“Winslow, look at me. They didn’t do that.”

“So you say. You’re right, but I was there. They came out onto me, they got inside me, they became part of me. They wanted me to join them. For one terrible, sickening moment, I considered it.”

As he left I had to ask: “You won’t do anything rash, will you?”

“No”, he replied, after a long breath, “I won’t. I wouldn’t think of it. I’m not that type, thank God. Thank God I’m not that type. I ‘d never have the guts to do it on my own.” Thus spake Winslow.

I hunted through back issues of the morning Examiner until I found an account of Morton’s death. Stale journalistic language, carefully sanitized; and yet, what I read so revolted me that I couldn’t finish the story. Nobody did it that way.

I now had access to all of my local channels of artistic information, and I tried to get a better understanding of Cosmic Kaleidoscope from the mass of reviews. I gained little from the effort. They were just more of the same. No one seemed quite sure how to deal with the picture, although none of them were quite willing to admit it. The thin descriptions varied to an extraordinary degree. Each reviewer, I concluded, felt uncomfortable with his task. I read no especially harsh critiques– certainly nothing like I’d heard from Chockinaw and Winslow– but I sensed that all wasn’t well in the Langley fan club. They might bend over backward to avoid saying it, but these guys simply didn’t like the painting.

Word spreads fast in my circles. Within twenty-four hours Langley telephoned. He welcomed me back, boasted of achieving his goal, and apologized with mock contriteness for opening the show without me. Once done, he hadn’t been able to bear the thought of holding off the exhibit for a minute. He sounded triumphant, also tired and edgy, and confessed to exhaustion. He planned to get away for a while, leave town, commune with trees in the north country until the furor subsided. Then he would return to reap the rewards.

I commented on what I’d been hearing, without specifically mentioning the freaky stuff. That drew a sarcastic laugh from him. He argued that it wasn’t a problem of personal interpretation. The human brain, he pointed out, hadn’t evolved to perceive hypernormal reality. It stood to reason that an artwork incorporating such principles would be seen askew. In transmitting the visual data, neurons might misfire, which with some individuals could upset the electro-chemical basis of the mind. Their subjective experiences, drawing upon their ingrained mental templates, might upset them. Weak types, or the excessively analytical, had better keep their distance.

Cunningly I asked him to describe the picture– in his own words, which I could publish– no go. What, then, did the title signify? He didn’t bite. I really must see it for myself. View it with an open mind, but maybe not too open. Don’t get in a tizzy over it; it’s just a painting. Remember that.

He hadn’t heard about Chockinaw. No great loss, Langley said. What of Morton? Most unfortunate, Langley said. He must run. He didn’t know how long he’d be gone. I’d hear from him when he returned; sorry to have missed me.

Lousy timing, that. Of course I ought to see the thing before I fussed more about it. Here, however, is a marvel: in the days to come I discovered various excellent reasons for not visiting the Radetsky. The salon was too far– all the way across town– and I couldn’t spare the time; I had a hefty backlog of work (I can’t recall what); I had to catch up on my correspondence. The latter took a while, for I had plenty, and I dragged out the process of perusal and response. I remained alert for more reports, but nothing new appeared. It was my mail that got the ball rolling again, as eventually I came upon a curious letter which bore directly on the matter of Langley’s painting.

It had arrived without return address on the envelope or the single hand-written, closely scrawled page inside. The writer identified himself at the top of the sheet as one Anton Vorchek, professor. The name meant nothing to me, but he knew of me and, so he seemed to think, of my current concern. I transcribe the body of his letter, which I have with me still, in its entirety:

I have recently enjoyed the public display of the new painting Cosmic Kaleidoscope by the artist Terrill Langley. My examination of the relevant literature reveals that you have written more about him and his work than any of your peers. I presume that indicates uncommon interest on your part, for that is my justification for writing to you. I have already noticed that the work generates unusual reactions from viewers. It had an extraordinary effect on me. I must take the liberty of telling you why. It is fair to admit up front that I do not count myself as an expert on art. My expertise extends to other, esoteric realms, and on account of this my explanation shall partake of the purely scientific.This is the only work of art I know which may be evaluated according to a rationalistic yardstick. From the first glance I deduced, not artistic skill– of which I know little, unfortunately– but mathematical brilliance. I find no reference to this talent in any publication on Mr. Langley, including your own, but it must be so. The painting reeks of number. I admired the interplay of the carefully ordered planes and angles. So much did I admire that I risked, while no one observed, measuring some of them with a tape which I always carry.

Among the complex facets I discovered calculated mathematical concepts; for example, pi, Angstrom’s and Avogadro’s numbers, even the Celician Helix. The appearance of the Helix mystified me, for it implies a daring course of study I would expect only from a dedicated researcher into old and forbidden subjects. At any rate, the result is that the separate pieces of the picture (or puzzle!) fit together to create an escalating series of images, sliding, clashing, weaving into one another in an apparently chaotic, but actually well orchestrated fashion. The painting is aptly titled, in more ways than one. The faceted images appear to change depending upon the angle of view. As in mathematics, alter one factor and the entire equation alters. The trick, in this case, is to find the right angle from which the totality of the grand design may be perceived.I accomplished this, but not via standard math. The Helix was my clue. Mr. Langley has intruded an element of hypernormal dimensionality into his painting. Surely this must be deliberate. The odds against a chance occurrence of this kind are… shall I say, literally cosmic? I hope to learn, one of these days, how he did it. He may possess useful knowledge. That young man is a true pioneer, in his field, and in mine.Having determined the special qualities of the painting, the tremendous moment of realization unfolded. I saw, with the eyes in my head, the surface planar structure of the images begin to warp and curve as I gazed into the abyss of the hyperdimension. The true picture flashed out at me: a vast, ghostly spiral, like a distant galaxy, only containing no particulate matter, but rather composed of a shimmering, homogenous substance. The spiral caught the light of the exhibit hall and appeared to pulsate at meaningful intervals. I describe a painting, and yet I can not speak of the image in static terms. I sensed that the spiral rotated about its axis, so fast that its motion was subliminal. There was a nervous energy suggestive of rapid movement. This continued, perhaps accelerated, until I detected a hint of form developing from the glowing central mass. A globular shape, perfectly round, with something in the center– another, smaller globe, darker– I examined this focal point closely. Then I knew. An eye staring into mine, an enormous, all seeing eye, peering out of impossible cosmic depths directly into and through the vibrating matter of our trivial universe. The great eye of Xenophor, which no man may behold; the awesome, soul-incinerating eye of the Ultimate Master, the Creator and Destroyer; this I beheld!

At last I have looked upon His face, as I always dreamed. I shall withdraw, hopefully into safe obscurity, with the lingering remembrance. Your artist should be made aware that unforeseen consequences may ensue from exposure to stark meta-reality. That which is gazed upon may gaze back in return. The dominant force that hungers in the eternal night may choose to take unto Itself that which dares to draw Its attention. If, incredibly, Mr. Langley lacks understanding, then all may be well. Otherwise, the fates may deal harshly with him. I envy him. I pray that he does not deserve my pity.

Forgive the unsolicited communication. The craving to write overwhelms. Best wishes to you and yours.

Sincerely,

VORCHEK

Say what you will: a crank, the maddest of hatters, a candidate for medical incarceration; and yet the epistle of Professor Vorchek frightened me. Sure, I couldn’t figure out half of what he wrote, and I disbelieved– wanted to disbelieve– the other half, but the contents of his letter struck me with eerie familiarity. A lot of it sounded like statements Langley had made to me in the past. Perhaps neither of them knew what they were talking about, but they were certainly on the same wavelength. And what of the professor’s fantastic description of the painting? Another independent report, similar in some ways to what I’d previously heard, strikingly different in others. Something incredible was happening.I had to nerve myself to the decision, but a morning came when I found myself entering the Radetsky Salon, promptly at opening hour, determined to view Langley’s painting for myself. Once again my timing was bad (and thinking back on it, I have no regrets), for it turned out that the big opportunity had passed. Without prior notice the Radetsky had canceled the exhibition. I didn’t realize that at first. I checked in the main hall, where I expected to confront the thing, and then in the ancillary galleries, without success. The handful of patrons present didn’t gather in front of any one picture in particular. Signs told me nothing, and I definitely didn’t observe anything out of the common way. When I finally stooped to speaking with a docent, however, I got an earful.“Cosmic Kaleidoscope? The Langley piece? That’s off. We’re getting rid of it. It’s been taken down, and he can claim it whenever it suits him. We’ve had too much trouble with that one; the picture, I mean.” Nobody cared for it, she said. There had been bizarre episodes– unpleasant scenes– associated with the painting. People didn’t behave themselves in its proximity. They, the management, weren’t going to stand for that. This was a high class establishment.So they still had it on the premises? Yes, but not prepared for public view. It was already packed for shipping, and they really couldn’t be troubled… Well, I threw my weight around. I insisted on seeing the man in charge, whom I knew to talk to, emphasized Who I Was, and he grudgingly gave way. Still advising against it (with an air of genuine concern, I thought), he led me into the cluttered basement workshop, indicated the offending item among the artist’s tools and more kindly regarded canvases, and then, unexpectedly, left me alone with it.