to get me out of town. Now Iknew why. She was caught in this thing and wanted to save me. Four daysago she had probably not fully realized the potentiality for evil of theinvention, but by the time I showed up she knew it. Well, she was right. This was not something for me to tackle. I wouldkeep up my appearance of not suspecting anything, and catch that trainAunt Matilda wanted me to catch. * * * * * From way out in the country came the whistle of the approaching milkrun, the train that would take me back to Chicago. In Chicago I would goto the F. B. I, and tell them the whole thing. They wouldn't believe me, of course, but they would investigate. If the thing hadn't spread anyfarther than Sumac it would be a simple matter to stop it. I'd hurry back to the cafe and get my suitcase and tell the waitressI'd decided to catch the train after all. I turned around. Only I didn't turn around. That's as nearly as I can describe it. I did turn around. I know I did. But the town turned around with me, and the sun and the clouds and thecountryside. So maybe I only thought I turned around. When I tried to stop walking it was different. I simply could not stopwalking. Nothing was in control of my mind. It was more like stepping onthe brakes and the brakes not responding. I gave up trying, more curious about what was happening than alarmed. Iwalked two blocks along Main Street. Ahead of me I saw a sign. It wasthe only new sign I had seen in Sumac. In ornate Neon script it said, "PORTRAITS by Lana. " * * * * * I don't know whether my feet took me inside independently of my mind ornot, because I was sure that this was the place and I wanted to go inanyway. Not much had been done to modernize the interior of the shop. Iremembered that the last time I had been here it had been a stampcollector headquarters run by Mr. Mason and his wife. The counter wasstill there, but instead of stamp displays it held a variety of standardportraits such as you can see in any portrait studio. None of the TVportraits were on display here. The same bell that used to tinkle when I came into the stamp storetinkled in back of the partition when I came in. A moment later thecurtain in the doorway of the partition parted, and a girl came out. How can I describe her? In appearance she was anyone of a thousandsmartly dressed brunettes that wait on you in quality photographstudios, and yet she wasn't. She was as much above that in cut as theaverage smartly dressed girl is above a female alcoholic after a ten-daydrunk. She was perfect. Too perfect. She was the type of girl a manwould dream of meeting some day, but if he ever did he would run likehell because he could never hope to live up to such perfection. "You have come to have your portrait taken?" she asked. "I am Lana. " "I thought you already had my portrait, " I said. "Didn't you get it fromthat eye in the hotel cafe?" "It's not the same thing, " Lana said. "Through an eye you remain avariable in the Mantram complex. It takes the camera to fix you, so thatyou are an iconic invariant in the Mantram. " She smiled and half turnedtoward the curtain she had come through. "Would you step this way, please?" she invited. "How much will it cost?" I said, not moving. "Nothing, of course!" Lana said. "Terrestrial money is of no use to mesince you have nothing I would care to buy. And don't be alarmed. Noharm will come to you, or anyone else. " A fleeting expression of concerncame over her. "I realize that many of the people of Sumac are quitealarmed, but that is to be expected of a people uneducated enough tostill be superstitious. " I went past her through the curtain. Behind the partition I expected tosee out-of-this-world scientific equipment stacked to the ceiling. Instead, there was only a portrait camera on a tripod. It had a longbellows and would take a plate the same size as that picture of thechurch I had seen. "You see?" Lana said. "It's just a camera. " She smiled disarmingly. * * * * * I went toward it casually, and suddenly I stopped as though another mindcontrolled my actions. When I gave up the idea I had had of smashing thecamera, the control vanished. There was no lens in the lens frame. "Where's the lens?" I said. "It doesn't use a glass lens, " Lana said. "When I take the picture alens forms just long enough to focus the elements of your body into aMantram fix. " She touched my shoulder. "Would you sit down over there, please?" "What do you mean by a Mantram fix?" I asked her. She paused by the camera and smiled at me. "I use your language, " shesaid. "In some of your legends you have the notion of a Mantram, or whatyou consider magical spell. In one aspect the notion is of magical wordsthat can manipulate natural forces directly. The notion of a devil dollis a little closer. Only instead of actual substance from thesubject--hair, fingernail parings, and so on--the Mantram matrix takesthe detailed force pattern of the subject, through the lens when itforms. So, in your concepts, what results is an iconic Mantram. But itoperates both ways. You'll see what I mean by that. " With another placating smile she stepped behind the camera and withoutwarning light seemed to explode from the very air around me, without anysource. For a brief second I seemed to see--not a glittering lens--but ablack bottomless hole form in the metal circle at the front of thecamera. And--an experience I am familiar with now--I seemed to rush intothe bottomless darkness of that hole and back again, at the rate ofthousands of times a second, arriving at some formless destination andeach time feeling it take on more of form. "There. That wasn't so bad, was it?" Lana said. I felt strangely detached, as though I were in two places at the sametime. I told her so. "You'll get used to it, " she assured me. "In fact, you will get to enjoyit. _I_ do. Especially when I've made several prints. " "Why are you doing this?" I asked. "Who are you? _What_ are you?" "I'm a photographer!" Lana said. "I'm connected with the natural historymuseum of the planet I live on. I go to various places and takepictures, and they go into exhibits for the people to watch. " She pulled the curtain aside for me to leave. "You're going to let me leave? Just like that?" I said. "Of course. " She smiled again. "You're free to go wherever you wish, toyour aunt's or back to Chicago. I was glad to get your portrait. Inreturn, I'll send you one of the prints. And would you like one of youraunt's? Actually, when she came in to have her picture taken it was forthe purpose of sending it to you. She was my first customer. I've takena special liking to her and given her several pictures. " "Yes, " I said. "I would like one of Aunt Matilda. " When I emerged from the shop I discovered to my surprise that the trainwas just pulling into the depot. An urge to get far away from Sumacpossessed me. I trotted to the cafe to get my bag, and when the trainpulled out I was on it. * * * * * There's little more to tell. In Chicago once again, I spent a mostexasperating two days trying to inform the F. B. I. , the police, or anyonewho would listen to me. My fingers couldn't dial the correct phonenumber, and at the crucial moment each time I grew tongue-tied. My lastattempt was a letter to the F. B. I. , which I couldn't remember to mail, and when I finally did remember I couldn't find it. Then the express package from Sumac came. With fingers that visiblytrembled I took out the two framed pictures, one of Aunt Matilda in theprocess of dusting the front room. All of her pictures that she hadhidden from me were back in their places on the walls. While I watchedher move about, she went into the sewing room, and there I saw a pictureon the wall that looked familiar. It was of me, an opened express package at my feet, a framed pictureheld in my hands, and I was staring at it intently. In the picture I was holding, Aunt Matilda looked in my direction andwaved, smiling in the prim way she smiles when she is contented. Iunderstood. She had me with her now. I laid the picture down carefully, and took the second one out of thebox. It was not a picture at all, it was a mirror! It couldn't be anything except a mirror. And yet, suddenly, I realizedit wasn't. The uncanny feeling came over me that I had transposed intothe mirror and was looking out at myself. Even as I got that feeling Ishifted and was outside the mirror looking at my image. I found that I could be in either place by a sort of mental shift, something like staring at one of the geometrical optical illusions youcan find in any psychology textbook in the chapter on illusions, andseeing it become something else. It was strange at first, then it became fun, and now, as I write this, it is a normal thing. My portrait is where it should be--on the medicinecabinet in the bathroom, where the mirror used to be. But I can transpose to any of the copies of my portrait, anywhere. ToAunt Matilda's sewing room, or to the museum, or to Lana's privatecollection. The only thing is, it's almost impossible to tell when Ishift, or where I shift to. It just seems to happen. The reason for that is that my surroundings, no matter in what directionI look, are exactly identical with my real surroundings. My physicalsurroundings are duplicated exactly in all my portraits, just as AuntMatilda's are in the portrait of her that hangs on my study wall. She isthe invariant of each of her iconic Mantrams and her surroundings arethe variables that enter and leave the screen. I am the invariant in myown portraits, wherever they are. So, except for the slight _twist_ inmy mind that takes place when I _shift_, that I have learned torecognize from practice in front of my "mirror" each morning when Ishave, and except for the portrait of Aunt Matilda, I would never beable to suspect what happens. If Lana had taken my picture without my knowing it and I had never seenone of her collection of portraits, nor ever heard of an iconic Mantram, I would have absolutely nothing to go on to suspect the truth that Iknow. Except for one thing. I don't quite know how to explain it, except that I must actuallytransfer to one of my portraits, and, transferring, I am more realthan--what shall I call it?--the photographic reproduction of my realsurroundings. Then, sometimes, the photographic reproduction, the iconicillusion, that is my environment when I am _in_ one of the portraits ofme, fades just enough so that I can look "out" into the reality where myportrait hangs, and see, and even hear the _watchers_, as ghosts in mysolid "reality. " * * * * * Quite often I can only hear them, and then they are voices out ofnowhere, sometimes addressing me directly, just as often talking to oneanother and ignoring my _presence_. But when I can see them too, theyappear as ghostly but sharply clear visions that seem to be present inmy solid-looking environment. There, but somewhat transparent. I have often seen and talked to Lana in this manner, in her far-offworld, where I am part of her private collection. In fact, I can almostalways tell when I _shift_ to my portrait in her gallery, because I amsuddenly exhilarated and remain so until I shift back, or to some otherportrait. That is so even when she is not there but out on one of hermany photographic expeditions. When she is there, and is watching me, and my thoughts are quiet and mymind receptive, she becomes visible. A ghost in my study, or the labwhere I work, or--if I am asleep--in my dreams. Like an angel, or agoddess. And we talk. * * * * * Back in the physical reality, of course, no one else can hear her voice. My real body is going through its routine work almost automatically butmy mind, my consciousness, is focused into my portrait in Lana'sgallery, and we are talking. And of course in the real world I amtalking too, but my associates can't see who I'm talking to, and itwould be useless to try to explain to them. So I'm getting quite a reputation as a nut! Can you imagine that? But why should I mind? My reality has a much broader and more complexscope than the limited reality of my associates. I might be fired, oreven sent to a state hospital, except for the fact that Lana foreseessuch problems and teaches me enough things in my field that are unknownto Earth, so that my employers consider me too valuable to lose. If this story were fiction the ending would have to be that I am in lovewith Lana and she with me, and there would be a nice conclusive endingwhere she comes back to Earth to marry me and carry me back to herworld, where we would live happily ever after. But the truth of thematter is that I'm not in love with Lana, nor she with me. Sometimes Ithink I am her favorite portrait, but nothing more. But really, everything is so interesting. Lana's gallery where I hang, the museum where there are new faces each time I look out, and newvoices when I can't see out, Aunt Matilda's sewing room where she is atthe moment, and all Sumac as she goes about her normal pattern ofliving. It is a rich, full life that I live, shifting here and there inconsciousness while my physical body goes about its necessary tasks, asoften unguided as not. (What a reputation I'm getting forabsent-mindedness, too!) And out of it all has come a perspective that, when I feel it strongly, makes me feel almost like a god. In that perspective all my portraits(and there are many now, on many worlds and in many places on thisworld!) blend into one. That one is the stage of my life. But not astage, really. A show window. Yes, that is it. A show window, where the_watchers_ pass. I live in a show window that opens out in many worlds and many placesthat are hidden from me by a veil that sometimes grows thin, so I cansee through it. And from the other side of that veil, even when I cannotsee through it, come the voices of the watchers, as they pass by, orpause to look at me. And I am not the only one! There are others. More and more of them, asLana comes back on her photographic expeditions for the museum. None that I have met understand what it is about as fully as I do. Somehave an insight into the true state of things, but very very few. But that is understandable. Lana can't give the same time to them thatshe gives to me. There aren't that many hours in a day! And, you see, Iam her favorite. If I were not, she would never have permitted me to tell you all this, so I must be her favorite! Doesn't that make sense? I _AM_ her favorite! THE END Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from _Amazing Stories_ January 1959. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U. S. Copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and typographical errors have been corrected without note.