It wasn’t boxed, but they’d wrapped the painting in heavy burlap and tied it tight. I used a sharp implement to cut both cords, and began working the burlap back from a fold at the top left-hand corner. The multi-layered wrapping didn’t reveal its secrets easily, but I finally got off enough to uncover the end of the ugly frame– dull, unadorned metal– and a portion of the picture the size of an 8 ½ by 11 page. The lighting in that subterranean room wasn’t up to exhibition quality, but I had no difficulty viewing the painted surface.

It takes longer to write the words than to live the experience. What happened next lasted maybe two seconds, five, ten. Keep in mind that I’m only seeing a small sampling of the whole. I observe a multitudinous swarm of tiny, immediately indecipherable shapes, painstakingly figured into a jet background. The ground appears featureless, but just for a moment I sense something deep within it as well. With my focus removed from the foreground forms, I’m strangely able to make out more clearly what they are, or seem to be for a brief moment. People, or hunks of anatomy– I see arms, legs, heads, all the parts– but no definite impression of natural combination. They swim in liquid; no, a thick, sluggish gel, through which they struggle. Every mouth is opened wide, crying out. Oh, but initial error undercuts my analysis. I’ve missed the point. These details must be imagination, for I begin to discern a broader image cleverly constructed upon them. Taken together, they compose a shape which fills the corner of canvas: a white, greasy, doughy face, unlined, infantile or fetal, with blank, fishy eyes. The loathsome face thrusts itself into my own–

I dropped the flap of burlap. The tenacious image remained in my mind, even after I exited the room and hurriedly departed the Radetsky. You will ask, why didn’t I look at the rest? What right have I to speak, on the basis of a partial view? I can ask myself that now. It didn’t matter to me then; I couldn’t have made myself look at the rest, not for a king’s ransom. Langley’s painting terrified me. There was more to the moment than my eyes had recorded. Something within the image had touched unfathomable recesses of my mind, grim and alien places I had no wish to explore. I shivered and sweated until I got home, and it required several stiff drinks to restore my composure.

What happened to me had happened to others, with greater intensity. Perhaps no one could view the thing with indifference, or– can I say this?– with their sanity entirely intact. Men destroyed themselves on the basis of what they saw in or learned from Langley’s painting. I didn’t, but hateful dreams plagued me (and, irregularly, continue to do so). The artist had achieved something unprecedented; he had captured in oils a representation of a primal power with which we may co-exist happily only so long as it is hidden from our sight.

Langley returned. Not knowing his whereabouts, I had been phoning at intervals, fruitlessly, and then he answered. His voice put me on my guard. He sounded bad. I guessed that the holiday hadn’t helped, but it was more than exhaustion I was hearing. This parody of his normal tenor contained anger, nervous irritation, and panic. His manner cut short the customary niceties. I told him I’d seen the painting, and had to discuss it with him. He indicated little interest in the subject. I brought him up to date, as he obviously didn’t know, on what had become of the showing at the Radetsky. He couldn’t care less. Did he plan to collect the piece? No, he didn’t want it near him. They could burn it with his blessing. I insisted on arranging a meeting. I’d come to his place and kick down the door if he didn’t cooperate. He fought, but my obstinacy beat him down. He relented. I could come by. However: “I have to know it’s really you. Identify yourself so there’s no mistake. If you don’t, I won’t let you in.”

In a pensive frame of mind I set out for my penultimate conversation with Langley, and the last time I ever saw him in the flesh. I knocked at his door and loudly called out my name. It required several attempts before I got results. After a pause I heard locks tumbling and jingling. The door opened, and the tenant quickly ushered me in. There stood Langley; or, more accurately, there cringed Langley. He resembled an inmate of Oswiegan. Before he apologized for his appearance and explained, I knew he hadn’t been eating or sleeping. This was human wreckage, not the proud and arrogant man who’d amused and baffled me for years. The interior of his apartment complemented his condition. I saw unkempt squalor, with no visible trace of books, papers, or artistic materials. After the barest formalities he motioned me to a chair, threw himself down on the sofa, and began to speak in earnest.

“I knew it would hit some people hard. Cosmic Kaleidoscope was meant to shock. A public display of ultimate reality must stagger the limited mental capacities most employ to orient themselves to the universe. They would be tempted to cram the images into their own subjective conceptual frameworks, with unpredictable consequences. I expected that. I welcomed it, but please don’t think evil of me. My intentions were pure. I believed that my visual revelations would benefit mankind. ‘Ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall set you free.’ Isn’t that the bill of goods we’ve been sold by every major thinker in history? I took it seriously, and through my chosen medium of expression tried to relate that truth.

“I told you all the technical stuff before, but I could have put it to you differently. I desired to behold the face of God, and to show that face to the world.

It’s there, underlying all things, always, and every intelligent man has craved just that one fleeting glimpse, if only to assure himself that life makes sense and has purpose. I eventually arrived at this understanding, through my studies, of the need within me. Who was I to know that the burning bush blazes too hot, and too brightly?

“I didn’t run away. From my standpoint, everything was fine when I left. I rented a cabin by a creek among the redwoods and took it easy, as contented as a baby. I’d kill time leisurely while the painting did its work, and return to applause and acclaim. It was after I found solitude– after I disconnected myself from trivialities, alone with my thoughts– that the disturbing influences crept through.

“They didn’t bother me while I was preparing the piece. Maybe my passion drowned out the discordant notes. Maybe they hadn’t started then. Now… it began with the nightmares. In sleep the force penetrated my brain. I would sense an awareness, a vague ghost of consciousness, which seemed to turn in my direction out of an infinite distance. A spotlight of thought, barely visible, focused upon me and grew brighter. I felt that it was searching for me, probing across the dimensional gulfs. Every time this happened it came nearer, and grew more oppressive. A sensation of weight beat down on me, accompanied by a rhythmic throbbing like a vast machine in relentless operation. Sleep became a chore. Slumber brought no rest.

“Soon I fancied that I could hear the pulsing during waking hours. Before long I knew it wasn’t fancy. The sound– but it wasn’t; I stopped my ears, and it didn’t make any difference– the sound took on the characteristics of a humming, strumming voice. Something was speaking to me, or I overheard it speaking to itself, whichever might be the case. It wasn’t language of a kind I could recognize, but it was speech, and at some level I understood it. The encroaching presence was talking about me.”

At this point I felt a subject had to be raised, although my heart wasn’t in it. I suggested the possibility of overwork, stress, emotional adjustments. He violently rejected the notion, as I knew he would, and went on, now almost in tears.

“All this was bad enough, but I first felt doom when I began to see things. This phase commenced with a rearrangement of visual data. Common combinations of optical input would momentarily assume unusual forms, there and gone again, then popping out somewhere else. It happened in everything. The angles of the walls and ceiling, a picturesque clump of trees, the pattern of white water flowing over blue stones, changed. I know why. In flashes I saw their hyperdimensional aspects. I was beginning to think and see in those terms, without trying. Either I had trained myself too well, or something was forcing the expanded view upon me.

“I’m pretty sure the latter explanation is correct, considering what happened next. In the same sporadic fashion, coming at me so suddenly and for such short duration that I tried to ignore them, I began to detect minor intrusions upon the normal visual scheme. A tiny pinhole of extraneous light would open up within a scene, and it would grow, encroaching upon my vision. Have you ever heard of the migraine illusion? It’s commonly associated with that affliction. I’ve suffered from migraines since childhood, and I’ve come to recognize that strange, shimmering speck of radiance which travels with the turn of the eye. I’ve fantasized about its deeper meanings, if any. Well, this was a lot like that, only the image didn’t move with my eyes. The light grew out of a specific spot in space. I could look away and avoid it, but when I looked back it would still be there, only larger. Eventually it would vanish. However, it returned with greater frequency, and stayed longer. Soon it formed a veritable hole in the landscape, through which I could discern hints of hypnotic form and motion.

“Accept this: a gap was developing between our dimension and that other. In a way, that is what I set out to do with Cosmic Kaleidoscope, to break down the barriers and see across to the far side, in a controlled manner. Now it started happening unbidden, and it never entirely goes away anymore. As I speak to you, I’m aware of splinters and shards of unearthly light and indefinable shapes just beyond your right shoulder. I can look through, only because something on the other side is looking through at me! It’s found me, and it’s studying me, and when it’s finished the examination it will come.”

Here I interjected a comment with untoward results. What he was saying recalled to mind the odd letter of Professor Vorchek. My mysterious correspondent had written a peculiar word– a name– which meant nothing to me. I spoke this word to Langley.

“Heavens, no!” he shrieked, in paroxysms of terror. He ground his face against the backrest of the sofa. “Not that! Never speak that word! I struggle every minute to keep it out of my mind. I don ‘t dare say it aloud! I pushed the door ajar, just to snatch a peek, and He forces it open and strides through. He beckons, and He demands. I refuse. Better death a thousand times over than eternity with Him. Don’t you understand that my only hope is to render myself invisible? If I can sink my mind low enough, banish all telling thought, then I might escape. He may deem me insignificant in His sight. That is my only chance.”

No more of a coherent nature could I gain from him. I advised him to get out and mingle with people– which I do think could have ameliorated his condition– but he wouldn’t do it. He bade me leave, and made clear that future visits would be discouraged. I begged him promise that he would telephone me, at any time, if he needed help. He didn’t sound interested.